Just Let Go… (12 page)

In the back of his mind, Austen vividly recalled Gillian Wanamaker in all her flagrant, naked glory, and
that
Gillian Wanamaker had a wax job that was as stripped as his soul. But the image of shimmering curls of gold did not go away.

With a developing problem in his pants, Austen moved to the window, farther away from the non existent sounds in the bathroom, but the images in his brain played on, the sounds continued to mock his ears.

Austen had always floated fluidly between reality and fantasy. Sometimes there was no reason. Sometimes it kept him sane, but he always knew that the fantasy did not exist, and to actually begin to trust in fantasy now was a stunningly bad idea.

Gillian was a fantasy.

He repeated the words aloud in case his mind wasn’t paying attention.

“Were you talking to me?”

Fantasy, shithead.

“Were you talking to me?”

His fantasy repeated the words, and Austen turned because it was the only way to get it through his brick-wall of a brain that…

Shit.

She was wrapped in a hotel towel, standing in front of the bathroom door, her hair wet and tangled, and everything about her was wrong.

Her eyes looked soft and tender and she was sucking nervously on her bottom lip—not that it wasn’t an awesome lip—but the visual was off.

The visual was waiting, expecting him to speak in an intelligent manner.

“What?”

“Were you talking to me?” the visual stated.

“No.” Austen jammed his hands in his pockets because he wanted to touch her, he wanted to taste her, he wanted to plunge his cock inside the luminous image in front of him, and he knew that was wrong. Every time he touched her, he destroyed her. Ergo, no touching, which was easy because she didn’t exist. She was a fantasy.

“Who were you talking to?” she asked, moving closer to him, and now, not only were his eyes and ears acting up, but he could smell her. Shampoo. Clean, fresh. Pure.

Austen took careful steps back to the window. For one panic-stricken moment he considered how much force it would take to dive through it, but Austen Hart had never been that brave.

Not once.

She tilted her head, and he could see the drops of water that she had missed, drops that were clinging desperately to the soft gold of her skin. He knew that feeling, the idea of clinging desperately to her, and he wanted to lick the beads of water off with his tongue.

No touching, no licking. Licking was bad.

“I was talking to myself,” he replied in a completely competent voice, talking to a woman who did not exist.

“I thought I heard my name.”

The towel slipped a half inch lower, now dwelling somewhere close to the Valley of Death.

The only thing he had to fear was the evil in himself.

Never in his life had he wanted anything more. His brain was screaming at him, yelling at him to jump, to pounce, to use, to toss, and it was the first time in a long, long time that he told his brain no.

She moved closer.

Austen racked his brain. All he needed were the words to make his brain shut up.

“Gillian,” he said, talking to the illusion in front of him. “I’m going to ask you something and I don’t mean to be rude or crude, but it’s a good idea for you to tell me, because I swear that I could hear… And I knew you weren’t…and it was sort of freaky and…”

“What did you hear?” the woman asked, as if he seemed perfectly sane.

“Did you touch yourself…privately, in the shower. I could hear…sounds.”

She stared up at him with her brilliant blue eyes, dazzling him, hypnotizing him. “No,” the visual answered, and it was the answer he needed to hear. Fantasy. Definitely.

Austen began to breathe again.

The woman, the one who did not exist, smiled at him. “Did you want me to?”

“No,” he said, his voice unnaturally loud.

The woman looked at him in amused disbelief.

That was that look in her eyes, the one that said “liar” that made all the pieces click into place.

Gillian Wanamaker was standing before him with only a towel separating her from ten years’ worth of explicit dreams—none of them good.

Obviously not knowing the vile thoughts in his head, Gillian Wanamaker dropped the towel.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Gillian Wanamaker—the naked, real Gillian Wanamaker—reached out with her very real fingers and took his face in her hands.

This was not the game. This was disaster.

“Austen,” she said, speaking slowly, at last comprehending his lack of quality brain function. “Touch me.”

The fantasy was back, but Austen was prepared for that trick.

“No.”

She stepped closer, until their bodies were pressed together. She seemed so small, so slight, so breakable, with those delicate breasts burning into his chest like a brand. Austen closed his eyes, willing this to disappear, but when he opened them again, there she was, torturing him, seducing him, and he could feel his control slipping away. Her fingers trailed over his brows, traced the furrow in his forehead, her touch as light as a feather. It was like nothing he’d ever known.

The clear blue of her eyes shone with absolute trust, the same way she’d looked at him so long ago. “Do you want to touch me?”

His hands remained in his pockets, but Austen did nod his head yes. Just like in one of his dreams, her right hand took his left hand and joined them together. His hands were smoother now, his fingers were obsessively clean, but it still felt wrong.

She took his hand and raised it to her face. Slowly, he stroked the smooth shape of her cheek. As she guided his hand, he traced the fragile curves of her ear. Still believing in him, she moved his hand to her mouth.

While he touched her, her eyes watched him, trusting, not testing. Cautiously he followed the plump shape of her mouth, feeling the hills and the dips.

Foolishly trusting him on his own, her hand fell to her side.

The princess-blue eyes were waiting, expecting him to know what to do.

Commanding him to touch, but not like before….

Clumsy fingers slid over damp strands of her hair, through the silk and the tangles, exploring the way it brushed on her shoulder.

The shoulder seemed a deceptively safe place to be, but there were no safe havens on the body of Gillian Wanamaker. Every inch was a minefield, primed to blow up in his face. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, primed to blow up, as well. That and his cock, but Austen continued on, too stupid to stop. As he touched her, her eyes stayed locked with his. He could still see the trust there in the endless depths, but there was doubt there, as well. Memories of all the things that he’d done to her, all the ways that he’d hurt her.

Rationally, his mind lectured him on the difference between what he could see, and what actually was. There was the pain that he believed could actually be forgotten, and the pain that never would. Realizing that the pain that he had caused her would never be forgotten, it became easier to touch her, because they were still playing the game. That was all he needed to remember. Play the game.

His hands were masterfully gentle as he learned the slender muscles of her arm, toned and strong. Like a lover, his fingertips followed the fine ridge of her spine, the graceful arch of her back, the delicate skin at the back of her nape. With infinite care, he kissed the flawless line of her neck, the full swell of her breast, careful not to dwell too long. His mouth quivered just enough, as if he would remember this kiss forever.

His hands rested on her face. She was the most beautiful woman that he’d ever known. It was easy to fall into the dream, so easy to actually believe.

Slowly he bent his head and put his lips to hers. Her mouth met his, matched with his, and trembled with such sweetness. Her tongue stroked his, at first with the same sweet taste as her mouth, but then deeper, hungrier, and he could feel the shudder pass through her, the moans low in her throat. When her tenderness turned to lust, her legs cradled his cock, and he knew what she wanted. These moments, he knew.

With quick and urgent hands, she stripped off his clothes, and it was only a short step from there to the bed. They fell together on top of the covers, tangled bodies, tangled minds. There were no words between them. Austen believed it was smarter that way. No truths and no lies. It was the dream. It was the game.

Her mouth was eager and impulsive, tasting him, lingering when she learned what he liked. Gillian was that sort of woman, giving a man so much more than she received. Giving to a man who only knew how to take. Austen knew he shouldn’t be here, but he was helpless to move.
Stay in the game,
he reminded himself, her light scent swirling around him until he was drunk with it. Her skin was still glowing from the shower, and he didn’t want to touch her, but his hands strayed, carefully cupping her breasts, and he told himself she was glass—ripe and ready glass.

There was a moment when his grip tightened, he heard her pained gasp, and Austen froze. Blue eyes met his, her face flushed with desire. Then her bare ankle slid over his, back and forth, smooth skin to rough, and he exhaled once, but he kept his hands at his sides.

She didn’t notice, taking it as an invitation to play on her own. While he watched, her fingertips glided over his chest, his hips, touching freely, her lips curved with secretive delight. He tried not to get lost in her eyes, but he wasn’t that good, wasn’t that strong. Every time she touched him, reason slipped further away.

When she climbed on top of him, her body straddled his cock, and he nearly exploded right then, his organ strained and throbbing. Trying to maintain some level of sanity, he kept his eyes glued to her, her face, her breasts, the pale line of her body, but in a lot of ways, that was worse. She had a body built for sex, strong and limber, with supple muscles designed solely to drive a man mad. He wanted to take her, wanted to drive inside her. His thigh muscles bunched, hips flexing beneath her, and foolishly she touched him, so calm, so still.

He was going to die. This was the payback that God had planned for him. Gillian Wanamaker innocently riding him until his heart burst from the pain, or his cock burst from the thrill. Either way, death was imminent.

Then she rocked her hips, smiling at him, a siren’s smile with a siren’s eyes. Unable to resist, he caressed her breasts, his thumbs stroking her nipples, watching them tighten and swell. Suddenly her body arched, her eyes drifted shut. She was a vision in the sun, gleaming perfect. Slowly her eyes opened, wanting more, expecting more. Realizing he couldn’t deny her anything, realizing he was justifying something that he shouldn’t, Austen took one beaded nipple into his mouth. Against the silence of the room, her carnal groan was telling and loud, and Austen was relieved by it. In lust, there were no lies. His lips closed on her breast, causing her to groan again. This,
this
he knew.

As she straddled his thigh, he could feel her sex flush with his cock. She was slick, swollen and waiting. There was a dewy sheen on her skin, the earlier traces of the shower fading into something darker, muskier, something more basic. Her hands pressed into the pillow, arms on either side of his head, trapping him there, her entire body surrounding him. The polished body with the dripping sex.

He wanted to touch her there, but instead he skimmed over the sweat on her neck, the translucent skin at the crook of her arm. His tongue flicked at the delicate softness, and he noted the fragile blue veins. Glass, he reminded himself. Glass.

She watched him with sleepy eyes, bemused eyes, aroused eyes, and then she leaned low over him, her breasts brushing against the roughness of his bare chest, as if she needed to be closer, as if she wanted him with the same vicious insanity. Her rosebud mouth fell open, her tongue licking her lips, and he couldn’t resist. His hands cupped the firm skin of her ass, sliding between her cheeks, finding her lips, needing to touch her, testing her.

At the same time, he took her mouth, his tongue thick and demanding, but she met him there, her hands tangled in his hair, pulling, locking. It was too much.

Austen was losing the game. At that moment, Gillian raised herself over his cock, her body sliding slow and sensuous, but he couldn’t wait. Roughly Austen grabbed her hips in his hands, and hauled her down on top of him.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, his daddy was laughing. Daddy’s boy, indeed.

G
ILLIAN HAD ALWAYS
known it could be like this between them. Always known that it should be like this. To feel him inside her, filling her, completing her. Their bodies moved together like a song, words and music that she’d always felt inside her, a private melody that only he knew.

Each time he thrust, a dark bolt of fire shot through her, and she wanted more. When her thighs tightened around him, she could see the answering heat in his eyes. His face was stark and tight with a combination of pleasure and control, but no sounds came from him at all. No words, no gasps, nothing.

His eyes were so dark, midnight dark, glittering with everything he didn’t say. At first, his movements were slow, a deep slide inside her, thrusting up, touching places that no man had bothered to touch before, but Gillian was inherently a greedy person. She wanted him faster, harder, she wanted to lose herself to this, so she quickened the pace, her muscles pulling him deeper and deeper.

“Don’t.” Immediately she stopped. His voice was tense, strained, a man close to losing it.

He was still deep inside her, and unconsciously her muscles clenched around him.

His eyes flickered, his big chest rising fast and furious, and Gillian realized that this was for her. Her heart thumped once, then twice. Then she leaned low, until their breaths were mingled, until she could see all the quiet desperation in his eyes. She nipped at his bottom lip. Once. Almost playing, but not quite. Still, he held on to his control. This time, she leaned down, flicked her tongue over his mouth. He groaned, but still, he held on.