Shameless Playboy (19 page)

 
          
“Yes,”
he said. “Our job. That has brought us here, to this village of the damned I
vowed I would burn to the ground before I’d return to it, and all I can seem to
do is wonder.”

 
          
His
voice was deceptively light, completely at odds with the intensity and fire in
his gaze.

 
          
“Wonder?”
she echoed, as if she did not take his meaning, but she knew.

 
          
She
wondered the same things. She wondered so much and so heatedly, so
breathlessly, that she had barely slept in days. Even the invocation of her
past, of what had happened to her, had not changed the wondering, the
imagining. And that was only the physical part of this. The easy part. The only
part she planned to acknowledge. The inn seemed to spin and tilt wildly at the
corners of her eyes, but at the center of it all stood Lucas.

 
          
And
an uncomfortably reasonable voice inside of her whispered,
Why not?

 
          
Grace
fought to keep her breath even. She had told Lucas the truth and he had not
looked at her differently. He had not reacted like a long-ago almost-lover in
college had: he had not looked at her in that calculating way and asked if, in
fact, she
had
been seducing her
mother’s boyfriend that day. If she had that scarlet letter blazoned upon her
face, the way she’d always believed, Lucas had not seemed to see it. And if he
already knew the worst but didn’t believe the worst of
her
—what was the point in denying herself the pleasure that might go
with that kind of uncomfortable honesty? The spoonful of sugar to sweep away
the taste of the bitter pill?

 
          
And
who was to say that this time she couldn’t be the one to take control—to beat
the player at his own game? Why not be the seducer instead of the seduced? Why
not call the shots?
Why not
, indeed?

 
          
She
blinked, dazed by her own trail of thought. And all too aware of the heat and
sleek beauty of him, standing near enough to touch, watching her so closely.

 
          
If
she’d learned anything from her mistakes, from her mother, from her own
hard-won successes, Grace thought with a dawning sense of certainty, it was
this: it was always better to be the one in control.

 
          
So
if she was already doomed, she might as well dance.

 
          
It
was as if a great weight fell from her then, and disappeared into the tense air
between them.

 
          
“If
you keep looking at me like that,” Lucas warned, his expression hard with
hunger, “I will not be held accountable for what happens next.”

 
          
“I
already know what will happen next,” she said. She faced him—and herself—head-on,
clear-eyed and somehow completely ready for what had been, only moments before
he’d walked in this room, unthinkable. He’d had no compunction about throwing
those photos in her face, so why should she worry about using his own weakness
against him now? She raised her brows at him in deliberate challenge. “I only
hope that after all of this talk and all these promises, you can live up to
your reputation.”

 
          
He
was not in the least bit fazed. His eyes seemed to see straight through her, to
all the places where she ached for him, yearned for him, dreamed of him at
night. All the places where she was made of nothing save the want of him. And
she would use that against him, she thought. She would get her own back. She
would be the one to laugh when it was done, and leave, too.

 
          
He
did not move from his position at the bedside, lounging there, watching her as
if cataloging her every move, her every thought. It was almost too much. It was
almost too real. He was quite obviously not a fantasy at all, as someone who
looked like him should be—he was a man.

 
          
“I
have to check in with the team,” she said, teasing him, feeling the tension and
electricity roll through her. It made her feel powerful. As if it really was
hers. To wield. To use. To enjoy.

 
          
But
he only laughed.

 
          
“The
team is in the pub, and the last thing they need is the intrusion of their ice
queen boss to force them into tediously good behavior and stilted conversation,”
he said. “The best thing you can do for them is give them tonight to blow off
steam. You’ll be in one another’s pockets for the foreseeable future as it is.”

 
          
“Well,”
she said, momentarily discomfited by his unexpected insight—not to mention the
fact he knew the whereabouts of her staff when she did not. “That works out,
then.”

 
          
For
a moment she did not move. He was the only thing she could see, green eyes and
that crooked smile, as if nothing else existed. She let that wash over her,
through her. Then she stepped toward him, closing the distance between them
with a single step.

 
          
Surprise
warred with desire in his gaze, on his face, but his hands moved to her hips—anchoring
her against him as she moved to stand between his legs. She rested her hands
against his sculpted chest, tested the softness of his shirt and the muscles
beneath with her palms, eliciting a faint, rough laugh from him.

 
          
“Do
you know what you’re doing?” he asked, threading one hand into her bun and
starting to pull the pins out, one by one, with an easy confidence, as if she
was already his. His other hand tucked beneath the soft hem of her sweater,
then moved hot and hard against the small of her back, urging her even closer.

 
          
She
could do this. It might even be easy.

 
          
“Do
you?” she countered. She leaned into him, pressing her heavy breasts against
the wall of his chest, letting her body slide against his, bringing their
mouths within a scant inch of each other.

 
          
She
had the impression of scorching green fire and hectic color. Of exhilaration
pounding through her like wine. And a sense of absolute rightness that might
have scared her, had she not already decided to take him—on her terms.

 
          
And
then, finally, she leaned up and kissed him,
taking control
, she thought, and everything burst into flame.

 
          
* * *

 
          
Lucas
allowed himself to remain surprised for roughly three seconds, and then desire
took over. He did not care why she was doing this, only that she was doing it.

 
          
Finally.

 
          
He
slanted his mouth over hers, determined to make her his, determined to prove
that she was no more than any other woman, no different, no matter what
yesterday’s uncomfortable conversation had indicated.

 
          
He
had been alone forever, and he liked it that way. It was simple. Easy.

 
          
But
she tasted like honey, like her Texas drawl, warm and sunny and sweet. She went
straight to his head, until he could not seem to care about protecting himself
as he knew he should, as had always been second nature to him before.

 
          
He
did not like the feelings she aroused in him. The need to protect her, even
from her own past. Yesterday’s searing need to unburden himself. This
obsession, this need, to lose himself in her. He hated it, he told himself, and
so he kissed her again and again, deeper and harder and longer, surrendering
himself to her exquisite taste, her scent, the sweet perfection of her body
pressed against his.

 
          
This
was sex, he told himself. Nothing but sex. And he happened to be particularly
talented in that arena.

 
          
She
pushed him back on the bed, and he let her, bemused by this sudden show of
assertiveness. But who was he to argue? He lay back and watched appreciatively
as she climbed up on the bed with him, straddling him.

 
          
He
hissed in a breath as the core of her came up flush with his groin, making him
harder than he could ever remember being before.
More
. He wanted more. He wanted to bury himself inside of her and
lose himself entirely. He wanted to make her scream his name. He wanted to
taste every inch of her body, every freckle, every moan. He wanted her in every
possible way, all night long.

 
          
Only
then, he told himself, could he exorcise her. Make these uncomfortable feelings
disappear as if they had never been. Make her no more and no less than another
conquest, indistinguishable from the rest. That was what he wanted. He didn’t
know how to want anything else.

 
          
She
settled against him, her wild blond hair falling forward, making her look like
some kind of goddess.
His goddess
, he
thought and stretched out his hands to test her hips, the indentation of her
waist. He pulled a long strand of hair to his mouth, rubbing it over his lips.
She smelled like rosemary and wine, and the feel of the long blond waves was
like raw silk. But she batted his hands away, and then frowned down at his
shirt as her fingers started to work the buttons.

 
          
Her
fierce concentration, her focus on the task at hand, kept him from flipping her
beneath him as every instinct shouted at him to do. That stern frown of hers
made him stir against her, made the fire blaze even higher, even hotter, within
him. She finally bared a swathe of his chest and bent over to taste it, him.
Her tongue was soft, wet, maddening. He tangled his fingers in her hair and
urged her up to eye level, taking her mouth with a swift possession that made
some kind of bell toll, long and true, deep inside of him.

 
          
He
ignored it, because he was tasting her—hot and female and deliciously,
undoubtedly Grace—until he felt drunk from her. Wildly, fantastically drunk,
and more than happy to stay that way.

 
          
But
she had other ideas. She reared back up, and pulled her lower lip between her
teeth as she returned to work on his shirt. When he moved to pull her close
again, she shook her head at him. He was mesmerized by the silken fall of her
hair across her shoulders, the way it teased her breasts, the way the length and
wave of it softened her face, making her seem more flushed, more open, more
his
.

 
          
“Just
lie back,” she said, bracing one hand on his abdomen, as if she thought she
could keep him there against his will.

 
          
“And
think of England?” he asked dryly. “I’m afraid that’s not my style.”

 
          
“It
can be a brand-new experience for you,” she said in the prim voice that drove
him crazy with need, her attention drifting back toward the bare skin she’d
uncovered. “I doubt you have many of those.”

 
          
Lucas
did not. But he had also never been one to wait.

 
          
He
sat up, holding her flush against his hips, and only smiled against the
delicate skin of her neck when she made a sound of protest. When she had
settled against him, her arms loose around his shoulders, he let his hands skim
down her back to slip under her sweater. The soft cashmere was almost harsh
compared to the warm silkiness of her skin beneath. He tugged the sweater up
and over her head, baring her to his view, then threw it aside.

 
          
She
was perfect. Taut, full breasts encased in decadent black lace that said far
more interesting things about the real Grace than the depressingly austere
suits she preferred. Lucas cupped her breasts in his hands, dragging his thumbs
slowly across the peaks, making her head fall back as she moaned out her
pleasure. The sound was like petrol on a bonfire—he ached to be inside of her.
He reached behind her, expertly unhooking the bra with a single hand, then
caught a hard nipple with his mouth as he pulled the garment free of her flesh.

 
          
He
heard her breath stutter as her body tensed and then shook beneath him. He
tasted one breast, then the other, taking his time, learning her. He traced a
path from her breasts to her collarbone, pressing kisses against her as he
went, tasting her with his tongue, his lips, his teeth. He reached her mouth
and took it in a hard, deep kiss, holding her face between his hands, his
fingers deep in her wild mane of hair.