Staking Her Claim...: Book 1 in the Patricks' Brothers series (20 page)

“There is nothing, not one thing you just said that disgusts me about you, Rob,” she says emphatically. “You were an innocent child when those things were done to you. You didn’t ask for that. You didn’t deserve it. No one deserves that kind of treat me, least of all a boy who only wanted love and affection. They preyed on you. They took something that was never theirs to have, and in doing so, they damaged a beautiful, caring, loyal young man. They didn’t break you, though, Rob. You’re here. You’re alive. And you’re working on healing yourself. You’re talking to someone. Someone who might be able to help exercise your demons and give you a measure of peace. Peace you desperately deserve.”

Hearing Alysia say she isn’t repulsed by me, that she isn’t revolted by me allows me to take the first deep lungful of air since I began speaking. I hadn’t known I was holding my breath until now, but I had been. I also hadn’t known how important it was to me that she absolve me from the guilt I feel about what happened to me. But knowing that she didn’t hold me responsible, that she didn’t think I’d done anything to encourage it gave me some of that peace she’d mentioned.

Reluctantly, I drag my eyes from where they’d been focused on my boots to her face. It’s open, warm, and compassionate. Her eyes, while rimmed red and watery, are soft. In fact, Alysia’s whole demeanor has changed since the beginning of our conversation.

Where she’d been grudgingly willing to listen before, now, she was avidly interested in anything, and everything I had to say. I could tell just by looking at her something had shifted inside her. I didn’t know what that was, however, I could feel it. I could feel the change.

“Can I hold you, Aly? Just for a second. I just need to hold you in my arms for a minute,” I ask wearily. Without saying a word, Alysia rises from her position kneeling in front of me, lifting herself onto my lap, enfolding me in the softness of her embrace. She shifts until she’s comfortable, both legs together across mine, her arms gripping my neck tightly, and her face buried in my throat.

It’s been years since I’ve felt anything close to this good. Actually, the last time I felt this loved, this cherished was the last time I held her. Her soft, exposed skin pressed against mine, the sweet puffs of breath that tickle the length of my neck are like coming home.

The weight of her in my lap reminds me that she’s real, she’s here, and I’m lucky enough to be wrapped up in her. For the time being at least. Her scent is alluring. The musky depth of it soothing in its intensity, but at the same time maddening. Everything in me is at war. I want to stay like this forever, but I also want so much more. I want it all with this woman.

i
Breaking the first moment of intimacy we’ve had in over a decade and a half, I tip her chin with my forefinger until her eyes meet mine, asking,

“Can I kiss you, Aly? I really, really need to fucking taste you. If I don’t, I think I’ll go insane from it.” There is nothing I desire more right now than to feel her mouth on mine, the tenderness of it erasing the bitter memories of my past. I need to taste her, stroke her tongue absorbing every ounce of sweetness she has to give.

In a move I’ll remember for days, months, probably forever, Alysia crashes her lips to mine. There is no hesitation. There is no indecision in the way her mouth meets mine. There’s no room for that between us. Instead, it’s urgent, hungry, passionate, and fierce.

Her hands weave into the hair at the base of my skull, tugging, pulling, manipulating the position of my head to where it best suits her. Coaxing, testing, licking my lips, Alysia’s mouth finally opens after her sharp, little teeth have abused my lower lip, allowing my tongue to delve inside.

The heat of her, the taste, the feeling of her tongue dueling, stroking, loving mine is potent. She puts everything into this kiss. Her sorrow for my suffering. Her anger at two people she doesn’t know are long dead.

But more importantly, her love for me. Not the poor, sad, damaged boy she met in our first period English class. Not the sullen, angry kid who wouldn’t give her the time of day. Not the confused, irate, teenager who broke her heart. No, Alysia shows how much she cares for who I am now.

Each caress of her lips against mine illustrates her passion. Her tongue as it dances, ghosts, toys with mine demonstrates her willingness to explore what we’ve always known was inevitable. The insistent scraping of Alysia’s fingers through my hair, the way they glide, massage, tug as she loses herself in the power of what’s building between us validates she feels the same way that I do. That our chemistry and connection is off the charts intense.

Wrenching my mouth from hers, I growl,

“Jesus Christ, Aly. Do you know what you do to me? How you make my self-control disappear just by touching me? I want you so fucking bad, Sweetness.”

“Rob,” she whimpers, wriggling against me.

I can smell her arousal. I can feel the heat of her core beckoning me, demanding my attention. I can see the need written all over her face. Her pupils are dilated, the black obliterating the violet until it’s just a thin ring bordering the whites of her eyes. Her cheeks are flushed, pink with heat and yearning. I can feel the tight buds of her nipples straining the confines of her shirt through her bra, rasping across my chest as her breath heaves. And I can only imagine her panties are soaked with liquid heat at her craving for me.

The combination has me panting, hard, and frantic. I want to tear her clothes from her body, lay her out and feast on her. My body demands I take my time tasting her pussy, making her wet and writhing for what only I can give her. My cock wants to bury itself inside her, deep, hard, fast, and completely. I want to make love to her until we’re both sated, out of breath, and we’ve gorged on each other enough to hold us over until we can do it again. Over and over again.

At that, I slam my mouth back to hers and devour her. There’s nothing testing about this kiss. I’m not learning what she like, or how to make her moan. No. This kiss is ravenous, full of passion, a purging of the pent-up longing I’ve had for her.

It’s hard, unforgiving, demanding, and she loves it. The groans coming from deep in her chest, the erratic undulation of her hips causing her to grind against my erection proves it. She wants me as much as I want her. That is until the spell is broken.

The sound of the lock on the front door to the penthouse disengaging rips us from our exploration of each other so quickly I barely have time to promise,

“We’re not done, Sweetness. Far from it.” Standing, sliding her body down the long length of mine, I add, “That was only our beginning. After this shit is done, this case, you and I are going to pick up where we left off.”

Holding her face between my palms, I stroke the apples of her cheeks, saying,

“You know as well as I do that this is going to happen, so don’t bother hiding from me, from this, Aly. I’ve waited so long to have you in my arms, to kiss you, to have you in my bed, that now I know how you taste, how you feel I’m going to have to fight not to make that a reality before you’re ready. But be warned Baby; our time is coming. And using your words from a month ago; this is me staking my claim. You’re mine and I’m yours. It’s only a matter of time before I make that real in every way it can be.”

 
i

Playing dress-up isn’t my idea of a good time, and the asshole contorting my head into unnatural positions isn’t making it any better. If anything, he’s considerably enlarging my already large repertoire of ways to kill a man.

This morning, Max kindly informed me that someone would be coming to see to my hair and makeup for tonight’s event we were attending at three that afternoon. I wasn’t sure whether that should have pissed me off, him thinking I wasn’t capable of completing tasks like that myself, or if I should be grateful I wouldn’t end up looking like a raccoon on crack if I was left to my own devices.

In the end, I decided to suck it up and thank him for his thoughtfulness while I was scrolling through a site providing ideas on hairstyles for cocktail parties, and engagements like the one I was expected to attend tonight.

My preliminary planning finished last night, and nothing pressing to do until whoever Max had organized arrived, I had been reviewing the layout of the function room, guest list, employee roster, and exit strategy in case of emergency for what felt like the fiftieth time. In reality, it was probably the hundredth. But hey, who’s counting?

One short phone call with Brookes yesterday was all it took to confirm he hadn’t learned anything else about the person who was stalking, Max. No more notes had been received, either here at the penthouse or Max’s office, no call, no emails, no tests, nothing. Not that I’d expected any.

I had this place locked up tighter than a pimps back pocket, Rob having completed the installation of the motion sensors and new biometric fingerprint scanner for the door, yesterday. That didn’t mean I didn’t want something to happen, though, because I did. Just not in the way you’re thinking.

At no time did I want Max’s safety to be in danger, I wouldn’t let it get that far, but I didn’t want whoever was threatening him to go into hiding because of my presence either. The fact this person hadn’t made any contact with Max at all was somewhat disconcerting. Up until I was placed on the case, there had been some sort of activity every day for two weeks, at least. In my line of work, quiet signaled a change in MO, and that did not bode good things for Max.

The basic concept of me playing the devoted, starry-eyed, new girlfriend was to draw this guy’s attention away from Harper and focus it on me instead. My initial concern, that whoever was responsible for this situation knew far too much about Harper hadn’t abated any in the past couple of days. I thought when I met Max, learned the details of how their relationship started, progressed, and ended it would give me a measure of relief. It didn’t. What it gave me was a sense of dread.

Harper and Max hadn’t dated long, only a few short months, but in that time, my best friend had made enough of an impression that it had caused a sick, deluded asshole to become obsessed with her. Max claimed they had only attended two high-profile charity auctions together while they were dating, and that nothing suspicious or worrisome had occurred at either. He didn’t take her with him to business dinners. She didn’t visit him at work. And she hadn’t accompanied him on any of the numerous business trips he’d taken out of state while they were dating each other.

What they did do was have the occasional dinner at a fancy restaurant, alone. They went to the theater to see the San Francisco ballet company’s rendition of, Swan Lake once. And they regularly met up at his apartment for a meal, drinks, or based on Max’s blush, some uninterrupted bedroom gymnastics.

Based on the nature of their relationship, and the exclusion of it from the public eye, it had me scrounging for the most convoluted of theories to explain why Harper was even a target to begin with. One of which consisted of a disgruntled member of the paparazzi. A guy who was so incensed at the lack of photo opportunities involving Max and his new girlfriend, he concocted an elaborate scheme, posing as a stalker, to get his prized shot he would then sell for thousands of dollars to the first gossip-rag that would purchase it.

I’m not saying it was a particularly good theory, but I was grasping at straws here. I’d consider every possible angle if it meant finding this guy and saving my friend.

After looking at every facet of the situation, analyzing it, running ideas past Brookes, and coming up with nothing, I had to accept the frightening reality of our current state of affairs. The frightening reality is; whoever this person was, they knew too much about Harper for her to have been a target primarily because of her relationship with Max. This guy knew too many personal details about her. Things like; where she worked and what her hours were, her favorite restaurant and what she ordered, which classes she took at the gym and also when she took them, things someone couldn’t know about her unless they’d been told by someone close to her or knew her personally. I knew all the same people she did, and aside from Max, who she conveniently kept to herself while she was with him, I was positive no one we knew posed a threat to her. Which left the only other viable option in a sea of non-starters; this person was watching her. 

All throughout my questioning, which bordered on an inquisition, Max had been fantastic. He’d answered everything I’d asked without hesitating, asked his own questions, offered his own ideas for consideration, and been an all-around good sport. The same could not be said for Peter, however.

Every hour that passed that he was forced into being confined to the same space with me seemed to grate on his nerves further, eventually leaving them raw and exposed. He had become openly hostile toward me as of about eleven o’clock last night, and it was with extreme self-control I managed to restrain myself from punching him in the throat.

Not that he didn’t deserve it because he did. I just didn’t think it was particularly professional of me to get into a physical altercation with him all things considered. In saying that, I couldn’t promise that I’d be able to stick to that way of thinking if his bullshit continued, because I knew I couldn’t.

The escalation of his contempt for me began with him ignoring me. For the most part, I was okay with that, I didn’t want to talk to him unless it was absolutely necessary anyway. But when I needed answers or him to participate in conversations regarding our plan of attack for the following days, his silence was infuriating. I didn't react, however. After all, that’s what he wanted; a reaction from of me. When he didn’t get the desired response, Peter started invading my space. A tactic he’d often employed when we were together.

Crowding me, purposefully bumping into me, grazing my arm, leg, back as he walked past, anything to try to throw me off-balance. And not in the physical sense. No, Peter wanted me emotionally off-kilter. What he didn’t understand was that it wasn’t going to happen.

He no longer affected me the way he once had. If anything, his touch only served to remind me why we were now thrust together in the first place. I was focused on doing my job, getting the hell out of here, and away from him as soon as humanly possible. His touch repulsed me, but like I said, it had a strangely motivating effect at the same time.

However, what had me seeing red and wanting to do him bodily harm was when he began trying to take over the organization of the safety precautions I was putting in place for the next night’s event. Peter couldn’t seem to grasp the concept that he was simply a hired goon. A human shield if you will. He wasn’t a leader. He wasn’t smart enough, or sufficiently qualified to be one. That didn’t stop him from attempting to discredit my carefully constructed, well thought out plans, though.

I knew what he was up to before he could follow through with it. He was hovering around Max like a fly on shit, waiting until he could get him alone to explain why he believed he was better suited to the job than I was. I did find a modicum of humor in that.

I mean, I’m not sure how Peter planned on pulling off the dress I’d bought, or whether Max would feel comfortable having him escort him to the ball, but I’d love to see how he intended to pull that off. Simply put; gray wasn’t Peter’s color, it washed him out, and five-inch, peep-toe, spiked-heeled sandals were no joke. Those things to practice to learn how to walk in without falling and breaking your neck.

Thankfully, Max saw what Peter was attempting to do too, effectively giving him an ultimatum that he would either become a team player, follow direction, and pull his head out of his ass, or he was fired.

Me personally, I’d prefer the latter option, but it wasn’t my decision. However, after a grunt of capitulation, a nasty glare, and a snarled ‘you fucking bitch’ on his way past me, Peter avoided me like the plague. Fine by me. I just hoped that when push came to shove tonight, he would step up and do the job he was paid to do, because if he didn’t, any number of thing could go catastrophically wrong. Least of all, one or more of us ending up hurt or worse; dead.

Aside from my ex, who was acting like a class-A douchebag, everything has gone to plan so far. My borrowed identity being, Madeline Dennison, Texas oil baron, Jack Dennison’s daughter was firmly in place, Max was calm, or as calm as could be expected under the circumstances, and Brookes had just called to inform me he’d arranged extra manpower. Apparently, a couple of the guys from his old unit owed him a few favors, ones he’d traded in to ensure I had extra sets of eyes, not only on my six but searching for the first signs of trouble.

Jeb and Jean-Luc, an enormous bear of a man and a very charming Frenchman, were trustworthy, reliable, scarily proficient, ex-military men who I’d met numerous times over the last ten years. Let’s put it this way. I’d happily wade into the fray knowing they had my back.

Jean-Luc was a man of many talents according to Brookes. He was often used as a decoy, a plant to gather information within an organization, drug cartel, or terrorist outfit due to his ability to adapt to any situation.

Like me, he spoke multiple languages, but unlike me, he had cause to continue to use his skillset. More regularly than he’d ever admit I’m sure. Jean-Luc is cocky, charming, and borderline sociopathic, but he isn’t reckless. He’s cool under fire, can talk his way out of almost anything, and he’s damn good with a gun.

Jeb, on the other hand, is Jean-Luc’s polar opposite. Where the Frenchman is lean, packed with roped, sinewy muscle, Jeb is all power. All bulk. As tall as Brookes at six-foot-six and a half, Jeb has got to be at least two hundred and eighty pounds of solid, ripped muscle. His physical attributes aren’t the only thing that set him apart from his buddy, Jean-Luc, though.

Receiving added specialist training in hand-to-hand combat in tight quarters, Jeb had been a sharpshooter in the Marines for thirteen years before opting out at the end of his contract. Rifles, scopes, large caliber weapons, automatic tank rounds, incendiary devices, you name it, Jeb can tell you how to use it, when, and the technical specs on command.

He’s crazy intelligent, the quiet observer of the group, and the deadliest man aside from Brookes I’d ever had the pleasure of meeting. And that’s saying something, because I’ve had dealings with two particularly dangerous MC’s, and led a troop of trained killers into battle. But it is what it is, and Jeb is a master in his field.

The only thing I hadn’t had time to consider over the past two days was Rob and where we’d left things after our kiss been interrupted by Max and Peter’s homecoming.

My first response to what had happened was to consider it a mistake, a lapse in judgment. But no matter how hard I tried to convince myself it shouldn’t have occurred, I couldn’t. I had wanted him to kiss me, desperately, completely, with abandon, and he had. Rob owned me during that kiss, and honestly, since as well. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.

How his lips felt on mine, soft, smooth, and insistent. The way his tongue had demanded entrance to my mouth, not subtly taking its time, but roughly commanding me to open for him had been a huge aphrodisiac. I wasn’t a woman who likes to be dominated or told what to do, in or out of the bedroom, but Rob’s naturally authoritative nature did something to me. It drove me mad with want.

I was mere seconds from tearing his clothes off with my teeth, uncovering all his male glory, and finding out whether he was packing what promised to be an impressive weapon in between his legs when the front door opened, and the sounds of Max and Peter filtered in.

At the time, I was frustrated, angry, and so turned on I couldn’t see straight. I was aching for relief, the dampness of my panties telling the story of how needy I was for this man, but it wasn’t to be. The timing was off.

In hindsight, I’m glad the perpetrators of our coitus interruptus arrived when they did. Not because I wouldn’t have liked to see how far things would have gone with Rob because I absolutely would have. But it wouldn’t have been right.