Zero Day Exploit (Bayou’s End #1.5) (3 page)

His fingers found the button of her jeans and nearly tore it off. She arched into him as his palm spanned her stomach, imprinting its shape against her skin in electro-erotic outline, taunting her as he brushed the line of her panties yet moved no further. Back and forth, he traced that line between skin and lace with a fingertip as rough as raw leather.

She dug her nails into his neck and hissed. “Bastard.”

His only answer was a dark, rumbling chuckle, shivering against her ear. Then his hand slid inside her jeans, found her sex…and took complete control of her body.

Tight denim crushed his palm against her. He traced the soft folds of her, circling with a shockingly delicate touch, gathering the slick bursts of her wetness until he nearly glided against her as his fingertip stroked the center of her pleasure. She clamped her thighs shut, trapping his hand against her as she squirmed against the wall, trembling with every sharp burst of desire, each sluggish wash of heat that soaked into her in gut-deep pulses. He taunted her. Tormented her. She could hardly hear her own breath over her thundering pulse, and she clawed at his shoulders, demanding more.

And he gave—with two thick fingers thrusting into her, slick with her own wetness, curving inside to explore in intimate, plunging strokes that sought deeper and deeper. Her body clenched around him in shuddering spasms, needing, craving every touch, aching for him to reach just a little farther, find that one perfect caress that would break her. But he only continued to tease, delving faster, rougher, the heel of his palm rubbing against her clit until she ground herself into him with utter abandon, searching for anything to end the tight, delicious pain swelling inside her.

Until he withdrew his touch, leaving her cold. She opened her eyes to find him watching her with that damnable arrogant smile that made her want to scratch his fucking eyes out.

“
Asshole
,” she hissed. That smile only widened as he brought his fingers to his lips and traced his tongue over the tip of one, licking away the wet sheen.

“You keep saying that,” he rumbled. “But I don’t think you really mean it.”

“Fuck you.”

“If you insist.”

His lips crushed down on hers once more, kissing her until her mouth swelled to tender, luscious fullness and she tasted nothing but the savage rush entwined between them. She was hardly aware of kicking her boots off, dimly conscious of helping him rip her jeans away, of him fumbling a condom from his back pocket. Then there was only the indomitable wall of his body, the powerful flow of sinew under her hands, the sweetly metallic taste of bruised flesh as she punished his delectable mouth with suckling bites. His fingers grazed between her thighs once more, tugging the damp crotch of her panties aside. He lifted her up, hitched her against him, fitted their bodies together for a trembling second of sweet anticipation.

He looked down at her as if her name was the curse that damned him, a hell he couldn’t resist. Then he arched his hips, and surged to fill her. Her eyes slammed closed. Her breath seized. Her body tightened—and she gave herself over with a throaty, gasping cry.

He took her with the crazed frenzy of a man possessed, parting the softest, deepest crevices of her body to flow into those sweetly intimate places where every caress of friction was a luscious violation. The shape of him imprinted on her from within, caressing her on every rough, swift, steady stroke. His hands curved against her ass, dug in with strong fingers, lifted her up until he sank deeper on every thrust, until she thought she would break each time he withdrew and left her clenching inside, yearning for that slick stroke and stretching pulse again, lifting herself up to meet him until her hips slammed flush with his and her thighs gripped his waist and she couldn’t hold back her rising, desperate cries.

Her fingers curled over his scalp, stroking the tight-cropped burr of his hair, and he let out a melting groan and bent to take her nipple into his mouth. He suckled; he nibbled; he licked; he teased, wetting the cloth of her shirt and bra until the damp texture became a heated, maddening friction that shot sweet pulses through her veins. She couldn’t take it anymore—the hard brick scraping at her back, the claiming grasp of his hands, the savage rhythm mounting between them in a crescendo that could only end with her shattered and senseless. He roused her over and over until she was swollen and full with him, until she hurt with a need that racked her body to its limits. She couldn’t stand it. He was unbearable, overwhelming, destroying her.

And as she arched against the wall, as she twisted her hips until he fit into that perfect spot, she gasped out his name as that sweet paralysis gripped her and she locked around him in tight whiplash spasms. Each racking pulse concentrated her tension to a single bursting point, until her body prickled with wet fire and she couldn’t breathe and everything inside her dissolved into a liquid rush of molten sparks.

Through her haze, she remained dimly aware of him. Of how he moved against her, growling through gritted teeth, fighting the tight clutch of her flesh. Of how he gripped her tighter as his body went stone-still under her lax fingers, until a shudder went through him and with a choked sound, barely a breath, the hard throb of him swelled inside her. Then silence. Silence, and the glorious soreness and sensitivity of a body used beyond satiation and into lassitude. The mingled scents of their sweat and sex mixed with the lingering scent of green apple incense that always permeated her apartment. The hot weight of him trapped her against the wall, her thighs forced wide to span his breadth, deliciously sore.

She hadn’t had sex like that in…fucking
ever
. All heat and passion and primitive need, urgent and raw. Zero opened her eyes lazily and found piercing green eyes watching her, hazed and still so very hungry.

“Well,” she managed breathlessly, her throat raw from crying out, the words cracking. “That was unexpected.”

*     *     *

Evan blinked at Zoraya, then burst into laughter. His chest ached from panting, but he couldn’t stop until his laughter had bled itself out into a chuckle, then a sighing breath. Shoulders shaking, he curled himself around her, gathering her close and burying his face against her throat. He didn’t want to move yet, not when he was still cradled in the soft heat of her. She was saturated in that beautiful scent of woman and sex, and that hint of green apples he’d caught before.

With a contented sound she rubbed her cheek against his, little minx that she was. She’d caught his eye the moment she’d walked into the bar, with her wild hair and vivid blue eyes so bright against her soft, tawny skin. Even when so clearly despondent, she’d held her delicate sweet face turned up, chin lifted. Proud. He liked proud women.

He liked her, he thought. She was different; irreverent and cynical and independent, not trying too hard to be the kind of duck-lipped sex kitten he usually ran into when he took a night off to cruise the town. Feinting words with her had been refreshing, and she hadn’t hesitated in the slightest to put him in his place and knock him down a peg. Most people fell for the fake psychobabble
I-know-what-you-want-better-than-you-do
act without questioning, but she’d seen right through it. He wouldn’t mind getting to know her better—and he wondered if he could change her mind about that
you won’t call me; I won’t call you
.

Especially when she found out he hadn’t been wholly honest with her.

He drew back enough to look at her. Her eyes were glazed and dilated, dark with satiation; her lips bruised to a soft, inviting crimson fullness that made him want to do it all over again. A strand of her hair clung to her cheek, damp with sweat, sooty black fading to a blood-red tip that clung to the corner of her mouth.

“Regretting that impulse decision a little less now?” he asked softly.

With a tiredly amused sound, she closed her eyes. “Ask me when I can feel my legs again.” She pushed at his chest lightly. “Off.”

“So brusque,” he mocked. “I’d almost think you were only using me for sex.”

“You think?”

“I’m getting an inkling.”

With a laugh, he braced one hand against the wall and separated their bodies with a faint wince of friction against oversensitive flesh. She hissed through her teeth as she settled her feet on the floor and rearranged her panties, then bent to pick up her jeans. He tried not to be obvious about taking in the length of surprisingly long legs for someone so small, slim and shapely below lushly curving hips and a high waist.

“So do I get to stay until morning?” he asked as he tucked himself away.

“I need to sleep, Evan.”

“You can sleep through the seminar tomorrow.” He leaned his shoulder against the wall. “What did you call the guy? A douchebucket?”

“Something like that.” She stepped into her jeans and straightened, tossing her hair from her eyes with a rueful smile. “Look, Evan, it was fun. It’s not the kind of thing I normally do, but…you were right. I needed a pick-me-up tonight, and you were it. But we both got what we wanted, so it’s time to go home.”

“I can respect that.”

But he leaned down to brush his fingers under her chin, tilting her head up. Her lips parted for him as he kissed her again, tasting the swollen fullness of her mouth for a moment longer, just one more kiss to make this night a fond memory he’d look back on in the coming months. When he drew back, she looked up at him dazedly. She was so responsive, he thought. He wondered if she’d looked at every man who’d ever touched her that way, or if she was only responding like this because it was
him
.

Sure. The random guy who’d picked her up in a bar and proceeded to make a complete ass of himself. He’d wanted a chance to talk. To get to know her, and see if she was as interesting as she’d seemed from across the room. Instead he’d tried to be something he wasn’t, turning on his work persona, and backed himself into being good for only one thing before she didn’t want anything else to do with him.

That was the way life happened, sometimes. But still he thought of how she’d sounded when she’d cried out and clutched at him. He didn’t think she realized she’d said his name. Over and over again, whispering
Evan—Evan—Evan
until it filled him with its wild chant, consumed him, made him want to do whatever it took so that she never stopped that blissful cry.

Her lower lip crept between her teeth, and she looked away from him with a touch of crimson in her cheeks and a small smile curving her mouth. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“It’s been a good night. Best night I’ve had in a while.” He brushed her hair back from her brow. “Just wanted another moment to remember it by.”

“You’re trying to tell me your life’s so terrible that this is the highlight?”

“No.” He chuckled. “But I travel a lot. I don’t get very much time to just…
be
with people. To stop putting on the performance and just be myself. Bad sense of humor and all. So these few minutes, here and now…they’re refreshing.”

She tilted her head quizzically. “What do you do other than ‘suit and tie,’ that it’s such a performance?”

“I didn’t tell you?” Of course he hadn’t. If he’d told her, she’d have walked away from him. He shrugged. “I’m in sales.”

“I could see that.” She snorted. “Slick lines. Completely useless. You try to read people and figure out what they want.” She glanced toward the door, before her gaze returned to him. “So you’re not from New York?”

“No. Though I fly in often enough for work that I have a reserved room at my usual hotel.”

“Cozy life.” She flitted a glance around her apartment. “Not that mine’s much better.”

He raised his head to take in the room. Her apartment was a typical New York studio, narrow as a hallway and not much longer, but she’d managed to make it look spacious with minimalist furniture in homey, honey-toned wood—and even turned it into a multi-leveled space with a cleverly repurposed loft bed in one corner. The space underneath the loft platform had been enclosed with varnished wooden walls to create a separate little room with the bed tucked cozily inside and light streaming in from the window, while the overhead section had been set up as a second-story work area with a lap desk and a nest of pillows. Terraced cube shelving did double duty both as storage and as steps leading up to the work area. Her sense of décor was as quirky as she was, a mix of warm tones and off-kilter grunge blending surprisingly well, knit together by the glow of string lights painting motes of light along every wall. He smiled.

“I wouldn’t be so quick to knock your life. I can tell you put this apartment together with a lot of love. It doesn’t matter that it’s small. It’s yours.”

“I actually like it small. I’m weird like that, I guess.” She looked at him, then laughed when he just eyed her. “No, seriously. When I was a kid, I didn’t use my bedroom. I used the walk-in closet instead. I left all my clothes on my bed and strung up icicle Christmas lights all along the closet rack, and made shelves out of egg crates and a bed out of every sleeping bag in the house.” Her voice softened, fond memory darkening her eyes. “I kept books in there, and a little TV and radio, and my video games—and the weird little mangled stuffed animals I’d make by taking normal toys and giving them a zombie makeover like
The Nightmare Before Christmas
. When I closed the door, it was my own little world. Just me and nobody else.” Zero faltered, lowering her eyes. “It made me feel safe, I guess. Like I had a place that was all mine and wouldn’t go away. As long as I had a closet in my room, I could make my home all over again.”

He studied her—the tense set of her shoulders, the pensive cast to her lips—and wondered why he cared, that this woman he’d just met a few hours ago seemed to be hurting. “Did you lose your home at some point?”

“I was always losing my home. My parents love to travel. They’re a little flighty. They blame it on the Roma blood, but…I think it’s just who they are. Though it started with my mother, I think. Both my grandparents died in a house fire when I was just a baby, and Mom just couldn’t stand to be where it happened anymore.” She shrugged. “Always looking for a new haven. Always looking for new horizons, while my brother and sister and I just wished we could keep our friends for more than a few years.”