If Looks Could Chill, page 29
She shivered as he leaned over her, grasped the hem of her T-shirt, and started to pull it up. There was not a shadow of doubt what he intended to do.
She put her hands over his. Torn. Tortured. “Quinn.”
“Are you going to fight me, sugar?” he asked, his eyes burning. “Go ahead and fight me. Because we both know I’ll win.”
“I thought we were going to talk.”
“Tired of talking.” He muscled her T-shirt over her head and threw it aside. “Baby, we can do this rough or we can do this gentle. Your choice.”
Sweet arousal coiled through her body. It was a game of sexual domination they’d played dozens of times before.
With one difference. This time it wasn’t a game.
“Quinn,” she said. But the name came out a breathless invitation instead of the warning she’d intended.
He stripped off her bra and dropped it over the side of the bed.
“Yeah, sugar?”
“You need to stop.”
He paused. “Why?”
She bit her lip in lieu of blurting out the dreaded words . . . the reason doing this would kill her. She couldn’t tell him how she’d come to feel about him. She couldn’t. At least this way she’d emerge with her dignity intact. Unlike the other times she’d been discarded and replaced.
With a shrug, he started to twitch open the buttons on her BDUs, one by one, pausing to look into her eyes after each new inch of skin was bared. Her whole body tingled with desire for the feel of his touch.
“This isn’t fair,” she breathed.
He unlaced one of her boots and tugged it off. “You’re wrong. What isn’t fair”—he did the same for the other—“is you cutting me off with no explanation. You wanted to talk? Talk quick if you want me to stop.”
Despair had her shaking her head back and forth. If she told him the truth, he’d be gone like a shot. Oh, he might finish making love to her tonight. But he’d take the first opportunity to get the hell away from her. Bobby Lee Quinn was not a forever kind of guy. Hell, he wasn’t even a tomorrow kind of guy. The word commitment was just not in his vocabulary. And she couldn’t go through another rejection. Not with her heart so totally involved. Been there, done that.
“You wouldn’t like it,” she whispered.
“Damn straight I don’t.”
She cringed. Oh, God, had she said that aloud?
His fingers seized the waistband of her BDUs and started pulling them down. She panicked for real, sucking in a breath at the skin-to-skin contact, and tried to buck off his grip. It was all he needed. Instantly he was sitting on top of her, her wrists held in a viselike grip above her head. He lifted up a bit, and slowly dragged her body up higher on the bed under him, drawing her BDUs down to her ankles with the friction of his legs and the help of his feet.
Still holding her fast, he looked down and caressed her body with his heated gaze. Oh, God. She could feel herself getting wet, reacting to the provocation. The man had a way of letting every carnal, lascivious thought shine through in his pale blue eyes. And make her want to experience it all.
The irony was, if she simply ceased fighting and told him to get off, that she was tired and wanted to go to sleep, he’d stop right here.
If she had any kind of brain, that was exactly what she would do.
But his thick erection pulsed against her mound, telling her with every heartbeat how badly he wanted her. Her nipples had long since beaded to tight points, scraping against the hair of his chest, screaming with need. He felt so incredibly good. She wanted to soak it all in, absorb the heady feeling, so she could remember and pull the memory out in the years to come when she cried for want of him.
One more minute, then she’d tell him no.
As though sensing her compliance, her powerlessness against his potent sexuality, he stretched his nude body over her, covering her from head to toe, growling out a feral noise of anticipation.
Bundling her wrists in one strong hand, he ran his other hand slowly over her body, down her hip, her thigh, then cupped it around the back of her knee and pulled her calf up and out of her pants leg. And kept pulling. She realized what he was doing, spreading her knee wide to expose her, and tried to stop him. It was no use. He was too strong.
She bucked in frustration.
“So you want it rough,” he crooned.
“No,” she denied. But it was too late. She’d already implicitly consented to the game. She yanked hard at her wrists, bubbling over with aggravation. At herself. For wanting him so damn much. For losing sight of the bad ending this was bound to lead to.
“That’s right, baby, fight me,” he said in a low command.
So she did fight him, in earnest now, testing his strength, his will to have her. Her breath panted with the exertion, her heartbeat pounded out of control. His eyes darkened, cobalt rings forming around the icy blue as he wrestled her down. He was getting more and more aroused. Harder. Thicker. Stronger. He wanted her.
He wanted her.
She thrashed until he had her completely subdued, his body pressed into hers, the strength of his limbs holding hers down so she couldn’t move. His cock lay tight against her inner thigh, pulsing with hunger. He slid his hand over it and between them. And touched her.
She moaned, clenching in pleasure at the feel of his fingers on her. In her. Slippery and skilled, gliding through her wet folds, finding the center of her need. Circling in for the kill.
“Quinn,” she gasped. “We have to talk.”
“So, talk,” he said but didn’t cease his relentless seduction of her response. He bent down and his lips and tongue performed the same dance of temptation with her mouth. Nibbling, probing, caressing, opening her wider and wider to his pleasure. And hers.
“Bobby Lee, please,” she moaned.
A hum of approval rumbled low in his chest. “That’s more like it,” he murmured. “Keep talking, sugar. I want to hear you beg.”
It wouldn’t be the first time. One of them often reduced the other to begging during sex. There was no shame between them, no limits. No need for a safe word, because their sexual appetites fit together so seamlessly, so completely.
Another reason she loved the man to distraction. She could always be herself around him. No maidenly pretense.
At his fingertips, she felt the first ripplings of climax. She closed her eyes in anguish. She hadn’t wanted to give in. Not this time.
“Damn it, girl, don’t look so sad while I make you come.”
She gasped as the physical rush took hold and began to suck her into the vortex of mindless, helpless sensation. “I can’t help it!”
“Why?” his dark voice demanded, his fingers never ceasing to draw her further into the abyss.
“Because—oh, God!” It was no use. Her body seized in pleasure, bowed up in a perfect arch of surrender. She gave herself over to the overwhelming need in her heart. And cried out the words that would seal her fate. “I love you.”
A light dusting of snow had begun falling by the time Rebel emerged from the Lincoln Tunnel into Manhattan. The moon was just peeking through the clouds that enshrouded the city in a multicolored, spun-sugar cocoon.
She’d always thought the city glowed under a special spell of magic around Christmastime, with all the festive lights and colorful banners. Especially when the sky was newly awash in the shimmer of a billion tiny snowflakes. It was like living inside an enchanted snow globe, and it never failed to cheer her up. Even the taxi drivers stopped being rude while everyone enjoyed the five minutes of delight.
But tonight she didn’t even see it. Her mind was too crammed full of too many things to process at one time, let alone notice the beauty of the night.
Things like the truly horrible experiences Gina had told about her captivity.
And everything that had happened earlier with Wade.
Not to mention the bombshell Alex had subsequently laid on her . . .
Had he really fantasized about being with her the same way she had about being with him?
Fantasies that had been thoroughly crushed by the stinging memory of those white parchment wedding invitations . . .
It was all too much to think about. Especially on no sleep. Her brain was about to explode, her body about to shut down.
What she needed was a hot bubble bath, a chilled glass of wine, and a strong pair of loving arms to hold her close as she slept for about three days. Just hold her.
Yeah, dream on.
Her cell phone rang for the dozenth time. Who was it this time? Wade, or Alex? They’d been playing phone leapfrog, and obviously, neither man was going to quit calling until she answered. She pushed out a resigned breath, picked up the cell from the seat next to her, and pushed the talk button.
“Haywood.”
“Was I really that bad?” The deep masculine voice held a note of wistful dryness.
Amazingly, she felt herself smile. His self-deprecation never failed to raise her esteem for him. “Oh, you were terrible. That fourth orgasm you gave me was definitely subpar.”
Wade made a noise that might have been a chuckle. But distinctly lacking in humor. “Then why’d you run away?”
She tried to come up with an excuse that wouldn’t sound like an excuse even to her. And came up empty.
“Wow,” he drawled. “Not even a dead mother or ailing aunt?” The dryness was now Sahara-worthy. With an edge.
She felt awful if he thought she’d just blown him off, but she really couldn’t deal right now. “Sorry. I’m just . . . exhausted.”
“Strange. I can’t sleep. Where have you been for the last twelve hours, Rebel?”
Nothing like beating around the bush.
“Wade—”
“If you won’t answer the man you spent yesterday afternoon fucking, maybe you’ll answer your boss. Where were you, Agent Haywood? I’ve been calling all night.”
She winced. “Language, Wade.”
“Just answer me, damn it.”
She was too tired to fight him. “All right. There have been . . . developments.”
“In . . . ?”
She blew out a breath. “The Cappozi case.”
He was silent for a moment. “Impossible. You see, I’m the SAC on that case, so I would have been notified if there’d been developments.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess we need to talk.”
“No shit. Get over here. Right now.”
So much for that bubble bath. She checked the dashboard clock. “Fine. I can be at the office in—”
“No. My hotel room. If I’m being back-ended, I’d rather get it in private.”
His hotel room.
Where the sheets were probably still smoking from yesterday afternoon.
“Wade, I don’t think that’s—”
“Goddamn it, Rebel! You’ve got ten minutes to get your butt over here or you can kiss your career good-bye.”
The cell phone screen blinked off. He’d hung up.
She sighed. It was an idle threat, of course. If she went down, so would he. But she felt his frustration. She did. However, she was also about to drop from exhaustion. Were a few hours’ sleep too much to ask? Apparently.
She turned the car toward his hotel.
Twelve minutes later he opened the door to her soft knock.
He was wearing a pair of black sweats that hung low on his hips, and an unbuttoned flannel shirt. His hair was artfully mussed and his feet bare, like she’d gotten him out of bed, which no doubt she had. The crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes were a bit more pronounced and his mouth less welcoming than last afternoon, but other than that he looked as attractive and powerful as ever.
Was she crazy not to jump in and grab this man with both hands? Probably. Wade Montana was a twenty-karat catch and more. She’d wanted a boyfriend. A man didn’t get much more made-to-order than this one. So what was her problem?
Like she didn’t know.
“Come in,” he said stiffly.
Ah, well. No doubt she’d already totally blown her chances. She had pretty much hijacked his case and lied to him . . . if by omission. Not exactly a great relationship foundation.
“Thanks,” she said. And noticed the room service table in the middle of the room set for two, complete with burned-down candles and still-cheerful flowers. One meal sat half eaten, the other untouched, along with a bottle of champagne swimming in an ice bucket filled with warm water.
Oh, dear.
She turned to face him. “I’m sorry,” she repeated for the umpteenth time.
“So am I. Now tell me what the fuck is going on.”
“Language, Wade.”
He slashed an angry hand up. “I swear. Get over it. And start talking.”
“It’s Gina. She’s been found.”
He froze where he stood. His eyes lasered in on her. “Is she okay?”
Rebel nodded. “A little worse for wear, but okay.”
“Where is she?”
She cleared her throat. He was not going to like this. “I can’t tell you that.”
“What?” he exploded. “What the fuck do you mean? I’m the goddamn SAC on the goddamn case. You’ll tell me or—”
She dug in her suit jacket pocket for Kurt Bridger’s card and held it out to him. “Call this man. He’ll explain everything.”
He snatched the card from her and examined it while she walked over to the small settee and dumped her purse onto it, along with her raincoat. On second thought, she added her suit jacket to the pile. And kicked off her shoes. Then turned to watch him whip out his cell phone and call the number on the card, his face a mask of . . . lord knew. Fury? Worry? Affront? All of the above?
“This is Special Agent in Charge Wade Montana from the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he growled into the phone. “To whom am I speaking?”
This could take a while.
She wandered over to the table and lifted the silver lid on one untouched plate. Lobster. Ouch. She lifted another. Salad. She popped a cherry tomato in her mouth. The sweet-tart taste burst onto her tongue as she chewed. Good. But she still wasn’t hungry. She eyed the champagne bottle. Maybe he’d hate her less after a glass or two, even if it was warm. Or maybe she’d notice less. She popped the stopper and filled the two flutes, walked over, and handed him one as he talked. He took it but ignored her.
The tepid liquid went down surprisingly easily. Probably would have been really good cold. She was on her second glass when her eye snagged on the bathroom. Which had one of those wonderful giant spa tubs. With jets. A basket of bath items sat on the tiled rim, wrapped in a bow, like a present just for her. She strolled in and pulled an envelope out from the basket. Bubble bath. Lilac.
It was a siren call too great to resist. And it wasn’t like she had to worry about Wade wanting to join her. That look on his face had said he’d probably never speak to her again. What could happen? Besides, he’d already seen her naked. She closed the door, turned on the water, and stripped.
Oh, it was heavenly. Hot and bubbly and smelling sweetly of summer flowers. The champagne tickled her throat and relaxed her muscles. She closed her eyes and sighed in pleasure. Exactly what she needed. Her mind finally slowed to a crawl and ebbed away.
“Rebel?”
She started awake. Wade was standing over the tub, looking down at her. The hot water had grown tepid. Good grief. She’d fallen asleep.
“You’re lucky you didn’t drown.”
“What? Oh. Yeah.” She sat up. Rubbed her eyes. Opened them to Wade’s gaze drifting down her naked body. Okay, so maybe she’d miscalculated the part about him not wanting to join her. Her nipples contracted with a zing. And okay, maybe she’d also miscalculated the part where she didn’t want him to join her. Memories of yesterday afternoon flowed traitorously through her mind. And her body.
“So. Are we still speaking?” she asked through her tight throat.
He moistened his lips with his tongue and she followed the movement longingly. “Maybe. Are we still fucking?”
Whoa.
She swallowed. She should say no. Absolutely not. Her heart belonged elsewhere, and . . . “Maybe,” she said.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Stand up.”
He held out a hand, and against every instinct she took it, letting him pull her up from the water. “Wade, there’s som—”
“Shut up.”
Okay. He was still angry. If the clipped order hadn’t told her, the way he wrapped her in a towel and rubbed the streaming droplets of water from her body did. Not rough, exactly. But definitely not gentle. More on the order of if-you-let-me-screw-your-brains-out-maybe-I’ll-forgive-you-but-no-guaranteesbecause-right-now-I’m-hating-myself-for-wanting-you.
Not that she blamed him, exactly.
He tossed the towel aside. Along with his flannel shirt.
Ho-boy.
Even under the thick fabric of his sweatpants his erection looked huge. And hungry.
“Wade—”
“Did I say you could speak?”
He skimmed his fingernails up her body from her hips to her breasts and she shivered in pleasure, her flesh crying out for more. He teased her nipples and she moaned in an agonized mire of guilt and anticipation. The man knew how to turn a woman on.
Reaching up, he pulled out the long pin holding her hair in its bun and let it drop to the floor with a clatter. He combed the strands with his fingers, arranging the unruly locks in a cloud of red over her shoulders, partially covering her breasts. He stepped right up against her, so the wiry curls on his bare chest barely grazed the beaded tips. The thick staff of his arousal touched her belly. The soft cotton over the head felt moist with his essence. She sucked in an unsteady breath.
“Take them off,” he ordered gruffly.
She blinked.
“The sweatpants. Take them off.”
She should be more torn. But she wasn’t. She wanted this. She wanted him. Even though she knew it was all wrong. Selfish and deceitful.
She lowered to her knees and slowly drew down his pants, revealing his rampant desire. She looked up and their gazes met, clashed hotly. She felt a rush of moisture between her legs. She finished taking off his pants, easing them over his athletic calves and masculine feet. Then put her lips to his inner thigh. Drew her tongue upward. His fingers stabbed through her hair and held her head in their powerful grip. She continued her journey upward. She licked at his balls. Kissed the root of his cock. Brushed her lips slowly, deliberately, up to the head, then took it in her mouth.
