Smack! In the muffled quiet of a darkened corridor, his large hand connects with my backside, and I yelp. So much for enjoying.
My protest is a strangled yelp and a “What the hell was that for!”
“For a start. For poking me. I still owe you plenty.”
“Owe me plenty what?”
And there he goes with the no-answer thing again.
“Listen here.” I poke him in the back this time. “You do realize we’ve met before. I know you’re not the strong, silent type.”
“Ha. What type, Lady Isla, do you think I am?”
The kinky type, my mind supplies, remembering his bedroom. The type that rescues you from rape-y men.
“The annoying type,” I say instead. “The type who should’ve been blessed with a little sister.”
“They’d put me in prison for doing to my fictional little sister what I’m going to do to you.”
Oh. Oh! Hang out the bunting—sound the trumpets!
“Keep going, Peanut, because for every poke you land on me, I’m going to double.”
“To poke me twice?”
“We’re up to two fingers now. Keep going, and it’ll be three. Three fingers I’ll push inside you to make you come.”
“You can’t say things like that.”
“I have big fingers, but you can take three, I think. Four, however, might be a little uncomfortable.”
I have no answer to that and curl my fingers into fists against the notion of poking him again. My bum throbs, but it’s not the only part of me that’s doing so. Or smarting, come to that. These two separate sensations are somehow not entirely incongruent. Or unpleasant …
Another door, one he opens himself this time. He closes the door behind us, and the thud of the bass instantly dims. As he drops his shoulder and my feet meet the floor, I stagger a little, though his lightning-quick reflexes prevent me from falling. His fingers on my arm, his ice and fire gaze sears me to the spot. One minute, we’re staring at each other, just staring, and the next we’re kissing. Not that kissing really covers it. We’re more like mauling each other. Hands touching, sliding, grasping, tongues tangle and teeth graze. Our motions, the sounds filling the space are anything but gentle.
“You make me crazy,” he rasps, his fingers tangling in my hair, anchoring me in place.
“Kettle.” My head falls to the side, giving him more real estate and me more thrills.
“What does that mean?” His mouth begins to explore the skin of my neck, his stubble a delicious scrape.
“Kettle, pot, black,” I pant as my heart hammers against my rib cage. I can feel my legs literally shaking, because this is everything. Every word and sly glance. Every look that contradicted what his mouth said. “Niko.” I sigh his name, my fingers seeking the feel of him under his jacket. There’s too just much fabric. Too much between us.
“So I’m Niko again?” His admonishment feels like the best kind of punishment, a powerful pulse bursting to life as his teeth settle over my pulse. Yes, yes, yes! it seems to beat out as my body melts against his.
“Always. You’ll always be Niko to me.”
His response is to spin me until I’m facing away from him. His arms slide around my waist, pulling me into him. He’s so hard. The realization pulses heavily through me.
“Oh God, please.”
“Yes.” His lips skim the shell of my ear. “Just like that. I want to hear you beg me to fuck you.”
My heart begins to thunder like the hooves of a runaway horse. I feel the echoes of it everywhere, its cadence shimmering across my skin. His big hands slide down the front of my thighs, toying with the hem of my dress. With a low rumbling sound of satisfaction, his hands glide inward, his body enveloping me from behind like a cloak.
I want this so damn much. And I can’t quite believe it’s finally here. It stung playing second best to Sandy, and I—
“Wait.” It takes me a fraction of a second to comprehend that was my voice. “Wait, please.”
His hands still, and can’t believe I’m stepping away from him.
11
Van
She stumbles from my arms, and while my first instinct is to follow her, I force myself to be still. She takes a step, then another, before whirling around to face me.
“Well.” She blinks, a fluttering of lashes and artlessness. “That was a little unnecessary.” Her words hit the air in a shaking breath, her bravado, no doubt, meant to cover it.
“Really?” I cock a brow, sliding my hands into the pockets of my pants. They’re both casual actions that do little to mask the menace in my reply. “Like your eyes weren’t begging me to kiss you.” Begging for other things. When her eyes are on me, I can’t think straight. Her denim gaze makes no pretense of coyness, though I’m sure she’s unaware of the degree of want burning there. It’s why I had her turn from me at Alexander’s. I didn’t trust myself.