Bittersweet Chocolate (22 page)

Releasing her hold, she kissed her way down his chest, pausing to tease tiny nipples before moving lower to the taut, damp skin of his abdomen, lapping up briny perspiration. Closing in on her final destination, she reached the triangle of curly shorthairs at the junction of his thighs—

“Oh, hell no,” he growled.

Grabbing a fistful of hair, he yanked her head away. Tightening his hold, he forced her to look up at him. She shuddered when she saw the smoldering anger in his eyes. It was retribution time. Random prodding of his temper had consequences.

“Damn it, Rissa, when you touch me, can you tell the difference...do I feel white?” He tugged on her hair, forcing her to inch her way up his body. “What does white feel like?”

She didn’t respond because she didn’t have a rational answer. Drawn by the continual pull on her hair, she straddled his legs, moving forward, nipples tingling as they skimmed across curly hairs. Breathing erratic, she stopped moving, face inches from his, gaze locked on the sensuous curve of his mouth...
he’s going to kiss me.

The expectations of feather-like caresses of his thumbs at the corners of her mouth morphed into the enticing stroke of his tongue. Anticipation peaked as his tongue swept inside her mouth, inciting the breathless plummeting feeling of freefall, and reality. Drawn into the hot, addictive taste of his mouth devouring hers, the efficacy of his kiss could bring her to the brink―he pulled back.

“Rissa, look at me.” He gripped her chin. “I’ve told you before, of all the things that might come between us, I refuse to let race be an issue. The only difference for me is the way I feel about you, being with you, compared to women in the past.”

Pulling her head down, he recaptured her mouth, a forceful possession that she struggled to break.

* * * *

He rolled, reversing their positions, tender persuasion accelerating toward brutality. On the brink of losing control, he lifted his head and stared down at her. Only Marissa could piss him off to such an extreme.

Why did he let her keep taking him down this road? If she’d trust him, tell him what about her past continued to trouble her, he believed they could resolve their most contentious problem of ethnicity. Leaning forward, he nibbled on her swollen lips, giving him time to regain perspective.

Irritation under control, he languidly kissed his way down her body. The only deviations from his intended target were her breasts, where he paused, sucking one nipple, then the other, tongue teasing, teeth nipping. Grasping the back of his head, she pressed closer, and with determined effort he moved lower. Tongue seeking out the core of her sexuality, his mouth closed over her, drawing the warm tidbit of flesh between his lips.

Her nails scored his shoulders, her body arched expectantly, and he didn’t disappoint. Stoking the flames, he brought her to a fever pitch, and put her on hold.

“Tris, don’t even. Please don’t do this to me,” she whimpered.

He lifted his head. “Rissa—”

“No, Tris, don’t play me. You know what I want.”

Scrutinizing her features, he snorted. “Oh yeah, I know what you want and we both know I’m the only one who can give it to you.”

“Tris, don’t.”

Ignoring the warning underlining the asperity of her remark, he retorted, “Don’t! Dahlin’, you started this, and as much as I love you...you can’t have it all your way.”

Damn, slipping into the southern inflection of his words was a prelude to anger. He didn’t want to go there, even though it was a perfect opportunity to demonstrate she couldn’t jerk his chain any time she had an inclination. Unfortunately, foreplay had gone too far. His need equaled hers. His lesson would have to wait.

Kissing, licking, and tasting his way up her body to her mouth, his thumbs pressed down on her chin. Tongue slipping between her parted lips, his rigid shaft penetrated her, and he shuddered from the sheer pleasure of sliding into all that moist heat, and muscles flexing around him.

His pace started out slow and easy. She matched his every deliberate stroke with a measured seductive reciprocation. Together they found the right rhythm, and her arms tightened around him. Toes curling against his legs, reflexive tremors rocked her body, and she stiffened, quietly repeating his name as she climaxed. Forehead pressed against hers, he gritted his teeth, fighting to oppress his need for relief, determined not to give into her so easily.

Allow her time to regain her composure.

That oft-repeated phrase had become his control mechanism, and it might have worked, if her recovery hadn’t included calculated contractions around his throbbing erection. He was on the brink. To distract and provoke her, it
was
his lesson, he ran his tongue across the outline of her lips and up along her jawline to her ear.

“Tell me,” he whispered. “Explain the colors of passion, what do they feel like, define the difference.”

Her eyes opened, no response, but he had her attention. Struggling not to laugh, he watched her, he hoped without expression, while he waited to see how she would extricate herself from the situation. Oh yeah, she recognized, and violence had been her first inclination. He saw the passion in those amber eyes morph into a glittering look of anger. But she wasn’t sure of him yet, didn’t know how he’d react to aggression.

Hell. She wasn’t alone in wanting the total satisfaction the next level of intimacy provided, but he let her have her way too often. Only in the bedroom did he believe he could control her without hurting her, while assuaging his irritation.

* * * *

Seeing amusement lurking in his eyes mystified her. Was
he
teasing? Hard to tell with him. He was so soft-spoken, even when angry, but this time, his words
did
have an unexpected edge that seemed motivated by anger, which gave her pause. She knew if she answered while still on an endorphine high, she would promise, say, or do just about anything.

In the months they had been living together, he’d peeped her hole card, which wasn’t hard―a thug mentality, addicted to sex―but she hadn’t quite figured him out. Hell, the reality of this gorgeous man wanting to associate with her was a mystery. But sometimes she did wonder if his quiet, easygoing, computer geek demeanor was a deception.

The youngest of six brothers, surely he was no stranger to conflict or fighting, and probably could handle himself in both situations. Geez, his size alone would make most people wary of pushing him too far.

“Okay,” she blurted out. “I’m sorry.”

“Uh-huh, said with such sincerity,” he mocked. “Dahlin’, just what is it you’re sorry about?”

A rush of anger warmed her cheeks and she wanted to hit him, yet that southern intonation of his words―it was bad enough when he called her Marissa. For him to slip easily into that drawl suggested she’d prodded his temper. Oh yeah, perfect timing and place to go alpha male on her. Not since Joel had anyone tried to control her, and in the bedroom of all places.

She hadn’t changed much over the years. With the right man, she had remained addicted to sex, and that addiction had escalated with Tristan, damn it. He knew what she wanted. It had become a part of her sexual pleasure. Eyes narrowed, she stared at shifting shadows on the ceiling, mind racing, considering how she should react to his intimidation.

Hmm, instead of becoming argumentative, she decided on a new strategy, not knowing if it would work with him. Closing her eyes, she sighed, and gave it her best shot.

“Hell,” he whispered, along with several other explicit words of profanity.

Impressed, she refused to deviate from her course of action to smile. She hadn’t expected him to fall for it. Whatever worked.

“Damn it, Marissa, that’s bogus. You’re only sorry about not getting your way.” Trembling fingers swiped away her tears.

Watching his head lower, her muscles tightened reflexively and she braced herself for the onslaught of exquisite feelings. “Tris...”

He reclaimed her mouth, a deep penetrating invasion meant to prepare her for what lay ahead, and reawaken her hunger. Unable to remain impassive against his onslaught, breathy moans escaped her as she writhed beneath him.

* * * *

With reluctance he released her mouth, eased her over on her stomach, and straddled her legs. Not as calm as he tried to appear, unsteady hands traveled down her back, caressed the perfection of her ass, before easing his hands up along the outline of her curves. He leaned forward, inhaled her exotic fragrance mingling with the lingering scent of their lovemaking.

“Are you ready, Rissa?”

“Oh yeah, always.”

He ran a finger along the crease of her ass and watched her squirm. His delay, deliberate and provocative, was usually intended to prolong her pleasure. This time he hoped to heighten her dread.

“Tris, don’t make me beg,”

“Dahlin’, I like it...the begging.”

Staring down at her shapely figure, his fingers idly stroked her sides, while contemplating how long he’d prolong her agony. The vivid memory of the first time she introduced him to this particular pleasure came to mind. He’d been clueless, had never tried anal intercourse, never considered it an option before Marissa, and now he wanted it as much as she did.

“Baby, I think you owe me a little begging. Ask me again, nicely.”

“Please,” she whimpered.

He watched her reposition herself. Coming up on her knees, she raised her lower body, upper body resting on the bed. She spread her legs, exposing a tempting view. Arms extended above her head, her fingers fisted the sheet.

He reached into the nightstand, grabbed the K-Y, squeezed a bit over his fingers. Kneeling behind her, he playfully ran his fingers along the crease of her ass. Reaching the tiny crinkled orifice, he inserted one, then two fingers, sliding them in and out, stretching her, preparing her for penetration. She pushed back into his touch as his glans pressed against the narrow passage. Easing inside, the fit enticingly snug, warm―damn, she felt good. He buried himself deep, and paused to give her time to adjust.

Still a novice, his pulse quickened, and despite his need, he wanted to take his time and savor the pleasure. Marissa had other ideas. Sphincter pulsing around him was her deliberate attempt to create havoc and wrest iffy control from his grasp. Withdrawing almost his entire length then gliding back inside, she pushed back into his thrust, ass gyrating in that salacious way she used to bring him to climax.

“Damn,” he groaned, gripping her hips, his hold tightened in an attempt to control her actions. Their usual sexual encounters were way too savage.

“Easy baby, not yet,” he whispered. “I want to do slow.”

“Forget it. I need this...you. Do it.”

Driven by his need, she kept pace with forceful thrusts. He couldn’t hold back. Gratification of release overloaded his nervous system and his seed pulsed into her.

Sated and exhausted, he hugged her against him until his breathing returned to normal. He eased away, dropped down beside her, and flipped onto his back. Tugging her head down to his, he kissed her mouth, his grip went slack, and he drifted off to sleep.

* * * *

Marissa rolled over, sat up, and stretched. Always wired and alert after sex, later that day, she would be dead on her feet. She glanced at the bedside clock, noting she had another hour before she had to get ready for work. For several minutes she sat there smiling, watching Tristan sleep. The terror of her dream had faded, but it had conjured up less harrowing memories of her past.

She wasn’t always as sexually aware as now, and thinking back, she’d been as inexperienced as they come. Didn’t even know how to kiss, hell. Who could she have asked to show her? The friends, gangbangers, uh-uh. Asking them would have meant leaving herself open to more trouble than she could have handled. No, her naïve ass assumed kissing came naturally, finding out it didn’t, what a rude awakening.

At thirteen, fourteen years old, her romantic notions about kissing had been rather exotic, and they definitely didn’t include Tommy Logan. Yet he orchestrated her first lesson in kissing, and he wasn’t bad, as first kisses go.

Oh yeah, she’d gone from untutored to experienced in one quick, interesting lesson. Her first taste of the erotic, admittedly a modest taste, but the kissing lessons deserved a few accolades. Even though her relationship with Tommy had been short-lived, for her, it had been well worth the effort. Naturally, from Tommy’s point of view, dating her had been a waste of time, and in the end he’d made that clear in a rather belligerent manner.

Belligerent?

Okay, add him to the enemy list. He wanted to kick her ass, told her to watch her back―wait a minute. Didn’t she dream, not this last one, but nonetheless, dreams of the past, portentous dreams. All of them seemed to be morphing into the same thing―watching her back didn’t come with an expiration date.

She yawned, arched her back off the bed, and languorously stretched taut muscles.

Hmm, that reminded her. Who would have thought, in the darkest hour of her life, Tommy would reappear and willingly come to her rescue, so to speak? Moreover, he let Graham believe their past had been a good thing. He’d put the bad feelings behind him. But he never came back to the hospital to see her.

Marissa glanced over at the clock.

“What are you smiling about?”

“Tris!” She bolted upright, heart hammering. “Stop doing that, damn it, you scared the shit out of me.”

“Serves you right.” Laughing and dodging the pillow she was using to hit him, he stammered, “What...has you...so...engrossed?” He snatched the pillow from her hand and tossed it on the floor.

“Childhood memories,” she murmured.

“Time we were getting ready for work,” he remarked, ignoring her comment, probably to avoid another argument regarding her past.

“Wait, not yet,” she coaxed. “Tell me. What’s the wildest, craziest thing you’ve ever done in your life, and said be damned to the consequences?”

In a heartbeat, he responded, “You.”