Harlequin Desire September 2015 - Box Set 1 of 2: Claimed\Maid for a Magnate\Only on His Terms (4 page)

Four

T
he kiss was as much about possession as it was about pleasure.

It had been six long years since he'd touched her, since he'd held her, since he'd licked his way across her full pink lips, but, in this moment, in his mind, she was still his.

At the first press of his mouth against hers, Isa's lips parted on a gasp. He took instant, ruthless advantage, thrusting his tongue into the deepest recesses of her mouth. Her hands came up to his chest and he thought, at first, that she was going to push him away. Just the idea upset him more than he wanted to admit. He prepared for it, for the torture that would be letting her go. But then her hands clung instead of pressed, tangled in his shirt and held him close. It was all the permission he needed.

He brought his hands to her face, cupped her jaw. Stroked his thumbs along her cut-glass cheekbones. And kissed her as if he'd been dying to kiss her for all these years.

He
plundered
her.

Sweeping his tongue along her own, stroking and circling, teasing and tasting, he coaxed her into opening a little wider, letting him in a little deeper. She did, and he swept in, taking more of her. Taking everything she was offering and demanding more.

He licked his way across her lips, down the inside of her cheeks, over the slick roughness of the top of her mouth. She moaned then, a soft, breathy sound that shot straight through him and made him harder than he'd been any time in the past six years. Harder than he'd been any time since he'd last held her in his arms.

With that thought in his mind and desire pounding through his gut, he tilted her head to gain better access. And then it was on.

Their tongues tangled, slipping, sliding, stroking their way over and around and under each other. He sucked her tongue into his mouth and relished the way her body arched, the way her hips bumped against his, the way her fingers clawed at him, scratching him through the thin silk of his dress shirt.

He used to love the little pricks of pain, and the knowledge that he would carry her marks for hours, sometimes days. It was a blow to find out he still felt that way. That he still wanted her brand on his body—and his brand on hers—as much as he ever had. Or it would be a blow, he figured, as soon as this kiss was over. For now, he couldn't think about it. Couldn't think about anything but her and the feelings rushing between them. Because he didn't have a choice, he gave himself over to it all. Gave himself over to Isa.

How could he not when the kiss, when
she
, was a strange mix of soft and sharp, poignant and desperate. The familiar and the exotic. He wanted her—and whatever she would give him—more than he wanted air.

His head was spinning by the time she pulled away. She didn't go far, just broke off the kiss and stood there panting, her forehead resting against his. He let her catch her breath, and dragged precious oxygen into his own overworked lungs, giving his overheated body a chance to calm down. Then he claimed her mouth again.

It was even better the second time.

Her lips were warm and swollen and she tasted so good—like fizzy wine and the sweetest summer blackberries. And the sea. Cool and clean and so, so wild. But then, she always had.

So much about her had changed since he'd last been with her, he'd been afraid that her taste had, too. To find out that it hadn't—it nearly brought him to his knees. Instead of letting it, he kissed her again. And again. And again. Until her skin was hot and flushed against his palms. Until he was rock hard and aching against her. Until their lips were bruised and swollen and tender, so tender..

And then he kissed her some more.

And she let him. She let him kiss her, let him touch her, let him in when he'd spent so long thinking that it would never happen again. That she would never open herself to him and that, if she did, he would never trust her enough to let her.

But this wasn't about trust, he told himself as he continued to take everything she had to offer and push for more. This wasn't about love. It was about need. About chemistry. About a past that burned hotter between them than any jewelry forge ever could.

His mouth was nearly numb by the time she finally broke the kiss. This time she didn't stay in his arms, resting against him. Instead, she shoved him away, hard, then turned to face the ocean. He gave her space, and just watched, fascinated, as her shoulders trembled, as she struggled desperately to get herself under control.

He wished her luck. God knew, he had absolutely no control when it came to her. He never had.

“Don't ever do that again.”

It was an order, delivered in a voice that still shook from pent-up desire.

“Never do what?” he asked, turning her around so he could see her face in the shadowy darkness. Her eyes were huge; her pupils wide with passion and seeing her like that sent another shock wave of need through him.

“Never do this?” he asked, stepping so close that every breath she took pressed her breasts against his chest. “Never touch you?” He brushed his knuckles against her jaw, then slid them down, until his open hand rested on her collarbone, his fingers splayed gently against her neck. “Never kiss you?” Her skin was soft and warm against his lips as he kissed a line from her temple to her cheek to the corner of her mouth.

Then he pressed his mouth to hers, pulled her lower lip between his teeth and bit down gently.

Isa's hands slid up his back to tangle in his hair as she made low, urgent sounds deep in her throat. Her lips parted on a shallow exhale as her body arched against him. It was all he could do not to groan. Not to take her right there against the iron railing of the balcony.

“Never want you?” His hand was on her waist, and he slid it down to mold her behind, to press her hips against his while his other hand slid down to cup her breast through the thin, silky fabric of her dress. “Because, I have to say, I think the ship has sailed on that. For both of us.”

“Marc.” His name was a broken breath on her lips—a prayer, a curse, an absolution, a condemnation. He didn't know which—nor did he care, he assured himself. All that mattered was having her again. He'd spent the past six years thinking about touching her, dreaming about taking her over and over until his mind was calm and his body was finally sated.

Maybe then he could find some peace.

“Let me have you,” he whispered in her ear even as he rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “I'll take care of you, make you feel so good—”

Isa shoved against him, hard. She was a little thing, slender, with tiny bones—but she was a lot stronger than she looked.

“Marc, no!” She twisted her face to the side and shoved again. “Stop.”

No. Stop
. He hated those two words, almost as much as he hated being told what to do. But they were nonnegotiable, the words and the sentiment behind them not open for discussion when they fell from a woman's lips. And so he stepped back, letting his hands fall away from her lush, inviting curves.

“I know what you're doing,” she said. Her eyes were wild, her voice shaky.

“Do you?” he murmured. “Do you really?”

“You're trying to embarrass me at work. You're trying to ruin everything and I'm not going to have it.”

He didn't even try to hide his insult. “Embarrass you? Kissing me embarrasses you?”

She must have sensed the danger in his voice, because she ran a nervous hand over her hair while the fingers of her other hand played with her locket. “Don't get all macho and insulted on me,” she told him, exasperated.

“I don't do macho,” he said, disdain in every syllable.

She snorted. “You don't have to ‘do' it. Every cell in your body is alpha and controlling and if you don't know that, you're even more deluded than I thought you were. But, be that as it may, I'm not going to stand out here and be your toy for one second longer. This is a work function for me and, unlike you, I don't have a trust fund and a diamond company to fall back on if I lose my job for inappropriate conduct. This career is all I have and I'm not going to let you ruin it, the way you ruined—”

She broke off before she finished the sentence, moving around him in a quick and desperate attempt to get to the door.

He grabbed her elbow, but it was his will much more than his gentle grip that kept her in place. “The way I ruined our relationship?” he asked silkily. “Because the way I remember it, you did that all on your own.”

“I have no doubt that's exactly how you remember it.” She glanced pointedly at his hold on her, then pulled her elbow out of his grasp before he could say another word. “Which is how I know you're doing this just to mess with me, to get me in trouble. But I'm not having it. I don't ever want you to touch me again. Go back to whatever you were doing before you decided that humiliating me was your best bet. Or better yet, go to hell.”

She moved past him then, disappearing back into the party in a swirl of purple silk, Chanel No. 5 and righteous indignation.

He wasn't sure what it said about him that it was the latter that turned him on the most.

* * *

She was insane. Or in the middle of a psychotic break. Or having a stroke. She didn't know which of the three she was suffering from, but it was definitely one of them. There was no other explanation for what had happened on that balcony. No other explanation for why she had fallen into Marc's arms—and onto his lips—as if it had been six minutes since they'd last been together and not six years. Or as if he hadn't sent her packing in the cruelest manner possible.

She understood sexual attraction—when they'd been together, she and Marc could barely keep their hands off each other. But shouldn't that attraction be grounded in respect or love or something other than the intense dislike and distrust they now had for each other?

And still she'd let him kiss her. She'd let him touch her and stroke her and bring her way too close to orgasm. It was ridiculous. Worse, it was self-destructive. She was ashamed of herself. Ashamed of her body for responding so readily to him after everything he'd done to hurt her. After everything she'd done to hurt him, too.

As she walked through the party back to Gideon, Isa could feel Marc's eyes following her. She didn't need to look to know he was running his gaze over her back, her backside, her legs—and then up again. The weight of his stare was a physical touch—like an electric shock all over her body.

By the time she got to Gideon, she was shaking with reaction and self-recrimination. Though she knew the smart thing for her career was to stay at the party, drinking champagne and waiting for her turn to chat up the president of the Gem Institute, the truth was she didn't have it in her to be in this room for one more minute. She had to escape, now, before she freaked out in front of all these people. Or before she threw herself at Marc and begged him to take her right here, in the middle of the crowded gallery.

Just the thought that such a thing was possible had her all but running the last few feet to Gideon. Had her putting her hand on his arm and leaning in so that her lips were only inches from his, so he could hear her in the loud, crowded room. Had her begging off the rest of the night, telling him she'd catch a cab home because she wasn't feeling well. She was pretty sure her sickly pallor and trembling hands lent credence to the assertion.

Gideon, bless him, immediately put his drink on the nearest table and said, “Poor Isa. Let's get you home, then.” He slid his arm around her waist to lend extra support and—after making his excuses—steered her toward the door.

“You don't have to come with me,” she told him a little frantically. “It's just a headache. I can get myself home.”

“Don't be ridiculous! I brought you, I'll escort you home. Besides—” he shot her a goofy grin “—that place was getting damn stuffy, damn fast. In fact, we could say you're rescuing me instead of the other way around.”

“I think we both know that's not true,” she said, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “But I appreciate the sentiment...and the ride home.”

As soon as her lips left Gideon's cheek, she knew the kiss had been the wrong thing to do. She couldn't see Marc, but she could feel the crackling fury of his disapproval all the way across the room. With her back turned. And her attention determinedly fixed somewhere else.

She stiffened her shoulders and tried not to let his reaction bother her. After all, it wasn't as though she was using Gideon to try to make him jealous—it wasn't as though it had even occurred to her that he would
be
jealous. But now that she could feel him seething from across the room, she couldn't help but wonder what this whole thing looked like to Marc. One minute, she was letting him violate her on the balcony and the next minute she was snuggling up to Gideon.

Not that it mattered what Marc thought, she promised herself as she allowed Gideon to propel her toward the exit with a proprietary hand on her lower back. She'd told Marc that what had happened on that balcony wouldn't happen again, and she'd meant it. She'd let him destroy her once. No way would it happen again. It didn't matter if she was still attracted to him, didn't matter if there was unfinished business between them. She was no longer the love-struck girl she'd been six years ago, willing to risk anything and everything for a chance to be with him.

No, life had taught her a lot of hard lessons in the intervening years and she'd ended up building an entirely new life for herself. One she was proud of. One that meant something to her. One that Marc would be only too happy to ruin as completely as he'd ruined her old one.

She couldn't let that happen. Not when her job—and her reputation—were all she had.

Five

T
he ride home with Gideon was easy. But then, everything was easy with him. There was no smolder. No dark past that tainted every interaction, no love or hate to color the way they looked at each other. The way they were with each other. No, she and Gideon had a comfortable friendship, one built on shared interests, lively conversations and similar senses of humor.

And never had she been more grateful for that than she was right now, as he pulled up in front of the small house she'd bought for herself when she'd moved here four years ago.

Gideon walked her to the door, but he didn't linger. Didn't expect an invite inside or even a good-night kiss. Instead, he hugged her and dropped a quick kiss on her forehead. Then, with a murmured, “Feel better,” he was gone. And she was alone.

Thank God.

Ignoring the way memories of Marc simmered right under the surface, she changed out of her dinner clothes into yoga pants and a black tank top. Then she poured herself one more glass of wine and settled on the couch to watch television and try to forget her disaster of a day.

Except she'd barely streamed the opening credits to her current favorite TV show before there was a knock on her door. Figuring Gideon had come back because she'd left something in his car, she opened the front door with a grin. “What did I forget this time? If you want to come in, we can share a bottle of—”

Her voice cut off as it registered just who was standing on her front porch—and he definitely wasn't Gideon.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “And how did you even find out where I live?”

“I followed you.”

“You followed—Jesus. Stalk much?” She started to close the door in his face.

His hand flashed out, holding the door before she could get it more than halfway closed. “I've spent the last six years looking for you.”

For a second, she was sure she had heard him wrong. After all, the last thing Marc had said to her was that if he ever saw her again, he'd make sure she and her father both ended up in prison.

But the look on his face—a little guilty, all annoyed—told her she had heard correctly. And that he hadn't meant to blurt out the truth like that. But now that he had, she wanted to know—“Why? Why would you do that?”

“It was a shitty thing to do.”

“I believe we've already covered how you feel about what I did—”

“No. I mean what I did. Tossing you out on the street like that, having security escort you from the building with nothing... I regretted it almost as soon as it happened. I went outside the building, tried to find you. Went to your apartment, but you never went back there. I was worried that something had happened to you because of me.”

It was the last thing she'd expected him to say, the last thing she'd ever expected to hear from Marc Durand. For long seconds she could do nothing but stare at him as she tried to absorb the words. She didn't want them to matter, didn't want anything to get in the way of her ability to tell him to go to hell once and for all. After all, the words—and the sentiment behind them—were six years too late.

And still she felt something melt inside her. For six long years she'd carried a twisted mess of betrayal and pain, regret and rage. Every bit of it had his name on it and no matter how many times she'd tried to let it go, no matter how many times she'd tried to move on, it had been there, choking her. But now, somehow, with just a few words, Marc had loosened its stranglehold on her. She could take what felt like her first deep breath in forever.

“I'm sorry,” he continued, and it sounded like he was swallowing razor blades. Not that she was surprised. In her experience, men like Marc didn't apologize often.

And now that he had...she had a choice. She could tell him to go to hell and slam the door in his face or she could accept his apology. Since she'd always understood why he'd done what he had—her father
had
stolen from him, and in begging Marc to spare him, she had chosen her father over Marc—there really was only one choice she could make.

Opening the door a little wider, she stepped back. “I just opened a bottle of Pinot Noir. If you're interested.”

“I'm very interested.” His voice was dark, wicked. She felt the heat of it in her stomach and her sex.

It made her nervous. Made her sweat, despite the chill of the air-conditioning. “It's probably not as fancy as the wines you're used to,” she told him as she entered the kitchen and poured him a glass of her favorite Pinot. “But I like it.”

He took the glass, drained it in one long sip. Put it on the counter behind him.

“Okay, then. Do you want m—”

He moved to cage her against the cabinet, an arm on either side of her and his long, lithe body pressed against her own. “I didn't come for the wine, Isa.”

“Obv—” Her voice cracked, so she cleared her throat. “Obviously.”

“I didn't come to apologize, either. I'm glad I did, but that's not why I'm here.”

“Marc.” The word was low, broken. “I don't think—”

“Don't think,” he said, cupping her face in his big, worn hand. “Just listen.” He leaned down until his lips brushed, soft as butterfly wings, against her jaw.

“I wasn't messing with you on the balcony earlier.” His breath was hot against her ear. “I wasn't trying to humiliate you at work.”

Her nipples beaded despite her earlier resolve to never let him make her feel like this again. “It felt like that to me.”

“I know. And that's my fault, too.” His mouth skimmed across her jaw, his tongue darting out to taste the corner of her mouth. “Wrong time, wrong place.”

He licked his way across her lips, soft and delicate and oh so coaxing. She gasped at the first touch of his tongue on her lower lip and he took instant advantage, licking inside to stroke her.

“My only excuse,” he said, in between each dark and wicked kiss, “is that even after all this time, you make me crazy. You make me forget where.” His other hand cupped her breast through the thin cotton of her shirt. “You make me forget when.” He stroked his thumb around her areola.

Her heart was beating too fast, her chest heaving with each ragged breath she sucked past her too-tight throat. Still, she managed to force out the question she was desperate for an answer to. “Do I make you forget who, as well?”

“I've never been able to forget you, Isa. And believe me, I've tried.”

The words stung, of course they did. But there was an honesty to them that echoed her own experience, that had her weakened defenses crumbling into dust.

She could blame her surrender on the wine or the loneliness or the shock of seeing him after all this time. But the truth was, she wanted him. She'd always wanted him. And if this night, this moment, was all she'd ever have of Marc Durand...well, it was a more fitting goodbye than the last one they'd shared.

And so she didn't fight him when he moved to trail kisses down her throat. Instead she let her fingers tangle in his dark, silky hair even as she tilted her head back to give him better access.

“Your heart is beating so fast,” he murmured against her skin.

“It's been a long time since—” She forced herself to stop before she revealed too much.

But he wouldn't let her off the hook that easily. “Since what?” he asked between pressing kisses across the upper slope of first one breast and then the other.

She couldn't tell him the truth, didn't want him to know just how much she'd once loved him—or just how long it had been since she'd made love to someone. “Since you've touched me. Our chemistry was never in question.”

Then, to keep him from digging any deeper into what was a very sore subject, she ran her hands over his chest. He'd discarded his jacket and tie before coming to her door, so all that was between her fingers and his hot skin was a thin piece of dark blue silk the same color as his eyes.

He was as powerfully built as ever—maybe more so—and she'd be lying if she said she didn't want to see him naked. Didn't want to feel the heat of his skin, the resilience of his muscles, under her tongue.

But sanity finally intruded—in the form of his long-ago rejection that was still fresh in her mind. She didn't think she'd be able to go through that a second time. At least not if she wanted to come out anywhere close to whole. So instead of unbuttoning his shirt as she longed to do, instead of slipping her hands inside the midnight-blue silk and stroking his pecs, his six-pack, the V-cut that had always made her mouth water, she forced herself to pull back. “What are we doing, Marc?”

He lifted his head from where he was licking a warm strip just below her neckline. “I would have thought that was obvious, Isa.”

She blushed then, her face turning hot at the sardonic amusement in his tone and the powerful look in his eye. “I just mean...” She turned away, refusing to look at him. “I don't know what you want from me.”

“Yes, you do.” He straightened up then and looked her straight in the eye. Meeting his gaze when she felt so vulnerable, so uncertain, was one of the hardest things she'd ever done. But she forced herself to do it. Forced herself not to flinch or blink or look away. She had a right to know what she was getting into. With their history, this could be anything from revenge sex to reunion sex or a bunch of things in between.

Before she gave herself to him, she needed to know just what it was.

Except Marc had always been better at bedroom games than she. More experienced, more able to control his responses. More able to articulate his thoughts and wishes. Tonight was no different.

“I want you, Isa,” he told her, his hands stroking up and down her back in a rhythm that was at once soothing and arousing. “I want to kiss your breasts, to take your nipples into my mouth and see if you can still come from just the feel of me rolling them against my tongue and teeth.”

She gasped then, didn't even try to hide the flush of arousal his words sent ricocheting through her.

“I want to be on my knees in front of you. I want to lick along your sex and feel you come on my tongue.”

His words were so powerful, the need in his voice so seductive, that she grew wet from them alone.

“I want to pick you up and press you against the nearest wall. Want to feel your gorgeous legs wrap around my waist as I slide into you, nice and slow. I want to feel you clench around me, want to hear you call my name.”

“Marc.” She cried out his name and it was as much a demand as a plea. “I need—”

“I want you to come again and again and again. On my fingers, on my dick, on my tongue. Until all you know is pleasure. Until—”

He broke off as she threaded her hands into his hair and pulled his mouth to hers in a kiss so hard she knew her lips would be bruised. Not that she cared. Right now, all she cared about was Marc and this moment and the feel of him inside her. She wanted to hold him, wanted him to empty himself inside her until she finally felt full.

Until she finally felt whole.

And then she wanted him to do it all again.

“Yes.” She breathed the word into his mouth even as she ripped at the fine silk of his shirt, desperate to get it off him. Desperate to feel his skin—hot and smooth—against her own.

Marc growled low in his throat—whether at her acquiescence or the feel of her nails scratching against his chest, she didn't know. Buttons flew and he shrugged out of his ruined shirt even as he whipped her tank top over her head.

“You're so goddamn beautiful,” he growled. And then he was cupping her breasts in his calloused hands. She jerked, arching into the sensation that was somehow familiar and brand-new at the same time.

It was a double shot of sensation, to both watch and feel as he touched her. Need—hot and powerful—skyrocketed inside her with each swirl of his fingers around her nipples. It raced through her blood, slid from nerve ending to nerve ending until she burned with it, consumed by it. Until all she could think or feel, all she could smell or taste or see, was him.

Finally—finally—his thumbs brushed fully over her nipples and she cried out at the streak of pleasure that shot through her. She clutched at his shoulders. Arched her back. And offered herself to him in a way she'd offered herself to no other man.

In answer, he dropped to his knees in front of her. Pulled her yoga pants and panties down her legs. Pressed wet, openmouthed kisses to her belly, her rib cage, her breasts. And then, when she was whimpering—when her hands were clutching at his hair and her body was trembling with the need to feel him—he took her nipple in his mouth and sucked hard enough to make her scream.

He did it again and again, lashing his tongue back and forth over the hard bud until she trembled on the brink of orgasm. She fought it, not wanting to give in to him so easily. And not, she admitted in the deepest parts of herself, wanting it to end so quickly. It had been too long since Marc had held her, kissed her, made love to her, and if this was her one shot to have him again, she wasn't going to rush it.

But then he pinched her other nipple between his thumb and middle finger—all while he continued to suck and lick and bite at her other nipple. Her knees went weak and she clutched onto his shoulders for support, her hips moving restlessly against his chest as she drew closer and closer to the edge.

As if sensing her dilemma, Marc pulled his mouth away from her breast. She whimpered—actually whimpered—until he fiercely whispered, “Let go, Isa. It's okay. I've got you. I promise, I've got you, baby.”

And then his mouth was back on her breast and she lost it completely. Dark and broken sounds fell from her lips as she spiraled up, up, up, up.

“Yes, baby,” Marc encouraged, his fingers pinching her nipple a little more tightly. She cried out, scratching her nails down his back.

She was right there, her body poised to fly over the edge. Right there, right there, right—Marc bit her, gently, and with a scream that she was sure her neighbors could hear, she hurtled straight into ecstasy, her body convulsing again and again.