Kidnapped by the Billionaire (21 page)

She wanted to affect people. She wanted to feel connected. She wanted to make a difference. And she was definitely making a difference to Elijah.

He eased his fingers out of her and positioned himself between her thighs. Then he spread her open, impaling her with his cock in one deep, hard push.

Violet gasped, arching up, shuddering, her sensitive flesh burning at the stretch of him inside her. It had hurt the first time and although it wasn't nearly as sharp now, she still wasn't used to it, and he hadn't held back.

Staying buried inside her, he ran his hands up the backs of her calves and her knees, lifting them then pulling her legs up high around his waist, allowing him to slide even deeper.

A ragged, desperate sound escaped her, becoming even more desperate as he leaned forward pressing her against the arm of the sofa while he placed his hands on it, gripping tight. Then he lowered his head, his gaze inches from hers, and he kept looking at her as he drew back his hips and thrust. Hard.

She gave a hoarse cry, the angle grinding her clit against his cock, and the spear of pleasure grew edges so sharp they began to cut. He thrust again, hard and deep and ruthless, before drawing back and shoving inside her once more, pinning her between the arm of the sofa and his thighs.

Violet began to pant, her breathing ragged and broken. With each flex of his hips, with each slide of his cock, she felt herself slowly torn apart by sensation. The heat of him all around her, the heavy weight of his body pressing down on her, the feeling of him inside her, was intoxicating. Overwhelming.

His biceps flexed as he thrust, shoving himself into her, his own breathing harsh. And those inky eyes of his were so close, staring down into hers, so deep and dark that they were all she could see. The whole world was nothing but that dark, velvety blackness, the thrust of his cock, the furnace of his body, and the endless stretch of pleasure drawn so tight it was going to snap at any second.

Then it did, a hoarse scream breaking from her as he brought her to climax with another thrust, the pleasure a shock wave moving through her, bright as a bomb blast. But he didn't stop, he kept going, a driving rhythm that had her aching body gathering itself yet again.

“Eli…” His name sounded raw and desperate, and she didn't really know why she was saying it. Maybe to stop this because she couldn't take it anymore. Couldn't handle the sheer intensity of him. “Please…”

He ignored that too. Driving into her body, his gaze never leaving hers, his breathing becoming ragged and harsh.

Another climax began to build and she felt herself rushing toward it, falling like she'd just jumped out of a plane with no parachute, hurtling to the earth with no way to slow herself or stop. With no chance of rescue. Turning over and over, the ground rushing up.

“Elijah!” She screamed his name this time, her body arching beneath his as he ground his pelvis against her aching clit. As the push of his cock inside her became too much, too intense.

Screaming again, wordlessly, as the earth rushed up to meet her and she hit it, shattering beneath him like a piece of fine china. Becoming nothing but a thousand glittering shards as he moved faster and faster, his hoarse cry echoing in her ears as he followed her over the edge and into oblivion.

*   *   *

Elijah wasn't conscious of much but the blood roaring in his veins and the sound of his own heartbeat, loud as a drum in his head. The aftereffects of the pleasure that had just annihilated him still had him in its grip, moving through his body like small, sharp electric shocks.

He could barely breathe.

He felt like he was coming apart at the seams, disintegrating. Which was just not fucking acceptable. At all. He'd already disintegrated once in his life and that had been when Marie had died. He'd put himself back together, but he couldn't do it a second time. Not when there was so little of him left.

Pressure came against his chest, Violet's hands pushing, and he realized he'd fallen forward on her, his weight pinning her to the arm of the sofa at her back. Fuck, she was so soft under him, the warmth of her body surrounding him. He was still deep inside her and he could feel her pussy clenching him tightly, holding on like she didn't want to let him go. If he wasn't careful he was going to get hard again.

Easing out of her, he shifted back so he wasn't crushing her, giving her some room. The pressure against his chest lessened, but she kept her hands right where they were, just above his pecs, her fingers spreading out over his skin, splaying like starfish. Her lips were red and swollen from those hard kisses he'd given her and her face was pink, a flush that spread all the way down her throat and breasts, right down to her stomach where the indentations of the waistband of his shorts had been impressed into her flesh. She was pink below that too. And wet …

“You've ripped a stitch,” she said, frowning, her attention on the bandages wrapping his shoulder, her fingers gently moving to touch.

And, fuck, it hadn't even been a minute since the last climax and already he
was
hard again, wanting again. Christ, he had to get some space, some air. Get where he couldn't see the marks he'd left on her skin or smell the musky scent of sex. Where he couldn't see her taut, high breasts or the slick folds of her pussy, or feel her hands on his skin.

Elijah pulled away, ignoring the confusion in her eyes, and got off the sofa, heading toward the bathroom. He didn't look behind him and she didn't say a word.

In the bathroom, he got rid of the condom then leaned on the vanity a moment, trying to get his head around what had just happened.

Sex. That's what fucking happened. That's all that fucking happened. What the hell is wrong with you?

Yeah, shit, he had to pull himself together. Had to stop letting her and whatever this insane chemistry was between them get to him. So he'd broken his pussy drought. So what? It didn't mean anything. He couldn't let it, not when he was going to be handing her over to Jericho. And as for all this “you help me, I help you” bullshit.… She was going to have to get over that right now.

She was his hostage. That was the beginning and the end of it.

Yet for some reason he couldn't seem to get his head around that thought. As if there was a part of him that wanted her to be more than that. As if there were shards of the man he'd once been still alive inside him. Shards of his forgotten humanity …

No. Fuck, no. He didn't want to be that man again. Never, ever. That man had allowed Marie to be taken. That man hadn't been able to protect her right when she'd needed it most.

That man had to die and stay dead.

He straightened, staring at himself in the mirror, his gaze catching on the stain of red on his tank. Blood. She was right, he
had
pulled a stitch.

Tugging off the stained cotton, he let it drop on the floor, examining the bandages on his shoulder. Blood had started to seep through, flowers of red against the white, an echo of the rose the eagle on his chest grasped.

There's always blood. No matter what you do, there's always blood …

“I was right.”

He looked sharply in the direction of the doorway and there she was, standing with her arms crossed over her bare chest. Why the fuck had she followed?

She didn't look at him, her attention on the wound on his shoulder, blonde brows drawing down. Then, to his surprise, she moved into the bathroom, coming over to him. “Sit,” she murmured. “I'll do this.”

And his surprise deepened into shock as he found himself doing exactly what she said without a word, sitting on the edge of the bathtub and spreading his knees so she could stand between them.

She didn't seem to care that she was naked, that the rosy tips of her breasts were almost brushing his chest, or that he could see that pretty little thatch of curls between her thighs. Once again her attention was on his shoulder, her brow wrinkling in concentration.

He was supposed to be getting away from her, not sitting here letting her get close. And yet he couldn't seem to bring himself to move as she lifted her hands to the bandages, beginning to undo them. Her touch was so gentle and somehow the fact that she wasn't looking at him while she did it made it easier. She stood so near too, the warmth of her body somehow familiar, easing something inside him he hadn't realized was drawn tight.

She didn't speak as she unwound the bandages, and he wasn't conscious of the fact he'd put his hands on her hips until he felt the heat of her skin seeping through his palms.

How the fuck had that happened? Touching her wasn't what he was supposed to be doing either.

Yet he didn't take his hands away. It had been too long since he'd touched anything so soft, so smooth. Like warm satin. Too long since he'd allowed himself anything even remotely sensual, and he couldn't bring himself to stop. Something inside him was starving, desperate to be fed.

Slowly he let his hands stroke down the sides of her hips, trailing his fingertips over the curve of her buttocks, down to her thighs then back up again. Holy fuck, she felt so good. He let one hand rest on her hip, turning the other over and stroking the backs of his fingers across her stomach. Goose bumps raised in his wake and he stared, mesmerized by the movement of his hand and by the little obvious shivers that went through her as he stroked her.

“You should probably not do that,” she murmured. “At least not until I'm finished.”

Yeah, he probably shouldn't. But suddenly he didn't give a shit. Ignoring her, he tugged her in closer, spreading his hands out on her hips so he could feel warm skin against his own. She smelled of sex and sandalwood and Violet, and he was fucking hard again.

Jesus Christ, he was a mess.

She made a soft, disapproving sound in her throat, but didn't try to pull away from him. Instead, she tugged the mess of bandages off his shoulder, examining the wound with a critical eye. “You've only pulled one stitch and it doesn't look bad.” Her mouth quirked. “Not that I'd know of course.”

That slight curl to her mouth was mesmerizing. He'd done so many hard, violent things to her and yet here she was, standing naked in front of him, tending his wounds and nearly smiling just after having let him fuck her senseless. He didn't understand it.

Her bright, blue-green gaze found his. “You want me to clean it up?”

“Yes.” His voice sounded strange, all rusty and broken.

Some expression he didn't recognize crossed her face. But all she said was, “Okay then.”

He had to let her go so she could get what she needed out of his box of medical supplies, suggesting a few of the items since he knew more about dressing wounds than she did. But then she was back, standing in front of him as he let her clean the wound, murmuring a few instructions as she got out some clean bandages to bind it all back up again.

As she wrapped the last piece of gauze around his shoulder and tied it off, he reached for her again, unable to help himself, his hands on her hips, pulling her in close. Then he leaned in closer still, so his forehead pressed against her chest, and shut his eyes, inhaling all that sweet scent, feeling that tightness inside him uncurl even more.

He didn't know what he was so hungry for, but for some reason she seemed to be what he needed right now and he'd be fucked if he wouldn't take it. Ignoring it hadn't worked and continuing to pretend he didn't feel it hadn't worked either.

But he remembered what it was like to want, just as he remembered the pain when you couldn't have what you wanted.

It wasn't until now that he realized he'd been in pain for a very long time.

Violet's hands rested on his shoulders a moment then he felt them move to trace the muscles of his upper back, up and down in a gentle motion, as if she was trying to soothe a wild animal. And this time he didn't pull away, letting her touch him. Letting himself have this moment.

He'd probably end up regretting it, but right now he didn't much care.

Sliding his hands around, he eased them down over the curve of her buttocks, warm, giving flesh filling his palms. She gave a sigh, her fingers stroking the back of his neck then moving up into his hair.

“You're not the only one who wants something, you know,” she said after a long moment of silence. “You want revenge. I want the truth about my brother.”

Her brother? Where the hell had that come from? Not that he wanted to know.

Yes, you do.

He did.

Elijah had come to work for Fitzgerald years after his son Theodore had committed suicide jumping off a bridge. He hadn't ever met the young man, but whatever had happened to him, hadn't interested Elijah in the slightest. He'd been in the middle of enacting his own tragedy and hadn't wanted to involve himself in other people's.

“You never met him,” Violet continued softly, not waiting for him to respond. “But he was … such a good guy. Such a great older brother. He taught me to ride a bike, balance on a skateboard, played me all the cool music…” She paused. “He taught me to question. To never take anything at face value. So when he died”—another pause, but those fingers in his hair didn't stop stroking—“I didn't believe it. They never found his body, you see, and I just couldn't figure out why he'd do something like that. He was near to completing his law degree at Harvard, was engaged to a really wonderful woman, had a fantastic career lined up with one of the really big firms. It just didn't make any sense.”

Elijah didn't want to know, didn't want this window into her life, and yet he kept silent, pressed against her warm, naked flesh, as she went on, talking as if to herself.

“I know it looks like the classic success on the outside and impossible personal standards he couldn't live up to bullshit on the inside, but taking his own life like that wasn't Theo. He didn't run away from his responsibilities and he … would have said something to me if he was struggling, I know he would.”