Parker's Passion (10 page)

“Just do it.”

So he did.

He lunged. He sheathed himself in her.

It was heaven. Heaven and hell.

As he buried himself, her body reacted, tightening against his advance, shivering and rippling around him. He let go a low groan; it filled the room, twining with hers.

“Oh, yes,” she sighed. “Yes.”

He began to move, slowly at first because that was all he could manage. A pressure at the base of his balls, a tingling in his spine warned him he was close.

And so soon.

But damn. This was far too sweet to end so quickly.

He sucked in a breath and held back, moving in and out in a cautious slide, staring into her eyes. Her soul.

Her body responded, weeping for him, loosening a bit, quivering and
sucking at him with each withdrawal. She wound her arms around him and stroked him over the fabric of his t-shirt. And oh, how he wished he hadn’t insisted on wearing it. He so longed to
feel
her touch.

As though she understood, she fumbled beneath the hem and caressed him with flat palms, flesh to flesh as he worked away inside her. There was something hypnotic about
her touch. Something soothing and, at the same time, energizing.

His passion rose. He increased his pace.

Her breath caught at a particularly fervent thrust and he stilled. He brushed back her hair and kissed her forehead. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes.” Not a whisper. A cry. “Yes. Please more like that.”

His heart stuttered. “More like…what?”

“Hard.”

Oh God.

He yanked out and plunged in…hard
. Her body seized. He did it again and again and then, somehow, somewhere, he lost the reins. All of his dispassion, all of his reserve burned away in a conflagration of need and lust.

He went wild.

He knew he shouldn’t. She was tiny and delicate and he needed to take care, but some untamed beast possessed him.

He went wild.

Sluicing in and out of her at a reckless pace, pummeling her, taking her, dominating her with his overwhelming need.

But she responded.

She took him. Took it all. And begged for more.

Something
in his belly coiled into a tight ball. He changed his angle, lifted up a bit, lifted her with him, and thrust home, more deeply than he had reached before. She came. Clenching him with a heinous, slick fist. Writhing and screaming and then whimpering as her body collapsed.

He felt the insanity boil up, knew that it was upon him, the crisis he needed and dreaded in the same breath.
He launched into a faster rhythm, something manic and crazed, something slightly out of control. He should have been horrified by his utter loss of restraint, but he had no time for that now. Now he needed… Now he wanted…

Yes.

Shards of bliss exploded, rocketing through him with mind-numbing speed, scraping at him and clawing at him and freeing him from the chains that had kept him bound for so long. He released. Released everything. The pain, the need, the desperation.

The
loneliness.

All emptied from him in a torturous, blissful
, boiling eruption.

Panting, he collapsed. He tried to collapse by her side, but missed and landed half on her.

She wrapped her arms around him and held him close, not letting him go. Not letting him retreat.

A blanket of warmth and delight clung to them. They shared breath and body heat and something more intangible in those moments, those moments after.

He lifted his head. Stared at her. This woman. This angel who had broken through all his walls. He stroked her cheek with a trembling fingertip. His heart contracted.

“Parker,” she said on a breath. A prayer.

“Kaitlin.”

There was nothing more that needed to be said.

Nothing.

Chapter Ten

Kaitlin lay in Parker’s arms, limp.  She couldn’t move if the house was on fire.

Encased in cotton wool, her mind spun.

While she’d wanted Parker, dreamed and fantasized about connecting like this, merging physically with a man, with him, she’d never imagined it could be like this.

It had bee
n perfect.

Physically pleasurable, certainly, but more. It was as though they’d touched on a soul-deep level.

She snuggled deeper into his arms, laying her cheek against the soft cotton covering his chest, breathing in his scent, listening to his heartbeat. His hold on her tightened. He made a noise, a murmur, a grunt, something that bespoke his contentment. But she felt it too, his delight. It soared around them, as though dancing on the ether, tangling with hers. Their auras tangled as well, the colors swirling together still, creating new colors, effervescent lights.

Perhaps that was what had made this, their first joining, so
euphoric for her. The fact that she could feel his response, sense what he needed, and provide it for him. The give and take between them had been in seamless concert, a rapturous dance. She stroked him, eased him, soaking in his warmth. Nuzzling his neck, she tasted his peace.

A month ago she could never have imagined lying in a man’s arms and wanting to stay there. To sleep there. As astonishing as it was, when she was with Parker, the buzz, the whispers and
tumult of her gift, wafted away, leaving silence and serenity.

She loved it.

She suspected she might love him, but did not let herself dwell on that. It was far too new, this connection between them. But she didn’t need to think. She didn’t need to do anything. In this moment, it was enough to just…be.

Here. With him.

And then her belly growled.

His chest shook and she lifted her head to see a smile on his face. “Didn’t you get enough to eat at the restaurant?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I guess I just wore off all those calories.”

He kissed her. “You were magnificent.”

“You were.” Another kiss. And another. Until, all of a sudden, it was something more. His member, bare and damp—as he had pulled off the condom—rose against her thigh.

But he pulled away with a laugh.
“We’d better get you something to eat.” His expression took on a teasing light. “Do you have any chocolate pie?”

She giggled. Not just because he was
teasing her about her voracious appetite for chocolate anything, but because, at the moment, she didn’t have a craving for chocolate at all. Not a ping. She’d never
not
had a craving after a physical interaction with another person.

It was as though Parker had fed her.

Fed her soul.

Fed her soul chocolate.

“I don’t have any pie at all.”

He pushed out a lip.

“But I have soup. And cheese. And a jar of peanut butter.”

His nose wrinkled. 

“Some carrots.”

“Carrots?”

“Bacon?”

He shook his head.
“Do you want to go out?” he asked.

A ripple of unease nudged her. The comfort between them seemed to be escaping, like steam from a teakettle. His body was gathering tension even as they spoke, as though he were remembering his vulnerability and collecting his broken armor. She placed her palm on his
chest and stroked him. He eased.

“No.” She didn’t want to go out. She didn’t want to leave this room. “I’m really not hungry. Are you?”

“No.”

“Can we stay here then? Like this?” She raked his
scalp with her nails.

He looked
down at her and their gazes tangled. The bond re-forged between them. Also, the heat. “Yes,” he said. “I would like that.”

He kissed her again, and this time, he didn’t stop.

They did eat, but not
until much later, not until Kaitlin had literally wrung him dry. Several times.

And it wasn’t carrots or peanut butter. Parker ordered out and had his favorite Chinese restaurant deliver a collection of their best dishes. They sat, leaning against the sofa on her living room floor, laughing and chatting as they dined from little white containers.

He tried to teach Kaitlin how to use chopsticks, which resulted in much hilarity and dropped food, but in the end, she gave up and went to go get a fork.

When she returned, she handed on
e to him and Parker snorted. “It’s not Chinese food unless you eat it with chopsticks.”

She wrinkled her nose. And damn, she was cute when she wrinkled her nose. She was cute altogether, wear
ing an oversized football jersey that hung down to her knees…and nothing else. He’d pulled on his jeans, but only because he felt too exposed without them. She settled in by his side, warming him. “Well, if I use chopsticks, it’s not food at all, because I won’t get any in my mouth.”

“I could feed you.” He grabbed a slice of chicken with his chopsticks and held it to her lips. She opened and took it in. He watched, transfixed. And then, because he couldn’t resist, he kissed her.

She laughed through the kiss.

“What?”

“Are you going to kiss me after each bite?”

“Maybe.”

“Mmm. I might like this.”

So he fed her that way.

The meal took a while. But neither of them minded.

Afterwards they cuddled on the couch, and kissed some more. And then she laid her head on his chest and rested. Slept, perhaps.
And he held her. Just held her, stroking her hair, her back, her cheek. He loved this feeling. This peace. This oneness.

He thought, perhaps, this was what happiness felt like.

After a while her hand began to move over him as well. Nothing sexual or alluring; her caresses were as soothing and aimless as his. She stilled on his chest and fingered the lump, the ring under his shirt.

Though he wanted to pull her away, to distract her from that, he did not.
When she lifted her head to look at him, he stiffened, preparing for the coming question.

“What is this?” she asked.

He drew in a breath. “My father’s ring.”

“Do you always wear it?”

“Yes.”

“May I see it?”

He flinched. A little. But he pulled the chain out from beneath his shirt and handed it to her. She stilled as she touched it. Her expression went slack. And then she zeroed in on the scar on his cheek as though she
knew
.

It was foolish of him to leap to the conclusion that she’d seen the connection. That she recognized the design of the ring on his
face. He was just super sensitive, is all. Always had been. No one else knew. They couldn’t.

She wrinkled her nose and
passed the ring back. “Why do you wear it all the time?”

“
I wear it to remind me.”

“To remind you of what?”

He caught her gaze, held it. “I wear it to remind me not to be like my father.”

“I see.”

“My father was…a very passionate man.”

“Is that bad?”

“Passion can be destructive.”

“Only if it is selfish passion.”

He thought about that. Yes, his father’s passion had been selfish. Selfish and demanding and overweening. And destructive.

She shifted so she could peer up at him, then kissed his
face, far too close to his scar for comfort. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shuddered. “Not really. Suffice to say, he was a violent man, when he was roused. And it didn’t take much.”
At some point he needed to tell her everything. She deserved to know. But not tonight.

Thankfully she let it drop, nestling back in and curling against him. “I work with clients at the shelter who have run from men like that. Their stories are heartbreaking.”

“I’m sure they are.” His mother had tried running to a shelter. She’d grabbed Parker up one night and spirited him away. His father had found them and brought them home.

“I have one client now… She’s in the shelter with her daughter. The little girl is three and her father threw her down the stairs.”

“Fuck.”
Memory and agony twined in him. Acid curled in his gut. Parker’s arms tightened around her as though he could stave off a memory, or a reality, or something.

“You should have seen this woman when she came in. Bruised, battered, spiritually crushed. It was horrible.”

“No one should have to go through that.”
No one.

“And the father wants custody.” She shivered. He stroked her hair
to calm her. There was nothing more he could do. An odd and familiar urge rose in him—one he’d had often as a child—the wish that he was a super hero, someone strong and brave who could sweep in and save the day and make everything better. But he wasn’t a super hero. He wasn’t much of anything, really.

“
The irony is, the father probably will get custody, because he’s the one with the money. This woman has nothing.” Kaitlin peered up at him. “Her husband is a bad man, Parker. He beat her. And then he beat her daughter. She needs a good divorce lawyer.”

Parker
heart swelled. “I’m a good divorce lawyer.”

“She doesn’t have any money.”

Thirst for vengeance roiled through him. “We do
pro bono
work.” Usually not for female clients, but they did it. “I’ll help her.”

“You will?”

“Of course I’ll help her.”

For Kaitlin.

And maybe for a little boy who was once beaten by a bad man.

He didn’t have a chance to meet with her client during the following week because, according to Kaitlin, the woman was too nervous to leave the shelter, and it was against the rules for her to share the address. But he saw Kaitlin again several times the next week. Made love again each time, to Parker’s delight—though each time with his shirt on, which he hated, but needed. He wanted to see her every night, all the time, but work intruded. His and hers.

On Monday night, he brought
more take out—Italian this time—and they sat cross-legged on her carpet and ate in her living room, laughing at the antics of her new kittens, Boomer and Brandy, rescues she told him Emily had foisted upon her. And then he took her upstairs and made love to her again. On Tuesday, she had a client with an emergency and she called to cancel. It was stupid of him to sit on the deck of his Seattle apartment and stare out at the city and mope, but he did.

But he saw her on Wednesday.

On Thursday, he had to cancel. Barstow rushed into his office just as he was getting ready to leave, with ridiculous demands on a case that was going to court in the morning—things that should have been done weeks ago.

He called her with his regrets, but she sounded cheerful and patient.

“It’s okay, Parker,” she said in a perky voice. “We’ll see each other tomorrow, right?”

“Yes.” He’d have to console himself with the fact that tomorrow was Friday, and they’d made plans to meet at the island and spend the weekend together.
But he wanted to be with her
now
.

The work that had once thrilled him
, somehow seemed pallid and onerous. And, if he was honest, a little grimy.

All he’d ever wanted was to be a lawyer. To be someone important and powerful. It just seemed wrong
to spend his days trying to cheat one party out of something due them, which, it felt, was what divorce lawyers did.

It had never bothered him before. He was a dispassionate bulldog,
searching for a chink in a wall and then honing in on it like a heat seeking missile. But while he was working on Barstow’s project, devising ways for Mr. Smithson to deny Mrs. Smithson a penny of alimony, despite the fact they’d been married for two decades and she had no visible means of support, well, it just felt wrong.

He supposed that was Kaitlin’s influence.

This kind of work never bothered him, until the thought had entered his brain:
What would Kaitlin think of this?

But it was his job. So he did it.

Like a bulldog.

He found the chink in Mrs. Smithson’s armor, and exploited it.

And felt like shit.

Barstow loved it though. He clapped Parker on the back and chortled, “That’s why I love you
, Rieth. I can always count on you.”And Parker’s gut lurched.

Friday was looking better and better.

He practically hummed with anticipation all morning, whipping through work like a man on a mission. His headache came back, pinging in his neck and shoulders, but he forced himself to tolerate it, to relax.

He would see her soon.