Sinner (The Hades Squad #1) (11 page)

She slid down his body, and his dick jutted when her sweet heat waned. Lincoln shifted so his feet bracketed her black-beaked slippers; he curled an arm around her waist, letting his fingers slide over her luscious ass and then through her sticky folds.

“No.” She grouched at him, squirming out of reach, sticking her backside in the air. “Stop that. We're going to start and finish an entire conversation—do you hear me?”

She took a step back; he linked his fingers at the small of her back.

“Number one, I don't need to be taken care of.”

Before she could go there, he cupped her breast and tweaked the nipple, which firmed and sprouted under his touch. “I know you're perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, Destiny.”

“Stop that.” She batted his hand away. “You're trying to distract me.”

Lips twitching, Linc hugged her from behind, drawing her fine bottom into his erection. “And failing miserably.”

“Where’s my T-shirt?” Arms akimbo, she did a one-eighty turn, breaking skin contact and peeling off first one flamingo, then the other. She squinted up at him and prodded his bicep with a finger. “It's gotten cold in here.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” He leered at her, raking her naked body from her bare feet to the top of her head, lingering at her inky pubic curls. Linc eyed her ass and let out an exaggerated sigh when her nipples pearled and tilted at the slightest graze of his thumbs.

The glower she cut him spoke of rising irritation. He shifted her so that her tight, high rump grazed his groin, and then he nuzzled her nape. “Did you find popcorn anywhere?”

“Do you have A.D.D.?” She spun around, glaring at him, fingers jamming her hip. “Popcorn?”

“To decorate the tree.” He traced the whorls of her ear with a finger.

“Tree?” She smacked him with both hands.

“You know. The tree I went out for.” Linc pointed to the Douglas fir he’d taken out his anger on. “That one.”

She spread her hands over her face and thunked her forehead on his chest. “I am going insane.”

Her head whipped up, pupils indistinguishable from the irises, eyes pulsing like the finest onyx. A deep frown knitted her brows, and she touched a finger to the cleft of his chin. “I don't know how long it takes the symptoms of a concussion to show.”

“I don't have a concussion.” He tucked a silken lock behind her ear. “I figure we have at least twenty-four hours before civilization intrudes. You've had the paratrooper in a pear tree, and I'm pretty sure there're no turtledoves in Alaska. So instead, we'll decorate the tree, and I'll carve you a couple birds to hang on it. Hence, the popcorn.”

Her nipples scraped his chest, but his carnal cravings had subsided, replaced by a tenderness that cascaded to a burning sweetness as her every thought flickered over her face.

“What? Why're you frowning?”

A tear formed, hung for a minute, then surfed the ridge of her cheekbone; she sniffed.

“No tears, please, Destiny.” He hugged her, smoothing a palm up and down her spine and leaned his forehead against hers. “What's wrong now?”

“I must be dreaming, because you're way too good to be real.” Twin trails of dampness smeared both cheeks. She snuffled and swiped at the moisture. “I never cry. And I'm not sentimental. And I don't believe in happy ever after.”

“That mean you don't want the tree?” Some shithead had shattered her little-girl innocence into fine shards. Linc made a mental note to have his buddy, Lucifer, do a complete background check on her. He captured her gaze by tipping her chin. “Destiny, do you want the tree or not? This is your call.”

She snagged her lower lip with two teeth, splayed both hands on his pecs, and studied his stubble for long seconds. “I'll fix you breakfast and find the popcorn.”

Linc forced himself to retreat, even though he wanted to preen and crow at the small victory.

“Deal.” He dropped a kiss on her nose, let his arms swing to his sides, and then scoured the cabin for her T-shirt.

He'd won this skirmish. One small step toward trust.

Spying the white cotton near the fridge, Linc took a long step, bent, and scrunched the material with one hand.

“Thank you.” She'd followed him and stood mere inches to the left of the fabric sprouting from his clasped fingers.

He glanced at her outstretched hand, brought the T-shirt to his nose, and inhaled. “Smells of you, all lavender and spice. Lift your arms, Baby Doll.”

“Do you call all the women you sleep with baby doll?” She cut him a furious scowl and thrust out her jaw.

Destiny had the equivalent of buyer's remorse, Linc deduced, having seen the same response from every one of his sisters during that first phase of a romance, both wanting to trust and terrified of doing so.

“The first time I set eyes on you, I thought I'd entered the Christian parallel to a Muslim's fatwa reward—you know, the seventy virgins in paradise. I figured I'd ascended to heaven and St. Pete gave me my very own Barbie doll.”

He closed her dropped jaw by cradling her chin and fanned his thumb across her bottom lip. “I had a strong notion you'd object to being called Barbie doll, and you're all soft and cuddly like a kitten. And no, I've never called any woman other than you baby doll. Why? You object?”

Luminous dark orbs misted and fringed by dense lashes stared into his. No longer feeling the teasing draft of her breath, Linc coaxed, “Breathe, Destiny. Take a nice long inhale and lift your arms.”

She complied, shaking her head every couple of seconds.

He tugged the fabric down to her neck.

Chewing on her lip, and darting him the sweetest side-peeps, she shoved her arms through the tee's sleeves.

“About that breakfast you promised me?” He smoothed the soft cotton where the hem curled at the tops of her thighs and took a step back, giving her more personal space.

She rested one palm on the fridge, rubbed curled toes on one taut calf, and squeezed her eyes shut once, twice, and on the third planted both soles on the floor. “Right. Breakfast.”

“I'll grab some potatoes. How many do you want?”

“How hungry are you?” She countered his question, shuffling in the direction of the table. Destiny glanced to the window, stared at the blinding white snow for a couple of seconds, and gathered the dishes into a pile. “What time is it, do you think?”

“Near three, I reckon. We didn't get out of bed until almost noon.” Linc raised his voice as he rounded into the freezer alcove. The radio beckoned, rearing temptation; he had to contact Satan, had to ensure Nadine's, aka Angel's, silence and cooperation. Talk about oxymorons—an angelic Nadine, and silence and cooperation from a woman renowned for her vindictive gossip.

I'm fucked.

Linc banged his skull on the doorframe.

Cross that path later.

He shot his limp dick a wry glance and straightened. Thinking of Nadine had at least one positive side effect, his cock and stones no longer ached.

What the hell—he had Destiny to himself for at least another twenty-four hours. Life couldn't get any better. All at once ravenous, he grabbed three giant potatoes from the open burlap bag, snatched a couple of apples, and hustled out.

The curve of Destiny’s ass played hide-and-seek with the T-shirt's hem as she did a little bump and grind, one arm waving the spatula in a figure-eight pattern while she sang, “Five golden rings.”

Linc winced. Off-key couldn't begin to describe the high-pitched squawks coming out of her wonderful mouth. Maybe if he set the right key, she'd catch on.

“Four calling studs, three French lovers, two vibrators,” Linc boomed, drawing out the last word. “And her own paratrooper in a pear tree.”

She jumped and half pirouetted, broke into a beam that put equatorial sun to shame, then cracked up, chortling and slapping a palm on a hip.

“More,” she commanded when he lapsed into silence.

“Here, catch.” His dick jumped and throbbed, doing its own happy dance. Linc lobbed each potato, noted the gracefulness of her movements as she tiptoed and snatched the first one, squatted low for the next, and leaned over at the waist to catch the last.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he had a fucking secret weapon for the annual family Thanksgiving football game.

“You play flag football, Destiny Driven?”

“You bet. St. Paul's started a league a couple of years ago. You have no idea how much fun it is to take some of those editors down. Writers too. And if you happen to be a mite”—she separated her thumb and forefinger a quarter inch—“clumsy, and they land hard”—rolling both shoulders, she continued—“it's all in good fun. Right?”

“Come here.” He crooked a finger.

“Give me a good reason.” She flipped the hand holding the spatula and inadvertently slapped her own cheek. “Ow.”

Linc couldn't stifle his guffaw. “Destiny, you are priceless.”

“Oh nooo.” She whirled to face the stove. “The ham's burning.”

Biting into an apple, he ambled up behind her, rested his chin on her head, and peered at the frying pan. “'S not burnt; it's crisp. That's exactly how I like my ham. Bite.” He nudged her lips with the apple.

She tilted her head back and rolled her eyes at him, but took a good chunk below the portion he'd eaten. A trickle of juice dribbled diagonally to her jaw. Irresistible temptation and he didn't even try to stay his reflexive response, lapping at the juice, licking the corner of her wicked, sinful mouth.

She batted him away.

“I'm cooking. None of that.” She jerked her ass against his groin. “Go do the tree.”

“Aye, aye, ma'am.” Linc flicked her a salute. “Anything you say, ma'am.” He clicked his heels together.

Afraid she'd start shredding “The Twelve Days of Christmas” again, Linc swatted her backside and hummed “O Tannenbaum,” and did an about-face. The music swarmed his soul, and he broke into song, letting the lyrics form and rise, letting happiness and joy settle the ache battering his rib cage.

Adorable. No other word for his Destiny. Fucking adorable.

Before maudlin clichés claimed his every thought, Lincoln set about getting the tree vertical. He needed a stand of some sort. The spruce had been the smallest he could find, but it topped him, making it nearly seven feet tall.

Destiny's gaze kept straying to his cock and his sex responded to each cute peek. He strolled into the bedroom and pulled on the sweats he'd discarded earlier. The blinking light on her laptop drew his attention. She'd turned it on when he'd been outside working off his jealous rage.

Why?

She kept everything in distinctly named folders. The first few entries in the Diary folder made him feel like a peeping Tom, and he exited midway through the second entry.

The Book folder intrigued him, and he had to force himself not to read Chapter two. Her book? Was that why she'd reacted the way she had earlier?

Her Outlook was as neatly organized and compartmentalized as her Documents area. He read a couple of emails from the Juanita she'd mentioned in her tirade. A cat with claws, this Juanita, she mingled venom and chatter effortlessly.

An email from the Kenny, of “the sex tape Kenny,” had his hands balling into fists. He couldn't get beyond the paragraph beginning with,
You're funny and smart, but you really need to lose twenty pounds and firm up.

Shithead. Ten to one you're a lazy loser who expects a woman to do all the work. Couldn't even bring her off. Fucking asshole.

Rage could only be leashed so far before a man needed to split wood or pound a fist into some twit’s belly. Not a single one of Linc’s sisters had the starved frame so favored by women's magazines. Soft and cuddly, strong enough to tackle him to the ground, he liked his women full, ready to burst. Destiny didn't need to lose an ounce. She was perfect, and those fucking breasts— Had he found his four-leaf clover or what? Pure Irish luck.

But if asshole Kenny's emails were anything to go by, Destiny'd only had the tamest missionary sex and not much of that either.

How the hell did he initiate her into sex his way?

Dick leaking precum, stones once again tight and aching, Linc stalked to the bathroom. He grabbed a toothbrush, armed the bristles with Colgate Total paste, and brushed his teeth while staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Focus, Sinner. Focus.

Satan.

Satan had dared to touch his woman. So he didn't know she was his. Tough. Bastard.

He stabbed the brush into the peach holder and sent a few curses Demon's way. Peach? What paratrooper chose peach to decorate a bathroom? His lips curled and he jabbed a big toe into the plush peach carpet fronting the sink. Peach, for fuck’s sake.

Why had Demon loaned Destiny his cabin?

Had
he
touched her too?

“Linc, are you okay?”

Jerked out of his self-righteous musings, Linc didn't bother to suppress a grin—he had Destiny all to himself for at least another twenty-four hours.

“Coming, Destiny. Freshening up a bit,” he answered.

Jesus, he hadn't taken care of her.

He snatched two dry towels and the bar of soap, wet one peach terry with hot water, squeezed the material damp, winked at his reflection, and then jogged through the bedroom.

So damned adorable, the sight that met his eyes—Destiny bending over to snatch something, a potato peel, from the floor. What an ass. Firm and rounded with twin dimples framing cheeks so bitable, his mouth watered.

Midrise, she caught him ogling, and her face stained a rosy pink.

A-dor-a-ble, plain and simple.

“Why are you carrying soap?” Her eyes dropped to her crotch. “Oh no. No and no.” She backed into the counter space before the fridge, holding a half-peeled potato as a shield. “Don't you even think it.”

He got her perched in the right position by hefting her knees with his shoulders and couldn't resist snuffling her folds before sitting her on the counter and spreading her legs so he could stand between them. Neck arched, head resting on a cedar cabinet door, she glared at him when he rested the warm towel on her mound. “Feel good, Destiny?”