Stripped Down (15 page)

“I think we’re going to make it,” he says, voicing my unspoken fears. Maybe he’s not ready to share this change with the world just yet either. That works for me.

He certainly carries me through the house at a pace that would make a SEAL team proud, and the house is worth slowing down to appreciate because it’s spectacular.

He takes the stairs even more quickly than the front door, his face focused on his end goal, and I fight back an inappropriate case of the giggles. Not that sex can’t be fun, but Angel isn’t the kind of guy you laugh at, and I plan to rock his world. He wrapped me around his talented, super-sexy fingers when we were out on the ranch, but I’m returning that favor with interest. I owe him an orgasm.

He sets me on my feet just inside his bedroom door. I’ve never been in Angel’s bedroom before, either here or at the old house. There’s another fireplace and tall, vaulted ceilings. The windows look out onto the ranch and the mountains, presumably so Angel can keep an eye on his empire even when he’s relaxing or fucking. The furniture is on the same epic scale, the gorgeous dark wood both expensive and very masculine. A smack on my butt propels me further into the room, and Angel shuts and locks the door behind us.

“On the bed,” he says, and that low, rough voice issuing sexy commands in my ear makes me wet. Again. I have zero self-control when I’m near Angel.

He’s not waiting for me to catch up, either. He strides straight for the big four-poster bed that dominates the room. As he moves around me, I slip the Stetson from his head and toss it over his shoulder. I can’t have him thinking he’s completely in charge here—because that’s
my
modus operandi.

He turns his head to look at me. I love having his attention on me even if it kind of leaves me stunned. His stare is so intense and focused that I feel stripped down to my bones or somewhere deeper and even more intimate. Angel is dangerous.

“Strip for me,” I tell him.

I want to see him, hard and hot for me. Maybe things have changed for the better between us, or maybe, by tomorrow, the distance will be back because orgasms aren’t super glue and they can’t fix all the cracks in a relationship.

“Get on that bed, and I’ll give you what you need.” He sets a hand on my butt and nudges me toward the bed. The sheer animal magnetism of him as he prowls closer is overwhelming. He’s all masculine power and determination—and he’s coming for me. I learned years ago that sex is power, and I’ve never
not
been the one in control once I’ve taken things to the bedroom. Angel, though, is different.

He’s always in charge.

Instinctively, I back toward the bed, reacting to the command in his voice. He’s gorgeous, with a savage kind of beauty as his dark hair falls around his face and his eyes laser in on me. The massive erection tenting the front of his jeans makes his interest in me clear, but I’m riveted by the possessive heat in his eyes. Riveted and really, really turned on. So maybe I can make an exception for Angel. Maybe taking a few orders wouldn’t be so bad, not if it gets me this man. Or maybe that’s my inner bad girl whispering to me, and she’s not the smartest girl even if she is the horniest.

I get on the bed and roll onto my side. He’s promised me a show, after all. Or maybe that
what you need
line was about orgasms. Either or both works for me. My heartbeat kicks into overdrive. God, he’s gorgeous. His boots come off, and then his hands go to his belt buckle. I’m burning up. I need him
now
or five minutes ago or even fucking last week, but he’s making me wait and he’s tormenting me with this strip show.

“Faster.” My voice sounds hoarse and needy, and he smiles way too fucking slowly.

“Wait.” He undoes the belt, the leather slapping against his palm in a short, hard clap of sound.

I don’t wait. I also don’t do orders, commands, or anything else of the BDSM or domination persuasion. One of us has a lesson to learn here, and it’s not me. I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. “Hold up, hot stuff.”

He leans against the bedpost, searching me with that dark gaze of his. I could sink back onto the bed and let him take charge. I’d enjoy it this time, but it would be on his terms and I’m not okay with that. “Something’s wrong.”

No kidding. “You.”

“Uh-huh.” He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his jeans and somehow the casual gesture pisses me off. Or maybe it’s because I can’t stop staring at the massive erection those jeans can’t possibly conceal.

“Stop giving orders.”

“You like my orders. Let me show you.” The look he gives me is slow and knowing.

It would be easier to fight with him if he wasn’t right. “My pussy likes your orders,” I correct him with a shrug, standing up. “That’s not the real estate that matters.”

He faces me as if I’m not cockblocking him in his bedroom, the look on his face confident and unconcerned. I’ve never been into hitting or biting my lovers, but I could make an exception right now. I’d like to sink my teeth into that harsh mouth of his and see if that shakes him.

He doesn’t move, but I get the impression he could be on me in seconds. My traitorous pussy loves his interest, loves the possibilities of playing chase with this man. “If you like what you see, why not enjoy it?”

“I don’t need sex that badly,” I tell him, but the shiver that ghosts through me says I’m a liar. Sex and Angel—they’re mixed up in my head now, and the heated ache between my legs demands attention.
His
attention.

“I take control, Rose,” he rasps, his voice low and sure. “That’s what I do, and I won’t lie about that. But I’ll make you enjoy it a thousand different ways.”

The thing is? He probably can.

“Non-negotiable,” he says.

I actually believe him. “Are you talking whips and chains? I’m not into kinky stuff.”

I’ve been held down too many times. It’s not a game.

“Rope’s good, but optional.” He bracelets my wrists with his fingers as if I need the show and tell. I tug, and for a moment he holds on. Restrains me. I wait for the memories to surface, but then he lets go. “You’d like it.”

“Another promise. My answer’s still no.”

“Try it.” His voice is pure sin. His mother should have called him Lucifer, because he’s no angel.

He tempts me almost as much as he fascinates me. He’s big and gorgeous and determined to have sex with me—and yet he’s not forcing me.

As if he’s read my mind, he pulls me a little closer. “I won’t force you, Rose. I want you to agree. I want you to
give
me control.”

I’m not looking for love or romance, but I’m not sure I could survive Angel’s brand of sex, either. There’s nothing casual about the way he looks at me.

He’s not done talking, either. “Try it my way. If you don’t like it, we’ll renegotiate.”

I understand negotiating.

“No ropes, no toys. Just you and me, cowboy.”

“Angel,” he tells me, nudging my lower lip with his thumb. “Call me by my name and get on the bed.”

“Angel.” I say his name and wave the white flag of surrender, all my outrage swept away by this insane freaking chemistry we have. And I do exactly what he wants. I crawl onto his big bed and settle in for my show.

I learn Angel goes commando when he shucks his jeans in an easy, fluid movement. God, he’s impossibly beautiful, all hard muscles and chiseled strength. He might own the ranch and everyone on it, but he works as hard as any of his men. The real question is whether I’m going to let him own me after he takes me to bed. He seems to think an orgasm is like a brand, that he can stamp me with his ownership and control what happens between us.

If I weren’t so aroused, I’d be pissed off. I’d tell what he could do with his brand of arrogance, and it wouldn’t be to take me to bed. But he’s here and he makes me wet and it’s been far too long since I took a lover. Sex is too complicated for me to have casual hook-ups, and I haven’t had time for a relationship.

The mattress dips as he comes down on the bed beside me. He slides an arm around my waist and effortlessly pulls me under him. He really wasn’t kidding about the need to be on top. Dazed, I watch him for clues, fighting the urge to arch up into him and surrender completely. He smells good, like California sunshine and heat.

Right. He also smells right.

“Angel Mendoza,” I whisper. His name is tattooed somewhere far too close to my heart. I wear him on my skin and inside me where no one else has ever been, not in this bone-deep, too-familiar way.

“Rose Jordan,” he gives me back. “Don’t get cold feet on me now.”

Another order, but this is one I’m happy to obey. I want more from him than the limited contact we’ve had. I crave more and my arousal is a sweet ache I won’t ignore.

“That goes double for you,” I tell him. “You walk out that door, and I’ll come after you. Your brothers will get an eyeful.”

“We can’t have that.”

“Wouldn’t be a wise move.” His hand cups my breast and I run out of air fast. He makes me burn. “Not unless those stories I’ve heard are true, about you boys liking to share any and everything.”

A spike of bright pleasure shoots through me as his work-hardened thumb teases my nipple, doing something impossibly sweet.

“I won’t share you,” he growls, and I’ll take that promise. I’ve never been one of the girls who watched the Mendoza boys, naughtily wondering if the rumors were true that, sometimes, the brothers shared everything. Angel is already too much for me.

“And you’re off the market.” I thread my fingers through his hair, tugging him toward me roughly. “No other women for you for as long as this lasts.”

“Agreed,” he growls and then he bites. Rough sex is a trigger for me, but Angel’s bite feels more like a mark he’s putting on me. I want to mark him too, but we’re already dangerously close to relationship territory.

I learn the shape of his head, running fingertips over his scalp and tracing each line. The intimacy is almost shocking, touching him like this, in ways other people don’t get to do. And then he shivers, as if just that simple pressure of my fingers against him sets him off. God. I like that. Like that I make him every bit as hot as he makes me. The
making
here is a two-way street, and his body’s riding that path as hard and fast as mine. My Angel, who is always so in control of every situation is just a little bit undone, and I love it.

What happens when he lets go of all that careful control of his?

When
. I’m taking control, I’m taking Angel, and I’m definitely taking it all.

“Tell me you’re off the market.” He presses against me, making me desperately aware of how large and hot he is.

“Yes,” I breathe. Yes to everything.

“Good,” he says roughly, and he kisses me. This is what I’ve been waiting for. Not the words, but the raw, hungry touch of his mouth on mine communicating something no word could say. I arch into his touch. His mouth parts mine, his tongue stroking inside me. God, he tastes good. If I could, I’d crawl inside him and learn him from the inside out.

He nudges the straps of my bra down with his thumbs, revealing the barely-there cups. I bought the bra on impulse, and it’s the barest scrap of white lace and cording. He likes it. I can tell. He inhales sharply, his fingers tracing the bra where it crisscrosses my cleavage. “This is nice.”

“Think of these as a very belated birthday present.” I cover his hands with mine, stroking the curves pushed above the cups. “A little something for you to finally unwrap.”

For whatever reason, against all the odds, we’re here, together. Maybe because it just isn’t possible to deny the heat building between us any longer. Maybe because I wondered about Angel when I was sixteen and we first met, and maybe, from what he’s said, he wondered the same things, too. I can’t stop saying his name, trying to make myself believe that this is really happening. That we’re here, in his bed,
together
, even if we only have a handful of stolen hours. Our relationship can’t go anywhere for so many reasons.

He cups my breasts, stroking them with his large hands, his work-roughened drawing wicked, knowing,
slow
patterns against my skin. I’ve seen him rope a calf or hold the wheel steady with these hands as he takes his truck off-road. His hands know long days and sometimes longer nights of work, but right now they know
me
and what they deliver is pure pleasure. Each rough-gentle brush of his skin against mine stokes the fire burning inside me, teases me higher until I can’t think.

Angel’s excited, too. But despite his own hoarse breathing, he moves deliberately, as he explores my body with a possessive touch. I can’t rush him. He won’t let me, even though other parts of me ache for his touch. How long will he make me wait to come? I’m ready and wet for him now.

Finally, he unhooks my bra and tosses it aside, his gaze raking me from head to foot. I’m still wearing my panties, but not for long. I reach for them, but his hands close over mine, dragging my hands over my head.

He closes my fingers over the headboard. “Don’t let go.”

Holding on isn’t the same as letting him tie me up. I can let go at any time, making my new position seem less scary and far, far sexier. I have to choose to play his game, and we both know it. I tighten my fingers on the polished wood, stretching, reaching for the pleasure he offers. I’m stripped down and ready for him.

“Touch me,” I demand, lifting myself into his touch.

His hands cup my breasts. “Like this?”

He runs his fingers over my skin, thumbing my nipples. Teasing them into greedy nubs. I want more. My hands may be locked in place, but my legs are free. I wrap my legs around his hips, my heels digging into his spectacular butt. He’s hard and unyielding, his dick pressing into me as he holds me down on his bed. As if I want to get away—when I don’t. I only want to get closer. All the way closer.

Angel thinks he knows me, but he’s only seen the surface—and I’ve learned to cheat in the years since he last saw me. Let him think he’s in charge, but he’s not. Letting go of the headboard with one hand, I lick my palm, dragging my tongue over my skin to make it wet. His eyes darken, but it’s too late. I wrap my hand around his dick and squeeze. Not too gentle, because a man like Angel can and will take it rough. Rough and dirty.