Chapter Twelve
WHAT THE HELL did she do to him? With her, he had no control. He couldn’t resist her; he couldn’t do anything but want her.
He swung her up in his arms and carried her toward the room that had to be her bedroom. But she caught the jamb before he could carry her over the threshold.
“Put me down,” she told him.
“What—why?” Had she changed her mind? That wasn’t like her. She didn’t have much more control than he did once they started kissing.
Touching...
“I—I have to put something away first,” she said. She wriggled down from his arms and rushed into the bedroom.
Before he could follow her inside, she closed the door on his face. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he heard a lock click, as well.
She really did not want him inside her bedroom. The last time he’d been in her apartment, he hadn’t gotten beyond the couch in the living room where they’d had sex. Tonight he’d wanted to be in her bed nearly as badly as he wanted to be inside her.
But now he wondered if he would be allowed in either? Had she locked herself inside for the night? Did she want him to leave?
Stunned, he could only stand there for several long moments. What the hell was going on in there? What was she doing? He lifted his hand to knock, but before his fist could strike the white-painted wood, the door opened.
She reached for his hand and tugged him inside the room with her. Looking over her head, he peered around the space. Like the living room, the floors were dark hardwood—the plaster ceilings high. The exterior wall was brick with a tall window while the other walls were painted a dreamy blue. The bed, a fluffy-looking queen-size one, shared the space with a library table that had been converted to a desk. If she’d taken any records from the office, they were probably stashed in that desk.
“Should I check the closet?” he asked. “Did you push a lover in there?”
She laughed. “No. I was getting this out of the closet.” She stepped back and twirled around to show off the negligee she wore. It wasn’t as long as the one she’d had on the first day he’d come to her apartment. This one barely covered her luscious ass.
Like all her other outfits, it had a bow on it—this one on the front—at the top of the satin ribbon that crisscrossed the bodice, binding it together. The pale blue fabric was a wispy lace through which her nipples showed.
He groaned. “Damn, woman, how much of this stuff do you own?”
And who had bought it for her? Had she bought it for herself? Or had a lover picked out the lingerie for her to wear for him?
Something flashed through him—something he hadn’t felt since he was a kid—envying kids who’d had a mom and a dad and a house, who hadn’t had to con people for money for food and clothes.
How he’d hated those kids, hated that they’d taken for granted what he’d always wished he had.
Her brow puckered as she stared up at him; she must have caught the expression on his face. “Don’t you like it?”
He automatically reached for the bow, running his fingers over the satin ribbon. “I love it,” he said. “I love it all...” Most of all, he loved her body, the sweet curves of it, the soft skin.
The heat and the passion that burned him when he slid inside her, when he slid home. Desperate for her, he tugged the bow loose so the negligee dropped from her body. Then he pushed her back onto the bed.
He’d never felt this way, never felt so desperate to claim someone as his. Hell, he’d never wanted to claim anyone as his—until Bette.
He moved his hands and lips over her body, spreading his kiss and caress as if he were branding her as his. He had never felt possessive of another human being before. Had never felt this madness in his blood and his fiercely pounding heart.
Her heart pounded just as fast and furiously beneath his palm that cupped her breast. She was just as excited as he was, her chest heaving as she panted for breath.
He’d never had anyone match his passion the way Bette did. He didn’t have to make sure she was ready for him. He knew she already was. And of course when he stroked his fingers over her mound, he found her hot and ready. And a pulse beat there for him, in her clit.
Her breath shuddered out as she arched off the bed. “Simon...”
She needed him just as badly as he needed her. But with her, he wanted to make sure she got as much pleasure as he did. So he moved down her body. And he slid his tongue over her clit, back and forth.
She whimpered and shifted against the bed. Her hands clutched his shoulder and then his hair. “Simon!”
He thrust his fingers inside her. And she came.
His vision blurred as his desire intensified to insanity. He undressed in such a frenzy that a button popped off. Then he tore open a condom packet and sheathed himself before sliding inside her.
She was so hot. So wet. So ready...
She moved beneath him and around him. They rolled across the sheets, tangling them, tearing them from the bed. Passion burned between them. They clutched at each other. Despite her release, she was desperate again, desperate for more pleasure. He made sure she got it, making her come again and again before he finally let himself come.
Then he dropped limply onto her body, struggling to breathe again as his heart finally began to slow its frantic beating. He raised his head from her breast and stared up at her in wonder. “What the hell do you do to me?”
She just shook her head. She either didn’t know or couldn’t speak. So he didn’t think she’d be able to move, either. But after cleaning up in the bathroom, he strode back into her bedroom, and she wasn’t there.
Where the hell had she gone?
“Bette?”
She stepped out of the other door, the one to the walk-in closet. But she was wearing only the robe that had been lying across the foot of the bed. So why had she gone back inside there?
Was she hiding something in there? Or in the desk? She glanced at that, too, as if checking to make sure she’d left nothing out. But then she grabbed up his shirt from the bedroom floor and held it out to him.
“Trying to get rid of me?” he asked.
“Uh, no,” she stammered, but her eyes widened in surprise. “You don’t want to stay, though.”
She must have heard that rule of his, how he never spent the night with anyone. If he wanted a chance to search her closet and that desk, he was going to need to make an exception to that rule. So she wouldn’t catch him snooping again, like she nearly had last time, he had to wait until after she fell asleep.
“You are trying to get rid of me,” he said, and the hurt he allowed in his voice wasn’t entirely feigned. “I really should check to see who you have stashed in that closet.”
“Nobody,” she replied quickly, almost too quickly.
He doubted any man could have hidden in there while they’d had sex. Even if he was married, Simon damn well wouldn’t have done it. He would have taken apart the guy who dared to touch her while he was seeing her.
“You really aren’t seeing anyone else?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “I told you I don’t have time for dating right now.”
“What are we doing, then?” he asked.
“We’re not dating,” she said. “That’s why it would be weird for you to stay.”
He’d had women beg him to spend the night in their beds. But this one—the one with whom he actually wanted to spend the night—seemed almost on the verge of begging him to leave. He reached for her, closing his arms around her shoulders to draw her close to his chest. “How ’bout I just stay until I recover enough for us to do that again?”
She rubbed her hips against his. “I think you’re recovered enough.”
He chuckled. He was. Just being close to her made him hard as hell. “Not quite yet.” He tugged her toward the bed, pulled back the tangled blankets and pulled her down onto the mattress with him.
“You really want to stay?” she asked.
“Just for a little while,” he lied. He didn’t know how long he’d have to stay for her to fall asleep.
She settled her head against his shoulder. “What do you want to do until you recover?” she asked.
“Talk.”
She tensed.
“Don’t worry,” he told her. “I’ll talk. You can just listen.”
She must have been intrigued enough that she moved her hand to his chest, and her fingers began to stroke the skin over his heart. Did she feel how hard it was beating yet for her?
“I will post your job,” he promised her.
She released a shaky sigh but he didn’t know if it was of relief or disappointment.
“Do you want me to add the tight skirts and lingerie into the job description?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. It would be hard for a guy to find and I probably would be better off with a male assistant. I’d be less distracted—” he moved his hand down her back to the curve of her hip and ass “—because you sure as hell distracted me the past two years.”
She snorted in disbelief.
“You did,” he insisted. “I couldn’t stop staring at your ass...”
A giggle slipped through her lips. Then she suggested, “Maybe Miguel has a friend. Another reformed gang member.”
“Too damn few of his friends are even alive yet, let alone reformed like he is,” he said.
“How long have you known Miguel?” she asked.
“A hell of a lot longer than two years,” he said. “I knew him from when I lived on the streets.”
“Why were you living on the streets? Did you run away from home?” she asked.
And he was glad that she had, that she actually wanted to know something about him. Other women had pried for information about his life, about his past. Until now, Bette hadn’t seemed to care. She hadn’t wanted to get to know him.
But maybe if she did, she would open up to him, too. So he told her everything: about never knowing his mom, about his dad training him to con people before he’d hardly known how to walk or talk, about how the only way he’d been able to escape that life was to run away from his father.
“Didn’t he try to find you?” she asked.
He shook his head.
She stroked her hand over his heart as if she was trying to soothe away the hurt. Miraculously, her touch seemed to do just that. It didn’t bother him like it usually did when he talked about his father.
“It would have been hard for him to look for me,” he said, “since shortly after I ran away, he got arrested.”
She gasped, her breath brushing warmly across his skin.
He chuckled but without any humor. “Fortunately for me, he is still serving that sentence.” If he wasn’t, Simon would have suspected his father of somehow being the mole. Hell, even with him being in jail, it made more sense for him to be the mole than it did for Bette. But she had access; he didn’t.
“Why is that fortunate?” she asked, her voice soft.
“Because he blamed me for his getting arrested,” he said, then shrugged as if it didn’t matter to him. But it did, and she must have known because she pressed her lips to his chest in a gentle kiss.
“Were you responsible?” she asked.
He’d never told anyone else this, but he felt compelled to tell her. “Yes. I turned him in, had some evidence.”
“Did you do that just to get away from him?”
“He had to be stopped,” Simon admitted. “He was conning people who couldn’t afford it. I had to do some things...when I was living on the streets. But I made sure nobody got hurt. He didn’t care.”
Least of all about his son.
She must have heard what he left unsaid because she reached up and pressed a kiss to his lips and nuzzled her hair against his cheek. “Sounds like both our fathers disowned us.”
He had never realized how much he had in common with Bette. She was an amazing woman, even if she was the damn mole. He hoped like hell that she wasn’t, though.
He moved her hand from his chest to his groin. “Look, I’m recovered.”
Her fingers closed around him, and she began to stroke him up and down. While she teased him with her touch, he reached for his pants and fished a condom from the pocket. Before he could sheathe himself, her mouth slid over his shaft—up and down. He nearly came then. But he wanted more.
He pushed her onto her back and feasted on her body, on her full breasts with the ultrasensitive nipples, on the curve of her hip, on her dimpled knee...then he moved between her legs. And he made certain she had recovered, as well.
Her fingers clutched his shoulders, and she dragged him up. Then she guided his cock inside her. They moved with less urgency this time. Taking their time with slow strokes and long kisses...
And when they came, they came together—shouting each other’s names. Simon had never felt as connected to another person. Or as scared...
* * *
Bette felt connected to Simon in a way that had nothing to do with the physical. She felt connected to Simon emotionally. She’d seen him naked, truly naked. And she knew she should return the favor.
What he’d shared with her was far more personal than her career goals and dreams. What he’d shared with her...
Scared the hell out of her, not because of what he’d done or who he was. But because she was really beginning to fall for him. Panic coursed through her, like moments ago passion had, and she tensed.
She should tell him to leave, show him to the door. He’d already been here too long, too vividly. Now she would always imagine him here. It hadn’t been bad when he’d been in just the living room. But now he’d been in the bedroom, in her bed. And like Goldilocks, he was still there. He must have fallen asleep, for his body—his beautiful body—was relaxed.
Instead of pounding on his chest to wake him up, she rested her head on it and curled up against his side. Sure, she had work to do. But she was tired. And she only had a few more days with him.
She would take a moment to enjoy just being with him. It wasn’t as if he would actually spend the night. She was certain he would wake up and slip out before morning. If not much sooner.
The thought of him leaving relaxed her enough that she began to drift off to sleep. While her mind told her she wanted him gone, her body wrapped around his, holding him close. And she had to admit the truth.
She didn’t want him to leave. Not just tonight but maybe ever.
That thought filled her with such terror that she jerked fully awake. She must have been asleep longer than she realized because he was gone. Her arms clutched nothing but the pillow that smelled yet like him. She should have been relieved that he’d left.
But a chill chased over her bare skin, raising goose bumps. She wasn’t just cold, though. She was scared for a couple of reasons.
One—the disappointment that filled her over his slipping out. Sure, she’d suspected that he would. She’d even thought that would be a good thing. But she hadn’t realized how good it would feel to actually sleep with him.
The second reason she was scared was because she heard a strange noise. The creak of floorboards and a weird scraping noise. It wasn’t coming from the living room. So it wasn’t Simon walking to the door. The noise emanated from her walk-in closet. She reached for her nightstand where she’d stashed her purse in the cabinet beneath the drawer, and she pulled out the canister of Mace she always carried.
With it clutched tightly, reassuringly, in her hand, she slipped into her robe, tied up the sash with her other hand and headed toward her closet door. She jerked it open and prepared to spray her intruder in the face...until she recognized him. Then she demanded to know, “What the hell are you doing?”