Chapter Four
Trick drifted his hands up the soft skin of her forearms to her shoulders then down her back until he reached what he'd dreamed of for three years—that glorious, heart-shaped ass. First, he wanted to spank the hell out of her. Then, holding handfuls of her flesh, he'd deny her the orgasm the deceptive lying brat didn’t deserve. Without breaking his kiss, his fingers dug under her skirt until they met the elastic of her panties. Lace scratched at his skin. He yanked hard, sending them over her rear end. She moaned into his mouth, and her pelvis rocked as his fingers dug into her bare flesh. The vixen nipped at his bottom lip, breaking the spell long enough for him to gain a dose of common sense. What was he doing? He broke the contact with her mouth, let go of her ass, and stepped backward. He waited for her arms to come down and her hand to slap him. Instead, she reached under her skirt, shimmied out of her panties, and kicked them off along with her fuck-me pumps.
This had to be a set-up. He wouldn't take the bait.
“Fuck me,” she said. “Unless you can’t—”
Shit. His hands were back on her flesh, his mouth again on hers. Screw the siren act she pulled. After three hellish years, his mouth tasted Rachel Grant's lips and her ass filled his hands. Damn straight, he was going to fuck the hell out of this woman.
Her hands scratched down his shirt, and her fingers scrabbled their way to his belt buckle. He lifted away from full contact on her torso so she could gain better access. He would make her reach for him. The feel of her fingers when she roughly freed his cock blinded him with lust. The sharp grate of her fingernails urged him forward.
He threaded his fingers through hers and pinned her arms over her head again, earning a satisfying grunt from her throat. Blood thrummed in his ears as he gazed down at the she-devil that plagued him in his dreams for the last three years.
“Oh, yeah, you missed this,” he breathed and rocked his hips so she could feel his full length.
“You wish.”
After capturing both wrists in one hand, he yanked her skirt over her hips and lifted her higher with his other arm. His cock was positioned right where he wanted. He met so much wetness between her legs, he didn't hesitate and surged forward, breaching her pussy with a hard thrust. She groaned, deep and guttural, at the invasion, and he didn't wait for her to adjust. Puffs of breath escaped her lips as his cock rammed into her over and over. Jesus, she was tight and so fucking wet. Her hot heat taunted him to batter her senseless. Flesh slapped against flesh. His mouth reclaimed hers—roughly and with zero hesitation. With teeth grazing over lips, tongues fighting for control, he punished her mouth as he slammed into her. Her breath came harder, and she keened in his mouth as he felt her contractions, which made holding back impossible. He was balls-deep in her pussy when he exploded. He hadn't had more than a few quick fucks in the last year, and his orgasm nearly took his head off.
Sucking air, he eased her hips down and slipped out of her. He released her wrists, but kept her caged between his forearms. Mascara smeared under her eyes, and she panted heavily, her breath warm against his cheeks.
“I knew you couldn't resist,” she said, a fury growing in those chocolate-colored eyes.
“I didn't hear you complaining.”
She lowered her arms and shrugged. “You were always good in bed.” She pushed against his chest and ducked under his arm. After straightening her skirt like a prim schoolmarm, she reached down and picked up her panties. “I want my money back.” She pulled the lace up over her hips and once more smoothed down her skirt.
“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath and pushed off the wall. He tucked his wayward cock back in his pants.
Her eyes glistened. Tears? The thought yanked at his heart. What do you know? He still had one despite her shredding him to pieces.
“I want it back,” she repeated.
He turned and let his head fall against the doorjamb. He was so tired. Tired of thinking about what happened. Tired of thinking about what could have been. Tired of thinking about Rachel Grant at all. “Rachel, if I had your money, I'd give it to you, and that's the truth.”
She must have heard the weary truth in his voice because for the first time since he’d seen her again, she looked taken aback.
“Then who does?” she snapped.
“Not me.”
“What about Peter Martin? He worked for your firm.”
“He's in San Francisco. Married. First baby on the way.” His colleague was the first person Trick believed could be part of the frame job, but dispelling that theory was easy. The risk wasn't worth the measly $3 million to Peter, not when Peter made twice that in one year. No, he knew who sucked that trust fund dry. He knew who had set up a phony company, hacked into his computer, transferred the trust fund money, and then drained the account in less than forty-eight hours—and all done in Trick's name. “And Jay? Where the hell is he?”
“Oil rig. Somewhere in the gulf.” Rachel fluffed her hair nonchalantly, like they hadn't just fucked against his office door.
“Sure he is. That prissy boy getting his hands dirty? Unlikely.”
She flipped him the bird and yanked open the door.
Fine, let her leave. “Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out.”
She slammed his office door so hard the frame of the wall painting bounced against the wall.
He should go after her. No, he shouldn't. He scrubbed his hair. Fuck. Something wasn't right. Think, man. If she was part of the set-up, no way would the princess lower herself to waitressing. She certainly wouldn't show up at Shakedown demanding her money.
When he got back out on the floor, Nathan leaned up from the bar and cocked his head to the front door. “She went that way, Casanova.”
“A misunderstanding, that's all.”
A grin spread across his face. “Sounded like you were getting along alright.”
Trick wrenched open the door to find Rachel outside, impatiently tapping her foot, swiping angrily at her phone screen.
“Come on, Rachel. I'll take you home.” He could be the bigger person here even if she was a heartless, abandoning bitch. Besides, he needed to talk with her and get real answers. His attorney had told him for the thirtieth time that unless someone came forward and confessed, he should move on with his life. Who could move on when Rachel was back in the picture?
“I have a car,” she said.
“No, you don't. I saw you get dropped off. Uber? Rachel, look at me.” He spun her to face him. “Whether you want to acknowledge it or not, something is wrong here.”
“Duh.”
“If neither of us is lying about the money. . .”
She glared at him.
“I get it. You don't have it, either. You said Jay is on an oil rig?”
“I'm not telling you squat.”
He narrowed his eyes as she crossed her arms. “You don't know where he is, do you?”
“Screw you.”
“You already did that, sweetheart.” He grasped the side of her neck and pulled her closer. “That money was yours and his, and eventually your half would have been ours. Don't you get it? All I had to do was wait. Now, where is Jay?”
“In the middle of the ocean, thanks to you.”
He sighed. “I'm driving you home,” he repeated.
“No. My ride is here.” She strode toward a blue Chevy pulling up to them.
Finding her stepbrother was his burning priority, but he’d learned that once his ex-fiancé pursed her lips into that familiar grimace, pushing her to talk followed the law of diminishing returns. He'd get nothing more from her—for now.