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She spun around looking for the source of the whirring, walked across to the desk in the corner and picked up the print out. “Very efficient.” Her eyes went down. “But hardly current.”
“It’s current. It’s been a while.” She didn’t hide her surprise. “Are you on birth control?”
“Yes. Pills in the drawer by the bed.”
Roadblocks cleared, he was starting to feel light-headed. “What can’t I do to you?”
She closed her eyes, swayed slightly. This was getting to her too. “Don’t hurt me.”
Fuck, that gave him a lot of room to play in. And hurting her was the furthest thing from his mind. He wanted to make her scream, but not from pain. He knew men who got off on that, women who craved it. Not him. Life was painful enough. True pleasure too infrequent.
He moved to the bedroom doorway. No more hesitation. He was insensible to anything but his lust now. He wanted her writhing under him on the big bed, the city spread out behind her. He pulled his polo shirt over his head, and tossed it on the sofa. His body wasn’t pretty, but he was in good shape. Her eyes popped at the full view of the scar on his pec, the thick burn mark across his ribs and the tattoo banding his bicep.
“We eat later.”
They faced off, a mass of expensive furniture between them, but she was already inside all of his senses. His fingers tingled. He could smell the roses, but knew she’d smell of vanilla, her own scent, not bottled perfume. There was something easy listening playing on the stereo but it was the wrong mood. It should’ve been the organised chaos of heavy metal to match the thumping of his heart. This wasn’t going to be a delicate moment. It wasn’t going to be forgettable. It was Jimi Hendrix or Nine Inch Nails.
The anticipation of stripping her naked and tasting her skin was making it hard to stand still. But the way she was looking at him, like she knew this was her last chance to change her mind, kept him fastened to the plush pile.
She moved, skirting around the sofa, stopping just out of reach. “What if I hurt you?”
“Not possible.”
“I don’t mean physically.”
Could she hurt him in other ways? Had any woman truly hurt him? Only Jiao came close, but that was absence, not hurt—a habit lost, not another permanent scar.
“Not possible.”
“Cocky.”
He grinned. It was the perfect description.
“Arrogant.”
Now she was really warming up. “You know me.”
“Not all of you.”
He unlatched his belt, popped the button on his chinos. “I’m not stopping you trying.”
Her hand came up to the buttons on her dress.
“Leave that for me. Come here,” his voice crackled like he’d been on a three day bender.
“Didn’t anyone teach you ‘please’?”
“It didn’t stick.”
He brought his hand up and curled his fingers in a come here gesture. Her gaze went to his hand, she flushed. Was she remembering what he’d done with those fingers inside her? Was she as aroused as he was? He could be on her in less time than it took to swallow. Instead he turned and walked through the doorway into the bedroom.
9. Liar
“They must often change who would be constant in happiness or wisdom.” — Confucius
He was a pirate. He was a gun runner. He was an opium pusher and a slave master. He was everything in a man Darcy normally avoided. Arrogant didn’t come close to describing him. Cocky was an endearment. But she could hardly breathe from the excitement of hearing the thud of his shoes hitting the floor in the bedroom, and the sound his zip made as he ripped it down.
He expected her to come to him, but he was letting her choose.
