Driven By Fate (15 page)

“See how excited she gets when I’m taking out my cock?” His hand moved inside his pants, stroking, squeezing. “I know you want it, little girl. You wanted it on the plane, in the town car. Wanted it hard and nasty from me, didn’t you?” He dipped his head, running his tongue up the center of her cleavage. Slowly, so slowly. “Shall I make sure you’re ready?”

“Please
. Please
.”

Frankie expected him to touch her again, use his fingers. When he dropped to the ground before her, she nearly slid down the door into a heap. Overwhelmed. So overwhelmed. But she didn’t shy away from the pleasure cyclone that scooped her up and spun her in circles; she jumped in headfirst. As Porter threw her right leg over his shoulder, she tried to focus on breathing. But his tongue found her clit on the first lick and nothing was manageable anymore. Not her thoughts, not her oxygen intake. Pleasure took control out of her reach. He gifted her with several hard strokes of his tongue, before flicking, flicking, flicking his tongue against her tortured nub, again and again. Her mind pitched so dramatically, she found her hands clutching at her own hair, pulling, to create an anchor.

Leaving her on the edge of orgasm, Porter stood. Her leg was still hooked over his shoulder, up, up, bringing her knee even with her collarbone. The new position excited her even further.
Yes, move me, shape me, bend me for your pleasure.
His erection dragged over her bare, spread center and she started to beg. Words that meant everything and nothing. The more she begged, the harder Porter breathed, gaze flaring. He took himself in his hand, striking his plump arousal against her core, her wetness obvious from the slapping noise it created. Another groan broke to her left but she was too far gone with need to give it more than a passing thought.

“She loves to be kissed. It soaks her panties and makes her self-conscious. Makes her writhe around, as if anything but my cock can cure her. Isn’t that sweet?” Porter ghosted his lips over hers, but pulled back when she tried to deepen the contact, shaking his head. “Steady, now. We need your mouth free when I give you that first thrust, need to hear that scream, don’t we?”

With an upward drive of his hips, he rammed himself home. The strangled cry passed her lips, escalating into a full scream when he kept moving, going deeper with each pumping movement. The door rattled behind her, the latch jangling. Two separate moans of male pleasure bombarded the air around her, but her mind separated them, focusing on one. Craving only one.
Porter. Porter. My lord.

“Fuck,” he growled above her head, driving into her with incredible force. “Shall we tell him you’re the tightest I’ve ever had? You’ve got that tight, little secretary pussy, don’t you? Reserved for your boss whenever he requires it?”

“Yes.” Her fingers grappled for purchase in his hair. “Oh god…
harder
. All of it. Please.”

“You’ll get it harder when you tell him who satisfies you. Who
owns
you.” The command was a near-shout, punctuated by a groaned curse when her inner muscles contracted around him. “Who comes while you ride him in your bedroom, wearing that innocent nightgown?” He dropped his head to whisper for her ears alone. “Who brings you gifts and earns your smiles?
Tell him
.”

“My lord.” Her voice shook. “My lord is the only one.”

Very subtly, his head inclined toward the gap left by the adjoining door. “In case you fucking missed it, that’s me.” He let her leg drop from his shoulder, but kept it hooked around his waist. Frankie lifted her other leg to join it, leaving both thighs wrapped around his rolling hips. Using his shoulder for balance, she ground herself down on him, moaning when he reached behind to spank her backside. Once, twice. She tipped her face toward the ceiling, hair tumbling down her back, and simply reveled. In her femininity. In the feeling of sexual power that encompassed every part of her, cementing itself forever. Above everything, though, she was aware of Porter, of his unforgiving erection leaving her body and pounding back inside, sending her to the place she’d discovered through him.

Somewhere in the distance, she heard a door slam and then they were moving. Her back landed on a soft surface, Porter coming down on top of her. Still moving.
Never stop moving.

“That’s
enough
of that, now. Just you and me, Francesca.” He buried his face against the side of her neck, jerking her legs higher. “Please. Just you and me.”

The force of his thrusts moved her up the bed until she could grip the headboard. A wave swelled inside her, gathering strength as it approached. Porter angled his body a new way that ripped a desperate whimper past her lips.
It’s here. It’s here.
She dug her heels into the small of his back, but the sweat coating his muscled skin made them slip off over and over again.

“I don’t like when someone looks at you and tries to see underneath.” His voice shook, his breath bathing her damp skin in heat. “When they want to see more. Want to see what I see. I don’t want them to see it, Francesca. I’m fucking selfish over you.” His hands covered hers on the headboard. “Let me kiss you into coming. Let me do it even though I’m a bastard.”

She had no time to respond before his mouth crashed down on hers, tongue moving in time with the pleasure-giving thickness owning the flesh between her thighs. It was the final blast of lust she needed to let go
. His mouth. His mouth
. She had to turn her head to suck in deep, gulping breaths when the climax rippled through her with staggering intensity. Porter became the animal she now expected,
needed
, riding her with no mercy, shoving her legs wide, wedging himself deep and coming apart. His masculine moan of her name split the air as liquid flooded inside of her. Something about the sensation felt so new, but her mind was too occupied to decide what.

Her fingertips stroked down Porter’s sweaty back, as if it were muscle memory. Something she’d done hundreds of times. A niggling thought tried to break through the bliss, but she ignored it. Recover. She just needed to recover. She’d think when she could breathe again.

That comforting thought vanished when Porter’s body tensed on top of her.

Chapter Seventeen

No protection. I forgot protection.

A series of images blinded him. Francesca in her kitchen with the sticky-faced boy hanging on her back. Francesca making spaghetti for her makeshift family. Francesca in her white nightgown, the sound of raindrops in the background. The children hovering behind Neville in the dark hallway, waiting for Porter to wreck their lives with the delivery of a few words.

At once, the images fell into a dark pit that emitted no light. In one moment, he might have ruined it all for her. Everything. Taken away the choices she had every right to make for herself. He wasn’t the man to give her a happy life.
Children
. Jesus, was it even a possibility he could bury himself inside her that deeply and
not
get her pregnant? She would hate him. Would hate him for disregarding her dreams.

Oh, but while his brain registered disgust at himself, there was a primal beat inside him that grew loud enough to deafen him.
Ruin her. Keep her. Make it so no other man can have her.
God knew he was the furthest damn thing from a husband or father, but if she carried his child, none of that would matter. Would it? He’d have her to himself.

Self-loathing forced him off her beautiful, limp body. He didn’t deserve to touch her. As soon as she realized what he’d done, what she risked losing, her dreamy expression would change, would turn to panic. That panic would kill him. Kill him. It was already starting to transform now. She propped herself up on one elbow, her lips moving, but the sound didn’t penetrate his dread.

I’d fail her. Them. I’d fail a family.

That certainty wrestled with the idea of her with another man. A husband. It made the blood feel heavy in his veins, made his head throb. It scared him, angered him.

“A little overanxious to start that family, are you, Francesca? Did you forget who you were fucking?” He moved to a sitting position at the edge of the bed, grateful she couldn’t see his face, the regret he could already feel there. It wasn’t her fault. Not his love for her, not his inability to be what she needed. When he couldn’t stand her uncharacteristic stillness anymore, he looked over his shoulder…and felt his world shatter.

Tears shone in her silver eyes, seconds from falling. She’d wrapped herself in the sheet like a flimsy shield. A shield from him. He’d expected to see the horror on her face when she realized the slip they’d made, but it was a physical blow nonetheless.

“I’m on the pill,” she whispered.

The racing in his chest ground to a halt. “What was that?”

She pulled the sheet tighter around her shoulders. “I said, I’m on the pill. I’ve been on it since high school. So.”

Confusion infiltrated his devastation, shining through in painful rays. He refused to acknowledge the disappointment. Refused. “I fail to see why you’re seconds from crying, then.”

Her sarcastic laugh shook loose a single tear. “Oh, I don’t know, Porter.” She swiped at her cheek, glancing over at the adjoining door that he’d slammed and locked, never to open again. “After that…after what we did, the trust that took, you just accused me of trying to trap you.”

If he thought he’d been shattered before, the pain in her voice proved him wrong. Now. This was what it felt like to be shattered. Is that what he’d done? Accused her of trapping him?

Yes.

But no.
She
was the one who would be trapped with
him.

Her words bounced around his skull, distracting him from anything else. He’d just unfairly accused the girl who’d placed her trust in him time and time again, even though he continued to demonstrate how little he deserved it. Unacceptable. So unacceptable and yet, exactly what he expected from himself. He didn’t know how to have a relationship, how to avoid hurting or disappointing someone.

This is what you do. What you’ve always done.
He drove away anyone with the ability to make him feel—bad, good, everything in between.

Would he drive away his own child?

Even the storm raging in his head couldn’t keep him from going to Francesca when she was crying. He lunged across the bed, intent on gathering her in his arms, on rocking her and apologizing until his voice went hoarse. But she was gone, the sheet empty in his hands. The bathroom door clicked shut in a way that sounded louder than a slam.

How? How had this happened? His body was still warm from making love to her. It didn’t seem possible he’d fucked up so quickly, but he had, irreparably this time.

A split second later, he stood outside the bathroom, alarmed at the lack of light seeping from beneath the door. “Francesca. Let me in.”

Inside the bathroom, bathwater started to run and her muffled voice reached him through the door. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

The door flew open. She stood wrapped in a towel, tears gone from her eyes. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried by that. “No. I’m
not
fine. I wish I hadn’t come here.” Her breath caught. “I just want to be back in Queens.”

His heart splattered on the ground. “I didn’t mean it.” He lifted a hand to touch her, but she stepped out of his reach. “I know you wouldn’t do something like that.”

“You can take it back. Take it back a
hundred
times. I don’t care.” The defeat in her voice pelted him like sharp stones. “You know what, I
forgive
you for saying it. For even thinking it. How about that?”

“I don’t want to be forgiven,” he grated. “I want you to shout at me.”

“Why?” She lifted a shoulder and let it drop. “What would it solve? We knew this wasn’t permanent. You only reminded us both why.” A beat passed where she appeared to be debating with herself, deciding if she should say what came next. He was so terrified of the conversation ending, the finality of hearing no more, he could only wait and hope,
pray
, she continued. “I was lying there underneath you, listening to you breathe…thinking…maybe I could just give it up, you know?” A sharp sob escaped her. “Kids. Baseball games. Maybe I could give it up if you just laid on top of me and breathed every day. Because I couldn’t think of anything better than that.”

Porter went down on his knees. Or he fell. His arms weighed too much to reach out. Had his stomach caved in? He couldn’t breathe. Francesca placed a hand on his shoulder and, somehow, that broke him even more.

Give up everything. She’d wanted to give up everything. No, no, no. He couldn’t let her.
I’m not worth it.
He couldn’t even manage to stop hurting her, let alone make her happy.

“That’s everything I want in the world.
Everything.
So if you’ve got me thinking of forgetting them, leaving them behind…” He felt moisture land on top of his head. Knew it was her tears. “Then maybe you just did me a favor, saying what you did. Maybe I should thank you.”

“You’re thanking me for driving you away.” His voice rang hollow, as hollow as his chest. “The only thing worse than your leaving is knowing you don’t even care enough to hate me.”

“I can’t let myself feel the hate, Porter.” She removed her hand and his body sagged. “You know what they say about that thin line separating it from love. It’s too easy to cross it.”

Love. She could love him. And she was right. Loving him would kill her. Kill her dreams, the things that made her who she was.

Porter’s phone rang across the room, but he didn’t move. Couldn’t. As they remained frozen in their positions, it rang again, and again, until he finally rose to go answer it, hating each step he took away from her. Even knowing now that it was inevitable.

“Porter Evans.”

“Mr. Evans, this is Mr. Nyland’s assistant.” There was a long pause where he was expected to respond, but couldn’t summon the energy. “You have dinner plans with him this evening at eight.”

“Yes,” he forced past his lips. How could he go to a meeting, function, when he felt like he was anchored at the bottom of the ocean?

The line crackled. “There’s been a change to Mr. Nyland’s schedule and he needs to leave Miami sooner than expected. He’s just arrived at the lobby of your hotel, in the hope you can meet now.”

“Now.” Porter knew he shouldn’t look at Francesca, but he couldn’t stop his gaze from tracking across the room to find her. Wrapped in a towel, she looked so fragile and brave at the same time. Twenty-four. Only twenty-four and yet smart enough to get away from him before he darkened her spirit. He had no choice but to let her go. “I’ll be downstairs shortly.” He hung up the phone.

Francesca disappeared into the bathroom and turned off the running water, and returned, framed in the doorway, a moment later. “You have to go.”

It wasn’t a question, so he didn’t bother nodding. It was too much to manage when all his concentration went into holding himself back from begging, begging like hell for her to let him redo the last half hour. If reversing time were possible, he would have held her while she slept—the thing he’d been dreaming of most, but should have known wasn’t in the cards for him. “You won’t be here when I get back, will you?”

“No.”

The realization that she would be traveling alone made him nauseated. Sick. So sick. He dressed in the dark, attempting to quell the roiling in his stomach. When he finished, he went toward the door. How could he pass her without touching her one final time? He couldn’t. At the last second, he threw an arm around her waist and snatched her close, inhaling her crushed berries scent, committing it to memory. “I need to know you’ve returned home safely. I won’t sleep until I hear, Francesca.”
I’ll never sleep again knowing you’re out there, without me.

Her eyes were squeezed shut, but she nodded. “Okay. I’ll make sure you know.”

Through some impersonal text message or a voicemail on his office line. He couldn’t stand knowing that. Yet at least he could look forward to one last communication. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, monocle man.”

After he walked out, Porter listened at the door a moment, but heard nothing. Silence—the same silence that was inside him. It was deafening. His walk to the elevator, the ride downstairs, the trip to the lobby were a blur of colors and sounds. He moved through cold, heavy water while everyone swam freestyle around him, talking, laughing. He wanted to take a baseball bat to everything but his arms wouldn’t work even if he had one. Through it all, though, a hint of incongruity pricked his sixth sense. Hair stood up on the back of his neck as he entered the lounge and felt eyes on him. Too many eyes. His hand sought the inside of his jacket where his gun should have been, had always been, until he’d stopped needing it. He had grown comfortable. Complacent.

A hand landed on his shoulder, right over the spot where Francesca had touched him. Her final touch. Fear that this new touch might somehow dislodge the old one had him spinning, lips peeled back in a growl. A man with steady green eyes greeted him, nondescript and yet familiar. Far too familiar.

Neville, his partner in the firm, didn’t smile; he merely tilted his head. There was even a spark of embarrassment there, as their last encounter had been when Porter agreed to cover for his mistakes. What the hell was he doing here?

“You look like utter shit, Evans,” Neville joked, showing signs of humor. “Not how I expected to find you.”

“There’s no Mr. Nyland.” Porter’s voice was dull. “No meeting.”

The other man shifted on his feet. “These are protocols that you put in place.” Neville cast a glance over Porter’s shoulder, toward the eyes Porter could feel on his back. “Meeting in New York appeared to be low risk, but you never know who is watching.”

Porter checked the urge to press two fingers against his right eye, where the pounding behind it was intense. Francesca was right above him upstairs. Would she ever be this close again?

“Why are you here?” he asked. “I have weeks before I’m due back to London.”

Neville appeared confused, probably by Porter’s lack of enthusiasm.
Get in line.
Nothing would ever make sense again, would it? “You’ve been requested on a job. Your sabbatical is over.” The other man cleared his throat. “The client we discussed last week—he’s familiar with your body of work and he’s adamant that you lead his security team. He’s even willing to cancel the contract if you’re not on board.” Neville brought his voice down. “It’s a lot of money, Evans. I thought you’d be thrilled. Was I…wrong?”

I don’t know. I have no idea what’s wrong or right anymore
. The only thing that ever felt right wanted nothing to do with him anymore. Over. It was over. “I’m to come right now, then?” He tried to swallow the ache in his throat but it wouldn’t go down. “New York was a perfectly safe option. Did you think it would be quicker if I didn’t have the option to pack or tie up loose ends?”

“Yes. Loose ends.” Neville looked to be debating his next words carefully. “We didn’t expect you to bring one of the loose ends
with
you.”

Porter’s chest filled with cement. Francesca. He meant Francesca. That Neville simply knew she existed filled Porter with white-hot irritation. At least irritation was better than loss. Vacant, sickening loss. “Do not speak about her as if she’s an object, or some sort of nuisance. Do not speak about her at all.”