Give It All (22 page)

Duncan’s gaze grew hard, a hint of his old self falling between them, cold and smooth as a pane of glass. “And what sort of man am I, then?”

She shrugged. “The type who’s as evasive as me. What do you care, anyway? It was years ago. I’m over it. Far as I care, it never happened. That’s how little it affects me.”
Liar.
She’d traded skirts and all the other trappings of a softer femininity for her bitch armor, and she wasn’t giving up the latter anytime soon. Never for Miah, so sure as shit not for Duncan Welch.

“I want to know,” he said plainly.

“I can see that.”

He sighed, gaze dropping to her knees. He looked tired when he met her stare again. “I’ll trade you,” he said softly, and moved to the middle cushion. Goddamn if she couldn’t smell him. And not his cologne for once. Sweat. Dust. Skin. The day had peppered his jaw in blond stubble, and there was surrender in those heart-stopping eyes.

“Trade me what?” she asked.

“If you tell me what happened, I’ll tell you something in return. Any single thing you wish to ask.”

“What makes you think I’m not perfectly happy, taking you at face value, Duncan?” She wasn’t, of course. She wanted to know everything. Everything that had formed this extraordinary imposter, everything that made him whisper those things to her the previous morning.
Hold me. Say my name.
And in the silence between those spoken words, another message.
Want me.

And she wanted this trade. Wanted to
know
him, every dark little detail she could get her hands on—and not for leverage. Not anymore. Simply for the privilege. But she was afraid to say so.

“You’ve let me in your home, and your body,” he said softly, and his hand rose. He laid his thumb along her throat, cool, smooth fingers slipping into her hair, spurring her pulse. “Are our secrets really such a wild intimacy to share?”

“That’s just sex,” she lied.

His smile was tight, a touch sad. “You don’t believe that any more than I do.”

She pursed her lips, heart beating quick. “No, I don’t.”

“So tell me.”

“You first.”

He nodded. “Any one thing you care to know.”

“What’s the deal with your parents?”

He spoke to her hands, tone flat and calm. “I don’t have any parents. I grew up in the foster system.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t say she was shocked . . . but surprised, yes. “And here I’d imagined your damage must’ve been the work of some iceberg of a withholding mother.”

“No mother, withholding or otherwise.”

“So is Welch not your parents’ name?”

“No. The story goes that Welch is the surname of the cabdriver who found me, outside a hospital.”

“And Duncan?”

“A nurse named me that. A Leeds United supporter, and great admirer of Duncan McKenzie—a man who boasted the distinction of being able to jump over a Mini, in addition to playing football rather well.”

“So we were both basically left on doorsteps,” Raina mused.

“Are you also named for a seventies footballer, by any chance?”

She cracked a smile.

“At least you were left with your father,” Duncan said.

“But you must have had
some
one, at some point. Foster parents?”

“Yes, many, but never for long. And with precisely one exception, none that ever offered me much besides resentment. I was tolerated, in exchange for weekly checks.”

“Were the bad ones really bad?”

“Others have suffered worse, I’m sure. But it wasn’t pretty, no.”

“That scar on your back . . . ?”

“I was pushed down a flight of stairs. The corner of a stone fireplace broke my fall.”

She winced, sucked a horrified breath. “Jesus. Pushed by one of your foster parents?”

“Yes. Actually, I think he merely meant to hit me, but I was standing in rather the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Fuck me.”

Duncan shrugged. “It could have been far worse, had I landed an inch to the right. Plus, I was sent to a much nicer home, after I got out of hospital. For a time, at least. I’ve always felt the injury was a small price to pay. Now, that’s quite enough about my traumas, Ms. Harper. Now your turn.”

She gave it to him straight. “I was almost gang-raped, six years ago.”

His eyes grew wide, and he didn’t reply for a long moment. “Almost?”

“Almost. I knew them, growing up. They were drunk and high.
I
was drunk. All the folks under thirty were out partying near Big Rock real late, to watch this epic meteor shower. I ignored my instincts, followed one when he said he wanted to show me something amazing, away from the group. Two of his friends followed us. No one noticed—people were sneaking off all over the place, and it wasn’t like we were strangers to each other.”

“And Vince stopped it?”

She smiled. “Vince stopped it. Like the scariest avenging angel ever beamed down from heaven.”

She searched Duncan’s face for pity, for alarm. She didn’t find those, but instead a tiny hint of heat. Of anger. He took his hand back.

“So that’s my damage,” she said.

He dipped his head in a coy little bow. “And mine.”

She held his stare, lost in those pale eyes. She didn’t feel changed, or opened up, or closer to him. A touch more naked, perhaps, but she had ammo, same as he did. And she could sense it didn’t need saying that neither was sharing the secrets they’d just swapped.

Raina eyed the clock, feeling the hour, but far from sleepy. “I’m taking you to bed now,” she said. “And nothing about it’s going to be any different, because of what we both shared just now. It’ll be dirty, and fast, and rough if you like that. You can do anything but hold me down.”

Another dip of that dignified head.

She stood and put her hand out, leading him to her room. And she wondered if he knew what she did—that she’d lied. That there was no way in hell this sex
couldn’t
be different. They could only pretend things hadn’t just changed. They could only lie to themselves.

Thank goodness they were both masters at it.

“Lights on or off?” she asked as they crossed into her dark bedroom.

“Off. Open the blinds. And the window.”

“Don’t forget we’ve got an audience.” She let his hand go, kneeling on the bed to yank the blinds up. Sure enough, she could see Kim’s orange Datsun parked just up the street, its lights and windows dark. Though she wouldn’t be able to make out much of anything.

The sign filled the room with red light, flickering to the rhythm of a faulty neon tube. Raina pushed the window up, letting in a crisp breeze, the buzz of the sign. Downtown was silent. Benji’s last call stole the activity, as sure as Lights Out stole the sun. She turned to face Duncan, watching as he slipped off his shoes, then his socks. He’d shut the door behind him, banishing the soft glow of the den.

“Keep going,” she said.

He peeled his shirt up and over his head. It messed his hair up further, and he could’ve passed for a different man—naked to the waist, dressed in jeans, that long, muscular body bathed in the sinful crimson light. When his pants were kicked away, she said, “Stop.”

“What else do you want?”

To know how different this is going to feel.
They could both have been buck naked and Raina couldn’t have felt more stripped than she did now, in the wake of that talk, and in the wake of last night’s
cuddling.

The night was cool at her back, her lover glowing hot as embers before her. “I’m feeling pretty indulged just now,” she said. “What would
you
like?”

He held her stare for a beat. “To taste you.”

A shiver tensed her back and parted her lips—nothing to do with the open window. She’d not have guessed that offer was in Duncan’s repertoire. It seemed too . . . messy somehow. Too hungry, and personal. Too
animal
. Though none of that changed her answer.

“You got it.”

“You’ve had your show,” Duncan said, sitting on the end of the bed. “I wouldn’t mind the same.”

Raina smiled at that, slipping into seduction mode as she pulled off her boots and socks. She might not wear skirts anymore, might be cagey about presenting herself in any soft sort of way, but once sex was a foregone conclusion, Raina could tease and entice with the best of them. She left the bed and walked to where Duncan had undressed, letting the sign drape her in its red light, the sheerest negligee. Her hair was pulled back. She freed that first, then peeled her tank top up and off. Duncan’s gaze was mild, almost lost to the shadows, but she felt his attention moving over her, real as fingertips, as she dropped her jeans.

Standing before him in her mismatched underwear, she asked, “Keep going?”

“Every stitch.”

She reached back and freed her bra clasp, letting the item drop. She tucked her thumbs under the little strips of lace at her hips, but—

“Stop.”

“You said every stitch.” Granted, the thong was only made of about five of them.

“Come here.”

Another shiver, and she realized she liked him this way. Bossy. Even with him stripped to his shorts, that voice alone kept him dripping in tailored luxury. Though curiosity did have her wondering yet again . . .

As she joined him on the bed and let him tug her close, she asked, “What does your real accent sound like?”

“This is my real accent.”

“Your
old
accent. The one you got rid of.”

“Does it matter?”

She smiled. “No, of course not. I’m just curious.”

“I’m not sure I could affect it if I tried.”

She didn’t believe that, but let it go. “Show me what your mouth
can
do, then.”

“In good time.” First he cupped her jaw, kissing her lightly as their legs tangled. The contact deepened, and Raina gasped against his lips as his palm claimed her breast. His skin was rougher than before, dry and hard from a long day riding in the badlands. Would this sex be the same? Rougher and harder?

His breathing deepened, giving away his excitement. She let him roll her onto her back, and gripped his messy hair. His erection pressed along her mound, sending a thrill down her body and heat gathering between her thighs. She cocked her leg, wanting him closer, right up against her. He gave even more than that, his blunt head taunting her lips through cotton and satin—so close, so frustrating. It was the only thing in the world, this urge.

“We can skip to the good stuff,” she murmured between kisses, stroking his stubbly cheeks. “I’m more than ready.”

“You don’t want to skip what I can do to you,” he whispered, and kissed her jaw, her throat. The cockiness in his voice made her grin.

“Giving head doesn’t seem your style,” she said.

“Then you’ll be pleasantly surprised.” He moved lower, stealing away the hot pressure of his excitement, trailing kisses over her collarbone, nuzzling each breast, dragging his lips down her belly, breath steaming. His knees drove her legs wide. Two strong hands slid under her ass, palming her bare flesh as his nose flirted with her clit through her panties, setting her on fire.

Rumpled or not, his hair was soft as she raked her fingers through it—soft and fine as silk. Soft as the tongue now teasing her labia through wet fabric, surely. She shut her eyes tight, wanting him so bad it ached. His mouth, his hands, his cock—she didn’t care what he gave, only that this man’s body was spoiling her. Or using her, or simply needing her. Yes, needing her. She’d give him this act; then she’d show him she could be what he craved most—someone to take care of him, in the darkest ways.

The satin was soaked now, his lips and tongue so explicit she could come without him even taking the thing off. And he didn’t take it off—when the time came, he merely dragged the flimsy strip aside with his thumb, and he gave her his mouth for real.

“Fuck, Duncan.”

Slick—everything, slick. Her sex, his tongue. The lace of her thong was tugged taut, digging at her ass and hip, the awkward sensations contrasting with the shocking perfection of his mouth.

Duncan gave head the same way he dressed, and spoke, and moved—sumptuously. There was luxury in every stroke, elegance in the steady, precise motion of his thumb tracing her lips.

“God, you’re good.” She felt his stubble against her thighs and labia, that rough bristle making the slippery tease of his tongue all the more exquisite. “Deeper.” He obeyed, tongue delving, and she slid her fingers to her clit. He pushed them aside, taking over the motions himself.

She moaned, lost in it. In being so spoiled. Catered to. Mastered. She’d fantasized about this man dozens of times before they’d ever touched, but she’d never imagined this. Every time they talked seriously or came together sexually, a few more of her assumptions fell away. That man from those dirty daydreams wasn’t the one who was tasting her now. He was cardboard. Two-dimensional, soulless. This man pleasing her, this man whose breaths and lips and teeth and tongue were driving her insane . . . he was a mess. A beautiful, vibrant, broken, perfect mess. And good God, could he eat pussy.

“Keep doing that,” she panted, flexing her hips, curling her toes, every little taste of added tension ratcheting her tighter. His tongue lapped deeply, thumb rubbing her clit with just the right intensity and speed, friction mounting. “Keep doing exactly that.”

She cupped his head in her damp palms, and remembered what this man wanted most from sex. She could wind him up as he pleased her, watch him fall apart when his turn came. She stroked his hair, everything about the gesture speaking of affection and fondness. “You feel good, Duncan.”

His touch sped, tongue losing some grace.

She cradled his head, stroked the curves of his ears. “I want you so bad . . . You want to hear what I wish we could do?”

A pained “Yes” warmed her lips.

“I wish you could fuck me bare, Duncan.” She gave his hair a soft tug with her fist. “We’d do exactly that right now.”

He moaned against her, and the hand holding her panties aside began to tremble.

“You’d fuck me until I came,” she went on, smoothing his hair. “Then I’d taste exactly what you do to me, when I take your cock in my mouth.”

He stumbled, fingers and mouth losing their rhythm. She even wished he’d give her exactly those things, foolish though it was. His bare, slick excitement coursing in and out of hers . . . Such a cautious man, such a reckless idea.

She was close. So fucking close.

“Look at me,” she said, and when those eyes met hers across the rose-tinted planes of her naked body, she was done. The pleasure crested in a bright, hot rush, curling her back up off the covers, digging her nails into his shoulders. His fluttering tongue mimicked her most intimate muscles in the strike of the climax, and in a breath, two, the world was Duncan. This man, now whispering lazy kisses along her fevered seam, thumb barely grazing her pulsing clit. He made a sound she imagined he might reserve for a first bite of lobster, or the moment he shrugged into a new, tailored suit jacket. A sound of ultimate satisfaction and opulence.

“Christ . . . You’re full of surprises, Duncan Welch.”

He knelt between her legs, seeming to study whatever intimate changes he’d brought to her sex, whatever dark flush or plumpness he could make out in the low light.

“Come here,” she said, curling her finger.

For long minutes they lay kissing, until Raina’s satisfaction burned away and her excitement bloomed anew. He’d spoiled her; now she’d do the same to him. She urged him to lie back, then straddled his leg. He was beautiful this way, stripped and excited, on her bed. Aside from that arresting face, he was nothing like the man she’d first taken him for. Clothes gone, hair a mess, due for a shave, and with that trademark cologne swapped for the warm scents of sweat and sex.

She reached for his shorts, toyed with the waistband before easing it low and exposing him—every inch of hard flesh telling her he wanted her as badly as she did him. She loved the
smell
of him. Animal. Human. He smelled of heat and need,
and she couldn’t wait to taste those same things when she took him between her—

“No.” He halted her as she planted her knees and brought her face close, clasping his cock.

She shrugged his hand from her shoulder. “Oh yes.”

“I’m telling you no,” he said more firmly, grip closing tightly around her upper arm. “Consider this my equivalent of an elbow to the eye. I don’t want that.”

A man who didn’t want his dick sucked? Did such a thing actually exist? “Why not?”

He swallowed, distracted by her stroking hand and clearly struggling for composure. “It doesn’t matter why.”

“It always matters why. No question ever matters more than
why.
”

“I prefer to be . . . doing,” he said carefully.

She frowned, all at once worried where this trigger had come from. “Were you—”

“No. Just chalk it up to my control issues. I find few things less rousing than passivity.”

She relented, though the frustration nagged. It wasn’t a favor she’d have been doing him—it would have turned her on as surely as feeling his mouth between her legs had.

“What
would
you like, then?”

He answered with his body, urging her onto her back, bracing himself with his erection hovering above her mound. She opened a condom, then watched him roll it on with those beautiful hands.

He said, “Let me feel what I did to you.” And no doubt he felt just that as his cock sank deep with a single, slow, slick push. She locked her thighs to his hips and closed her eyes.

“Whatever you want,” she whispered. “Take it.”

What he wanted was slow as honey, punctuated by a moan each time he slid home. Little by little, minute by minute, the thrusts came faster, until finally he was embodying that word that had taunted her from the moment he’d uttered it.
Vigorous.
He was rocking into her body, setting her breasts bouncing, recalibrating her breathing to the rhythm of his demands. He had to be close—his control was gone, the pace so clearly his cock’s dictation.

“Duncan.” She stroked his back and arms, his bunched shoulders, touched his face with wonder.
Say it,
she willed him.
Those tender pleas that felt more explicit than the nastiest pillow talk . . .

He moaned against her throat, his cock driving quick and steady.

“Say it,” she whispered, holding his head.

His breath warmed her skin. “Hold me.”

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, palms flat, fingers splayed—every bit of the contact saying,
Mine.
And in every motion of his needy body, he seemed to tell her,
I’m yours.

Finally, those words she craved. “Say my name.”

She kissed his ear. “Duncan.”

His hips sped and another low moan hummed against her neck. A minute later he panted, “Say what . . . ,” then trailed off.

She stroked his hair. “Say what, what?”

“Say what you’ve called me before. Not my name.”

It took her a moment to make sense of the mumbled, shy request, but then she put her mouth just below his ear and murmured, “Baby.”

He groaned.

Kneading his back, she said, “Come on, baby. Come for me.” She kissed his ear again, nuzzled it with her nose. “Like I did for you.”

He was panting now, fucking hard and quick—almost too rough, yet so helpless.

“Come on, Duncan. I want you.”

Another groan, so fierce he could’ve been in pain.

“I want you so much.”

He lost it, hips racing gracelessly, pleasure calling all the shots. “Oh. Fuck.”

“Good,” she whispered, stroking his hair. “Show me.”

“Hold me.”

She pulled him to her, arms around his shoulders, so close they were chest to chest, his thrusts reduced to short, desperate little motions. But it did the job—brought him home. He went rigid against her, burying himself deep for three long, clenching thrusts. Then he stilled.

He propped himself up on his forearms, the rest of him going slack, his back bowing and his belly moving with needy gulps of air. He rested his forehead on hers, their collective
skin damp and hot. She moved her nose against his, and wondered if he could sense her smiling.

Smiling, after everything he’d leveraged out of her tonight. Smiling, after he’d stood her up to chase after . . . what, precisely? Distraction, or peace of mind? Fixation, more likely. His mind was faulty in some ways—wired not quite right. Was the sudden interest in riding just a different manifestation of his obsessiveness, some new facet of his disorder that bore no resemblance to her now gleaming bathroom?

They rolled onto their backs, and Duncan’s fingers closed loosely around her wrist, the gesture equally possessive and tender.

“You cooking for me tomorrow night?” she asked.

“Tonight, technically.”

True. It was easily past three a.m. “What are you making?”

“Nothing fancy.”

“Something involving vegetables, to judge by the contents of my fridge.”

“Is that okay?”

“Asparagus has some logistical issues . . . But we can fuck first.”

He laughed softly, the noise packing her heart with daisies. Christ, how did he
do
that?

“Must have cost you an arm and a leg, all that stuff,” she said, forcing her attention off the squishier feelings. “All the stickers said organic, and even regular produce is overpriced way up here. Unless you dig alfalfa hay.”

“Do I seem like a man who skimps on quality to save a dollar?”

“Never for a moment.”

“Don’t tell Agent Flores,” he said, “but I had to cross the town border to get it all.”

“Naughty you.”

He turned and she did the same, letting him hold her stare.

His irises looked dark in the red glow, as did his hair. Cologne gone, crisp cotton traded for bare skin. A stranger, nearly, yet she could touch this version of Duncan in ways his well-dressed, calculating persona would never allow.

“What happened to that law-abiding man who first strolled into my bar all those weeks ago?” she asked.