Hostile Takeover (8 page)

Something broke inside him. No, not broke. That was entirely the wrong word. He found his footing, something kicking in that was much stronger than concerns about Lucas and Cass, about inappropriate or appropriate behavior on his part. It was the feeling he had right before he entered one of Matt’s volatile acquisition meetings. Foot in the stirrup, ass on the warhorse, lance in hand, no entendre intended. Decision made.

The whiskey and damn indecision from last night disappeared. He knew how to handle this situation. Misbehaving subs, those who stepped out of line, were his particular area of expertise. His craving.

“Is that all you needed, Don? All right then, I’ll have my intern fax over…”

He dealt with Don with courtesy, showed him out the door, using iron discipline to keep his cock from straining at the end of its chain. Marcie had of course returned both hands to her keyboard, her skirt smoothed back over her thighs. She rose, smiling. Nodding to Don, she reached out to grip his hand when the man offered his. She was going to touch him with the hand she’d had on her pussy, leave that scent on his fingers. From the calculated look in her gaze, Ben knew she intended it.

He stepped between them, though it wasn’t a wide space. While Don looked a little startled by the abrupt intervention, Ben ironed it out with some further BS about the documents he needed. As Don responded, Marcie’s fingers brushed Ben’s back, the line of his spine, tugging playfully on his dress shirt, since his coat was hanging up behind his door. Her touch felt good, too good. Ben stepped away, taking Don down the hall and back to reception.

After he turned him over to Janet, doing a few more minutes of necessary bullshit chitchat, he pivoted on his foot and headed back down the hall. Since he was striding back to his office like a wolf running down a kill, he made himself stop before he hit the corner that would take him into view of his office area. Holding himself there, he took a breath. Thought it through.

That pause didn’t change anything. He knew what was needed, and wouldn’t turn back from it. Wherever the hell this took them, she’d pushed it too far. Time to give her a taste of what she thought she wanted.

* * * * *

After executing her Plan B, Marcie had been too wired to sleep, her body needy, hungry, but she didn’t give it the orgasm it was screaming for. She wanted to stay like this, wild, reckless, so she’d have the courage to make some really terrible decisions in judgment in the morning. Like masturbating right there where Don Alexander might have seen. But the look in Ben’s eyes, the flame in those green eyes, had been worth the risk. She’d broken his chain of self-control, she knew it. He’d obviously seen the security footage, because there was an edge to that look, a promise of retribution.

As she heard his footsteps, she had a moment to be thrilled and terrified at once. She’d pushed him past anything she could control. It gave her a primal urge to bolt, but fortunately he was turning the corner, already too close. Just the smell of his aftershave, the remembrance of the heat of his skin beneath his shirt when she’d stroked him just now, without Don’s knowledge, was enough to weaken her knees.

She was still standing by her desk, but he didn’t pause. Locking his hand around her wrist, he strode past her, yanking her into step with him. With a little hop and skip, she was with him. He might drag her by her hair if she stumbled.

He took her to the private restroom at this end of the hall, one that had shower facilities, everything for a man who often worked long hours at the office. He pulled her in there, slammed the door behind them, twisted the locks shut.

“Ben—” That was all she got out, because in the next blink, he’d shoved her against the wall and slammed his mouth down on hers.

Oh.
Oh.
She whimpered in the back of her throat at the strength of his aroused, powerful body against her. His hands were in her hair, yanking out pins so it spilled onto her shoulders. He gripped the strands hard, fusing her mouth to his. His tongue demanded entry, and it made every part of her tight, the way he lashed it against hers, pressing it down, learning her mouth more intimately than she thought was possible.

His hands stayed on her face, though her body writhed uncontrolled against him, her tight nipples pressed to his chest. She tried to push herself against his hard groin, but he thrust his thigh between her legs so his knee thudded against the wall, flexing muscle pressing against her mound.

“You fucking slut,” he muttered against her lips. “Hot little cunt.”

How he could make such awful words sound like an endearment, a caress, she didn’t know, but he did. She was shameless enough to nod, to confirm it. She was a slut, her pussy wet, all for him. Only for him. This was that moment she’d dreamed about, overwhelming, crazy, impossible to control, and she didn’t want any control. She wanted to be chained to him. Collared and belonging to him in every dark, dangerous way that horrified the civilized world.

If it were hundreds of years ago, and he were a pasha, she’d want to be his slave girl, subject to the sting of his lash. If he was a pirate, she’d be the nobleman’s daughter he kidnapped and corrupted, night after night, turning her into a wanton, willing to do anything. Fight at his side, press her lips to his polished boot. Curl next to his feet to be there for anything he needed.

She savored every millimeter of his palm against her face, her throat, his fingers buried in her hair. Her lips stayed parted, open as he plundered, took for himself. Her pulse thundered in her throat, roared in her ears. Her clit throbbed against his leg. When the thigh muscle shifted with his stance, she gasped into his mouth. But she stayed still, his to do with as he desired.

He broke the kiss, pulled her to face the mirror over the sink. “Hands on the counter,” he growled, gaze pinning her in that reflective glass. “Get rid of the shoes. Keep standing straight. Press your cunt against it.”

She obeyed, kicking off the shoes, knowing that her teeth were chattering with nerves. There was something raw and volatile in this room, something she’d glimpsed that night at Surreal when he hadn’t known she was there. This was the kind of Master he was. Hard, ruthless, edgy. Dangerous, the kind of Dom who took the challenge of finding out what his sub was and needed down to her soul, without allowing her to say a word. He was a lawyer—he had no trust of words, though he certainly knew their power.

It didn’t matter. She wanted him any way she could get him. She could do this.

Her nipples were so stiff, it was as if she was wearing no bra at all. He slid his hand along the right stocking, traced the garter as she made a tiny mewl. The loss of her heels made her feel even more vulnerable. Dipping his fingers under the hem of the skirt, he pushed it up so it folded around his wrist as he found her panties, the soaked crotch. She moaned.

“Wet as you can be. You were going to touch Don with this hand.” He lifted it with his other, his fingers tight on her wrist, emphasizing how much stronger he was.

She wouldn’t show fear, even though she was shaking like a cornered mouse. “Yes.”

Pushing the crotch of her panties aside, he sank two fingers into her, without hesitation, knowing her body intimately. She cried out, but managed to stay still as he ordered while his thumb settled on her clit, began to rub. He brought her hand to his mouth, sucked on her fingers, took the taste of her pussy into himself. It was a good thing he was pressed up against her, because her knees would have buckled.

“You didn’t come last night,” he muttered, “all spread out on my car. Why not?”

“Because…you didn’t give me permission.”

“You’ll come now.”

It was lightning, whatever he did, the skillful rhythm, pinches at just the right moments, the way his gaze met hers in the mirror, the feel of his body against hers, taking her over. She had a compulsion to resist, an automatic survival instinct before the vortex about to sweep her away, but it was useless. The climax she’d held out of reach last night, stoked to trip off at the slightest provocation, swept up through her, flushing her skin.

He caught her throat, holding her face so she was staring at herself in the mirror, staring at him. Her mouth stretched wide, her eyes teared, and strangled shrieks tore from her throat. He kept working her with the other hand, had her up so high on her toes he put uncomfortable pressure on her jaw, keeping her straining, quivering, gasping.

As she cried out, he turned his face into her throat and bit, sucking on her skin fiercely, marking her tender flesh just below the top edge of the soft turtleneck collar. A glazed glimpse at the mirror showed him biting into her like a vampire, her breasts thrust out, nipples jutting, body jerking uncontrollably in his powerful hold, his hand working between her legs. With her skirt pushed up and gathered around his forearm, his large fingers were visible through the sheer cloth of her panties as he thrust and scissored, pinched her clit.

Because of that hold, the balance of pain and discomfort with the pleasure, it was the most unusual and intense orgasm she’d ever experienced. Like a whitewater rapid ride, bumpy and thrilling, scary, a cyclone of unpredictable sensations as she cried out and shuddered, made pleading noises. The waves of feeling kept hitting her from all sides, spinning her mind, making her body buck. Just when she thought she was coming down, he’d move his fingers or alter the pressure on her throat and she was bleating with helpless noises once more.

At last her body itself gave out, convulsing like a fever victim, leaving her mind blank, facial features numb, making it difficult to speak. She was panting, seeking air. At a certain point she’d unconsciously let go of the counter, had grabbed hold of his forearm across her body. Now she saw she’d dug her nails into his flesh, drawn blood. He’d have at least three crescent marks there. She was still holding him that tightly, but she couldn’t make herself let go.

“Does Lucas know what you are?”

Her gaze fluttered up to meet his in the mirror. He had his jaw pressed to the side of her head, his lips cruising along the hair at her temple. It wasn’t tenderness, not exactly. He looked like he was learning her scent like a predator, so he could hunt her again.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what he and Cass talk about.” Enough belligerence slipped into her voice that she earned a deeper push of those fingers. Plus a third one, despite the constricted nature of her post-climactic tissues. She bit her lip.

“Does Cass know?”

“Yes.” She swallowed against his hold, met that formidable stare. “She and I talked…when I figured it out. She also had me talk to Dana. In case I felt reservations about discussing certain things with her. I asked her not to tell Peter. So I don’t think any of the other…”

“Guys” didn’t fit, not at this moment. Five hardcore Masters, bonded like a wolfpack. A more respectful honorific was needed, but her brain was too foggy to figure it out.

“Christ.” Though he still held her on her toes, he slid his fingers out of her. Her hands convulsed against his arm, the one she’d marked. If he rolled down the sleeve, he’d get blood on it. When he eased her back to her feet, she was already reaching for the basket of thick paper hand towels. Her fingers shaking, she tried to run one under the water.

“Got to wipe that blood off,” she said, hearing her voice break. “Make sure you don’t mess up your shirt.”

Marcie: I know you’ve had sex with a million women. How many women have you had that mattered?

Ben: I’m not having this conversation with you.

Marcie: Why?

Ben: Because it’s entirely inappropriate, and none of your business.

Marcie: I’m just curious what it is you really want.

Ben: Men aren’t that complex, Marcie.

Marcie: Maybe most men aren’t. But I think you are. Otherwise you’d just answer the question.

Phone call between Ben and Marcie

Chapter Four

He pressed against her back, closing his hands on her wrists. “Stop.” He spoke against her hair. Pulling the towel from her hands, he set it aside. “Come here.”

Since she was already right against him, she wasn’t sure what he meant, but it didn’t matter. Turning her in his arms, he picked her up, smooth and easy. In the small sitting area adjacent to the bathroom was a settee, probably to give him a place to sit down and put on his shoes if he was dressing in here. Now he set her down on the firm cushions. “Stay there.”

Returning to the sink, he blotted the blood off his arm, quick and functional. Then he wet another paper towel and brought it and a couple dry ones with him. Nonplussed, she watched him drop to one knee beside her, bringing them to eye level. Cupping her chin, he dabbed at her mascara, dried tears she hadn’t realized she’d shed when he took her over so completely. She didn’t understand why that would make her cry, but it felt right, like it should.

Reaching out, she touched the pocket of his shirt, her fingers hooking briefly in it, caressing the man beneath. “No handkerchief,” she managed.

“It was in my coat,” he said. “We’ll make do with this.”

He sat back on his heels then, out of her reach. Bending his head, he gripped her ankle, began to massage the strained arches, her toes, through the silk of her stockings. “Oh.” She suppressed a moan of sheer joy at the sensation. The little ripple between her legs at the intimate touch surprised her, her body responding as if that hollow of her foot was an erogenous zone.