On Thin Ice (15 page)

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Authors: Susan Andersen

BOOK: On Thin Ice
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“More or less.”
“More or less?” He felt like shaking her. “What the hell does that
mean,
more or less?”
“It means I cut 'em with a little sugar and held a teensy bit back, kind of in reserve for a rainy day.” She'd done it for the power of knowing she could do it . . . and get away with it.
“Karen.” He stared down at her. “How much is a teensy bit?”
She shrugged coolly. “About a quarter.”
“You held back
four and a quarter kilos?
”
“Uh-huh.”
“Jeez.” Lon whistled through his teeth. “You've got nerves of steel, girl; I gotta hand you that.” Then he frowned. “But what about when you contacted the dealers in all the cities? It had to have gotten back to Quintero.”
“Do I look stupid, Lon? I didn't contact his dealers.”
“So who's pushing the product?”
“Me . . . when the mood strikes me. And now that you're here, you.”
“No. Not me. If that's your plan, you can just get it out of your head right now.”
“Yes
you. I want you to.”
“Too bad, baby, because I'm not getting back into that shit.”
“Lon,” she warned sternly, but he overrode her interruption.
“Don't tell me not to use that language, Karen, because sometimes it's the only thing that fits. I just spent five years of my life in a correctional institute—
five years
, babycakes, and I ain't never going back. Besides, I promised Sasha . . .”
Too late he swallowed the rest. Ah, damn it to hell.
He really wished he hadn't brought her name into this.
N
INE
Even back in their amateur circuit days, Karen had displayed a curiosity regarding Sasha's sexual proclivities that Lon had found difficult to comprehend. She was messing around with
him
for God's sake, so why all the interest in Saush's sex life? What was it to Karen who Sasha did or didn't sleep with?
The way she used to hound him, though—Karen simply could not resist digging up the dirt. She wanted to know every little detail about every single person she came into contact with. What possible use that information was to her once she'd gotten her hot little hands on it was anybody's guess, but the minute she decided she needed something she was like a damn pit bull with its teeth sunk in and its jaws locked tight, shaking, shaking, shaking until it was hers.
Lon had caved in on a number of her demands, mostly because it was easier than arguing about a bunch of stuff not worth fighting over. But he'd never caved when it came to Sasha's personal business. Sasha was his best friend; he didn't sell her secrets for even the best blow job in the world.
Which surely most folks would agree was all very noble and heartwarming of him. He still wished to hell he hadn't brought Saush's name up now.
Karen had grown very still, but she slowly pushed herself up first onto one elbow, and then to a sitting position in the middle of the bed. Unmindful of her nudity, she swept her blond hair out of her eyes. “What did you promise Sasha?”
Shit. Well, there was no dancing around it now. Lon looked her dead in the eye. “I promised her I'd stay away from the drug scene and most particularly that I wouldn't sell again.”
The look Karen gave him was incredulous. “Why on earth would you do that?”
He wasn't about to attempt an explanation of those tempestuous small-town teenage years to Karen Corselli. Mind racing, he snatched a partial truth out of the air. “Because she put her neck on the chopping block getting them to hire me.”
“Yes, Lon, who exactly
did
she sleep with to secure you this job?”
“Maybe she prayed for it, Karen,” he drawled, knowing that would bug her. She considered praying her forte, arrogantly assuming that because not everyone made as big a production out of their faith as she did they must therefore somehow be lacking in it. Reaching for his pants, he rolled to his feet and climbed into them.
Karen watched in frustration. She was losing control here and she didn't like it. Moreover, she absolutely refused to tolerate a loss of power for a moment longer than she had to. Men did
not
walk away until she was darn good and ready to let them go.
Yet from the very beginning, Lon had been different. Some of the time she had been able to dominate him with the same ease as other men. But there were other times when he was as recalcitrant as a Missouri mule. Unlike the majority of the men she was accustomed to dealing with, men whom for the most part she could master simply by displaying her displeasure or withholding her sexual favors, Lon thrived on adversarial situations. He enjoyed arguing and putting her back up and would do so whenever the mood struck him, just for the sheer thrill of it.
And from the beginning she'd let him get away with it because there was something about his attitude that she found extremely . . . stimulating. She watched now in silent mental and sexual frustration as, without so much as a further glance in her direction, Lon slid into his shirt, gathered up his socks and shoes, and sat down on the side of the bed to put them on.
She squeezed her thighs together. How dare he deny her wishes and then simply ignore her this way? Who did he think he was? Needing a scapegoat and disregarding Lon's active penchant for doing the opposite of anything he was commanded to do, she petulantly decided she knew precisely where to lay the blame for this most recent little display of independence.
Squarely on Sasha Miller's doorstep.
For as long as she'd known Lon, he'd been protecting Sasha Miller's interests, and frankly Karen was tired of it. Sasha had entirely too much influence over him, and
that
was a source of power Karen would not countenance. Between her interference in Lon's decisions and this business with Mick Vinicor, she was really beginning to get on Karen's nerves.
Something would have to be done about her and that was a fact.
Something a bit more conclusive than that pansy little accident on the ice the other day.
 
 
Sasha thought that by knocking on Mick's hotel room door, she was probably asking for trouble. As a last resort, however, having exhausted every other resource and unable to locate him anywhere else, she didn't see what other option she had. There were only three hours until tonight's performance and he'd made it painfully clear that she wouldn't be part of the program without a clearance from her doctor. Then—and she perceived this to be an act of deliberate malice on his part—having laid down the law, did he make himself readily accessible? Oh, no. He was nowhere to be found when she tried to hand the damn thing over to him.
Her knock went unanswered.
Damn,
not here either, apparently. Slamming her palm against the door panel in frustration, she turned away and was two steps down the hall when the door suddenly opened behind her. Sasha turned back.
Her heartbeat threw in an extra little thump and then picked up speed as she stood there looking at him. It was obvious she had interrupted his shaving.
Barefoot, wearing a white T-shirt tucked into olive-drab Dockers, he was using the towel draped around his neck to wipe creamy foam off his throat, and his cheeks and jaw were shiny in that way that only freshly shaved skin can be. His hair was slicked straight back from his forehead, still damp enough to show the track marks of his comb.
Sasha thrust the doctor's okay at him. “Here.” Okay, so she sounded a little surly. But damned if she was going to stand around and pump up his ego by admiring his manly charms.
Mick took in her high color, the temper sparking in her gray eyes. Without bothering to reach for it, he glanced down at the paper she was all but jabbing into his chest. His eyes lifted once again to look into hers. “What's this?”
“What do you think it is, Vinicor?” She waved the paper under his nose this time. “It's my medical clearance.”
“Uh-huh. Let's see that.” He took his time looking it over before he finally returned his attention to her. “So you really feel okay?”
“Right as rain, bud.”
“No lingering effects? No light-headedness, no weakness?”
“No.” Without thinking she cocked an arm and flexed a biceps at him. “Strong as an ox.”
“Good.” He reached out, curled his fingers around the proffered muscle, trapped his other hand around the back of her neck and pulled her into his room. Slamming the door with a raised knee, he crowded her up against it. “Because I've waited long enough for this.”
Sasha was just opening her mouth to ask him what the
hell
he thought he was doing when his hands plunged into her hair and his mouth came down on hers. It was akin to being struck by lightning, something she should have remembered from the other times he'd kissed her.
In a fuzzy, faraway corner of her mind was a thought knocking to be heard. She shouldn't allow him to get away with this. She was going to regret this lamentable lack of willpower and she really ought to put a stop to it. Reasons to do just that,
good
reasons, at the forefront of which was a nebulous feminist rhetoric that tried to insist he couldn't just grab her and kiss her whenever he damn well pleased, got jumbled together in her brain. She couldn't seem to formulate one complete, coherent thought.
Which was probably just as well since her senses refused to get caught up in anything that might cause her to call a halt to this anyway. Not when it felt so good. Not when those self-same senses were being overwhelmed with all these hot urges.
God, his mouth. It . . . felt . . . so . . .
good.
His lips were strong and his tongue was aggressive, and Sasha raised up on her toes to get more of both, sliding her hands up to frame his cheeks. She reveled in the feel of his flesh, so warm and smooth beneath her fingertips.
Mick made a noise deep in his throat and widened his mouth. Then he dragged it closed, sucking at her lips, licking at all the sleek, hidden hollows. It wasn't until quite a bit later that he finally raised his head to look down at her.
Sasha was slower to open her eyes and Mick observed her passion-induced lethargy with satisfaction. Her skin was flushed and her eyes were heavy-lidded and dark as pewter when she finally dragged them open. Her hands still clung to his cheeks as she stared up at him in a daze.
“Damn, you're pretty,” he said in a rough voice and bent his head to hers once more. By the time he raised it again she was making little sounds in her throat and moving against him with unthinking sexuality.
Mick picked her up and carried her to the bed. He laid her down, ripped his shirt off over his head and came down on the mattress next to her. Propped up on one elbow he looked down at her; then unable to stay away from her mouth, he bent his head and kissed her again. Kissing him back with equal fervor, Sasha's arms reached up to wind around his neck, and Mick smoothed his free hand up her ribs to palm a small breast.
A strangled moan exploded out of her throat. Arms still clinging to his neck, Sasha ripped her mouth out from under Mick's and arched into the hand molding her breast. Eyes closed, head thrown back and rolling restively from side to side, she panted for breath through parted lips. Mick watched her as his forefinger and thumb came together on her nipple, gently squeezing it, tugging it to its full distention beneath the double layers of cloth that comprised her T-shirt and bra.
“Mick?
” Her eyes flew open but lacked focus as she stared up at him; her fingernails anchored themselves in the bare skin of his shoulders. Against the mattress her hips executed a small bump and grind. Mick stilled.
Except for the thumb and finger that held her nipple. “Damn,” he muttered, lavishing it with more of the same attention just to see more of her reaction. “Ah,
damn,
Sasha.” Then he came out of his paralysis and burst into action. One-handedly, he wrestled her shirt out from under her waistband and up over her breasts until it was bunched around her chest. Thanking God her bra had a front closure, he finessed open the hook between her breasts and peeled back the sheer cups of her bra. He looked down at her. “Oh, God. That's beautiful.”
Sweet as peaches, was his first thought. That's what her breasts reminded him of. They were small, golden, round. And ripe; God they looked so ripe. He could visualize biting into them, could almost taste the juice that would explode against his palate, slide down his throat. Lying on her back the fullness was flattened slightly, but her nipples were blush-pink, long as the tip of his little finger, and poking arrogantly skyward.
He brought one hand up to gently stroke the delicate curvature. Then he cupped the underside of her breast with hard-skinned fingers, pushed it up, and lowered his head to lap one of those uppity nipples into his mouth. Lips closing around it, tongue applying suction under it, he drew strongly.
Sasha's vaginal muscles pulled tight. “OhGodohGod-ohGodohGod,” she crooned frantically. “Mick?” Her hips writhed and she thrust her breast more fully into his face, aching for, dying for . . . she didn't know what.
Mick did. Her responsiveness was so damn hot, he could feel his restraint slipping. God, he wanted to chew these sweet little morsels right off her breasts, wanted to bury his face between her legs and slather and slobber and to generally go at her like a damn animal. He pulled back, on the edge of control, his breath sawing at his lungs like a long-distance runner's.
When his touch left her and didn't come back, Sasha opened her eyes. Mick was braced over her on both hands, head hanging, only her arms around his neck connecting the two of them. “What?” she whispered and the confusion in her voice caused him to bring his head up to stare down at her. Then a stricken expression crossed her face. “Oh, my God, I'm not doing anything for you. I'm sorry; I should be reciprocating, shouldn't I?” She started to disentangle her arms from around his neck.
But Mick expelled an ironic little snort of laughter and reached a hand up to still her movement. Sliding it up the smooth skin of her arm to cup his hard palm around her elbow, he forced her to tighten her grip around his neck again and then stroked his cheek against her upper arm. “No,” he said and was surprised at how rusty his voice sounded. Clearing his throat, he reiterated more firmly, “No.” When she simply stared at him as if trying to gauge whether he was just being polite, his mouth twisted into a wry smile and he said honestly, “That won't be necessary, trust me.”
“Oh, but—”
His patience slipped a notch. “Sasha, I'm hotter 'n a pistol; I really don't think reciprocation's such a good idea.” He watched it sink in and then added more temperately, “Seems I've got a hair trigger where you're concerned, so believe me when I tell ya: you touch me and it's gonna be all over but the shouting.” His hand left the soft tangle of arms around his neck and stroked down her side, fingers teasing at the side of her breast. Unconsciously, Sasha turned into his touch.

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