One Wrong Move (27 page)

It took her about three seconds to realize that she was in big,
big
trouble. It was so good. Amazingly good. She clutched his head, fingers tangled in his hair, shaking and wobbling on one unsteady leg, the other cocked high on the bed, with that luscious candy-swirl of pleasure undoing her from her core. He licked and delved and probed, and thrust two fingers up to his knuckle, curving them and petting her inside.

She teetered, stuck on the caressing prong of his fingers, legs shaking so hard she was sure she’d topple. Sore from the night’s marvelous excesses, but still going off in delicious little explosions. She was about to fall, but to stop him, to ask for quarter in any way would wreck her upper hand, and he needed her to be strong for him.

She didn’t pretend to understand it. She was improvising, but he was melting her down, and the ache swelled bigger, brighter—

It bloomed, and spread out toward infinity in great, pulsing, black and red and rainbow-spangled waves, and she lost herself with it.

She may have toppled, or flopped on top of him, or fainted dead away. But when she came back to herself, they were kneeling, facing each other, and Aaro held her. Or she’d have been a heap on the carpet.

Her eyes fluttered open. He was smoothing strands of sweaty hair off her face. His eyes swam into focus. His grin carved deep grooves into his lean cheeks, make his eye crinkles fan out. He was so gorgeous, her breath stuck halfway inside and just sat there, like a rock.

“Can I use my mouth again?” he asked.

After an embarrassingly long interval, she found the power of speech again. “Only to kiss me.”

His kiss broke her heart. His demanding hunger, her frantic surrender. No controlling him now, not a chance. He tossed her onto the bed, opened a condom, and rolled it on one handed.

Mounted her, never ceding for a moment in his devouring kiss.

He slid his cockhead against her slick folds and stared into her eyes. Every slow increment of his penetration, she felt a deeper claiming. After all his trash talk, how desperately he tried to distance himself from her.

He couldn’t. Not against this. Neither of them could.

She felt devoured. She loved surrendering to his worshipful skill. She whimpered and gave in to the luscious slide and thud of his big body, forcing her into another wrenching climax. She arched, sobbed. He stifled a shout. They clutched each other.

Aaro finally rolled onto his back, but kept her clamped against him. She ended up on top, thighs twined around his. His half-hard cock still clasped inside her. He wound his fingers into her damp hair, and gently lifted her head. “I didn’t ask, this time,”

he said, frowning.

She gave him a lazy, sated smile. “You sure didn’t. You trashed my dominatrix fantasy, throwing your weight around like that.”

He did not relax. “Is it OK?” he persisted. “You’re OK?”

She folded her arms over his chest and propped her chin on them. “Let’s put aside your annoying habit of fishing for compliments, and address the more burning question.”

He looked spooked. “And that is?”

She toyed with his chest hair. “Did you get your ya-ya’s out?”

she asked. “Have you calmed down? Can we talk rationally?”

His mouth tightened. “You fucked me just to calm me down?”

She jerked up onto her elbows. “Don’t start, Aaro. I’m warning you. Do not even start. Behave. Or else.”

“Or what?” A wary smile twitched the corners of his mouth.

“Or you’ll sit on my face again?”

“Whatever I have to do.” She tried to sound stern.

“As a deterrent, it’s not real effective,” he said. “My mouth waters just thinking about it. You’d have to kick me away and handcuff me to the radiator to make me stop.” His cock swelled inside her with those words. She clenched around him, the small muscles inside fluttering.

“Would you kick me away, Nina?” he murmured. “Cruel goddess.”

She moved over him, gasping. Ready again, so soon? They were so wet and slick from her lube, the slide of his cock inside her was a long, tender, liquid kiss inside of her, pulsing tenderly.

“Do you always wake up in such a bad mood?” she asked.

“Mostly,” he said. “It’s better now. I don’t usually inflict my shitty morning mood on another person. I make a point of being alone.”

“You never have girlfriends stay the night?”

He shook his head.

She pushed herself upright, which only served to emphasize the fact that he was still wedged inside of her. And that, in spite of their charged conversation, he was fully erect. His heartbeat throbbed inside her. Their eyes locked. He grabbed her waist, lifting her up to give himself room for a longer stroke. Slid his shaft halfway out. Let her sink slowly, deliciously back down.

Pulsing, wiggling.

“Do you ever get tired?” she demanded, breathless.

“Not of you.”

She harrumphed. “If you’re trying to distract me, it’s not going to work,” she informed him.

“But that’s what you just did to me,” he pointed out. “It worked, too. And it’s an infinitely repeatable solution. Yum.

Cool.”

“It’s not the same thing,” she said sternly. “I was distracting you from your catastrophically bad attitude. I think we should talk.”

“About my bad attitude? Fuck, no. Let’s not and say we did.”

He circled her clit with his thumb. “This is way better.”

She laughed. “You actually think we can avoid all awkward conversations indefinitely by distracting ourselves with sex?”

“Worth a try, isn’t it? Who knows how long we could spin it out?”

A lifetime?
She tried to erase the thought, it being inappropriate and impossible. She pushed his chest. “I’m a little sore,” she whispered.

He drew away instantly, pulling out of her. “Sorry. I overdid it.”

“It’s OK,” she murmured, curling her legs beneath her on the bed. “You look scared,” she blurted.

His gaze slid away. “Shitless,” he admitted, after a moment.

“Why? What’s so scary about me? I’m so goddamn harmless!”

“Harmless?” His voice was heavy with irony. “My ass.” He still avoided her gaze. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he muttered finally.

“Then don’t,” she said.

He rolled over, hiding his face. She tried to coax him back, but he wouldn’t budge. After a few moments of that, she realized he was right.

It wasn’t that simple. It should be, but it wasn’t. She was torturing the guy needlessly, asking for things he just didn’t have to give.

Oh, the hell with it. She draped herself over him, covering him with her body, her hair. Trying to memorize the shape of his big body.

She slid off when he started to fidget. “What now?” she asked.

He rolled onto his side. “What we’ve been doing,” he said. “I try to keep you alive. You try to tolerate me.”

“There’s only so much I can tolerate,” she said.

His face was sullen and guarded. “I know.”

“You know you can’t throw fits like that, right?” she pressed.

“We got through it this time, but it’s not something I can tolerate again.”

He nodded.

“So you’ll be good?” she persisted.

“No promises.”

For God’s sake. Defending his right to be a jerk. She sighed.

For some reason, it seemed important to convince him of this one, small thing. “I’m not asking for promises,” she said, an edge in her voice. “I just want you to try to behave. I won’t be here much longer, so it’s not even that big of a deal. Will you just
try
to be good?”

It sounded like he was coughing up rocks. “I’ll try.”

That was it. The best she was going to pry out of him. A reluctant promise to try not to be horrible. She was such an idiot. She headed into the bathroom. Barely recognizing the woman in the mirror. Cherry red, puffy lips, eyes dilated, hair big and crazy mussed.

Of course, the guy was gorgeous, and a god in bed. He’d saved her life, and then screwed her brains out all night long. There would have to be something wrong with her if she hadn’t gotten a huge crush on him.

There were plenty of things wrong with her already, of course, but she’d never thought that wanting impossible things from inappropriate men was high on her list of personality flaws.

Tears pricked her eyes. Absurd, to get all emotional over him, the way he held himself back from her. She set about washing off the latest evidence of her poor judgment, lecturing herself in the toughest possible terms. Whoop-de-fucking-do, Aaro promised to try not to be mean and horrible to her for the next hour. What a prince of a guy.

Give him a freaking medal, why didn’t she.

Be good.
Tough directive. Hard to define. All the different things it could mean. He avoided ambiguity whenever possible. He kept things simple. Binary-code-type simple. Black or white. Dots or dashes. True or false. One or zero.

Never two.

When Nina came out of the bathroom, he grabbed his cell, desperate for something to distract him from the promise he’d just made. He didn’t know if he could follow through on it. Had no evidence to suggest that he could, and a lot that would indicate that he couldn’t. It made him frantic. It was so fucked up. So stupid.

“Who are you calling?” Nina asked.

“Miles,” he said.

Her eyebrows went up. “It’s barely six in the morning there.”

“I pay him enough to call at three A.M.” It began to ring. “And he’s not asleep. Miles never sleeps when he goes into computer world.”

Miles picked up. “Hey,” he said. “Found out stuff. Weird stuff.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Aaro said.

“I did my best to filter out the guy’s voice on the file. I’m sending the scrubbed file to your phone right now.”

“Good,” Aaro said. “And the rest?”

“Could you put that on speakerphone?” Nina’s voice had that
206

whip-snapping bite to it. He kind of liked it. He clicked on the speaker.

“First off, Kasyanov is supposed to be dead,” Miles announced, on the speakerphone. “She died three years ago. A fire at the Morgensen Memorial Research Center, outside Spokane.

A guy named Joseph Kirk was married to her in the eighties. He met her in some think tank. They had a daughter, in 1986. It says here, ‘survived by a daughter, Lara Kirk.’ She attended the San Francisco School of Fine Arts. Up-and-coming sculptor. Galleries were taking notice, collectors snapping up early works. Until she disappeared.”

“Let me guess. Four months ago? Right?”

“Uh, yeah. She’s a missing person now. I have the number of the detective handling her case. Haven’t called him yet. Too early.”

“Forward it to me,” Aaro directed. “Where’s Joseph Kirk located?”

“He’s the head of the science department of a small liberal arts school, Wentworth College. About an hour from Portland.”

“You haven’t talked to him yet?”

“It is six A.M. Some people actually do sleep, you know.”

“Call me when you find out more.” He hung up, and noticed Nina gazing at him, her face perplexed. “What?” he demanded.

“Why did you ask him to call you?” she asked. “The bodyguard will be here soon. He should call Bruno with new info.

Or me.”

Who knew why? Why the fuck did anyone do anything? It was a valid question, but it made him feel pushed away, and pissed off.

“You don’t have to pretend it’s your problem anymore,” she said gently. “You’re excused. You’ve done your part. You did it wonderfully.”

Excused, his ass. “I’m not pretending anything,” he muttered.

Nina stared down at her clasped hands. “So she died, in a fire three years ago? That fits with what Helga said. That the guy had imprisoned her, forced her to produce this drug for him. Poor Helga.”

“You feel sorry for her, after what she did to you?”

Nina shook her head, picked up the room phone.

“Who the hell are you calling?” he demanded.

“The hospital,” she replied. “Maybe Helga woke up. Even if she still can’t speak English, she could talk directly to you.”

He sat and watched as she went through the process of getting through the hospital switchboard. She kept her voice pleasant, despite being put on hold, over and over. “Yes, I was calling to check the status of a patient, Helga Kasyanov,” she said. “She’s my aunt. Is she . . .”

Her face went pale and hard. “I see,” she said tonelessly.

“Thank you very much.” She set the phone delicately back into the cradle. “She died.” Her voice cracked. “Yesterday.”

Oh. Well, fuck. He let out air. Not that he’d really had much hope for help from that quarter anyway. Not after listening to that file.

“So.” Nina rubbed her face. “She said she was injected five days ago? It’s Friday. She told me I had three days. But she lasted for five.”

“If what she said was true,” Aaro said.

Nina shook her head. “It was the truth. She was dying, and she knew it. She had no reason to lie.”

It burned him, being handed a problem that he could not solve. He wanted to give her something, resolve something. But he came up blank. Blowing steam out his ears. She located her clothing under the coverlet on the floor. “Don’t bother putting those on,” he said.

She shot him an are-you-kidding look. “Aaro, seriously—”

“I wasn’t proposing more sex,” he assured her. “It’s just that you can’t wear those again. It’s too dangerous.”

A knock sounded on the door. He leaped for the gun, gesturing for Nina to retreat into the bathroom. She scurried in, alarmed.

He sidled toward the door. “Who is it?”

“It’s Roxanne.” A bored, cigarette-roughened female voice with a strong Brooklyn accent. “From the front desk. Last night, remember? I picked up that stuff you wanted at Fausta’s.”

The steel bands locked around his lungs released a small
208

notch. After the goatfuck at the hospital last year, he was wary of everything. Little old ladies, poodles, cream puffs, anything and everything that looked innocent could hide dumdum bullets in the fluff, just waiting for you to lower your guard so they could fuck you up.

“Just a minute.” He yanked his jeans on, fished for his wallet, peeled two C-notes out of it, as arranged last night when he’d checked in. An expensive fee for services rendered, and he was probably being paranoid, but he did not want Nina Christie walking out of this hotel looking like the woman who had walked into it the night before.