Savage (9 page)

J
enna dropped Lily off
at Mrs. Hodges' and made her way to Farrell’s neighborhood in Kate’s car. She’d expected to meet him at the club, had been both surprised and terrified when he said he’d rather talk at the loft.

Surprised because she didn’t think he’d want her there.

Terrified because she didn’t know what would happen between them if they were truly alone.

But he said he had information about the key card, and she didn’t want to make a fuss about their meeting place. Better for him to think it didn’t matter to her one way or another. That she was so over him that being alone together was no temptation at all.

Of course, her body had given her away the last time they’d been together. She hadn’t been able to control the hardening of her nipples as he’d kissed his way up her neck. Hadn’t been able to help the pooling of desire between her legs as he’d ground his cock into her ass.

Which was all the more reason to act unaffected now.

She pulled up outside the loft and peered up at the familiar building. She wasn’t surprised he lived at the same address. He’d never been motivated by things. Had always been comfortable living simply. Still, according to Kate, Farrell was very wealthy now. Surely there was something he enjoyed spending money on.

She checked her face and hair in the rearview mirror, then cursed herself. It didn’t matter how she looked. She was here to get the information about the key card. That was it.

She buzzed the intercom at the new metal door. It was a subtle upgrade but it told her that Farrell had become increasingly concerned about his own security. That while he still didn’t covet nice things, his work had become dangerous enough to require protective measures beyond the weapon he usually carried, the ability to kill someone with his bare hands, and the contingent of cold-eyed men who were more than happy to kill on his behalf.

It was proof that she’d made the right decision. Is that what she wanted for Lily? To be under lock and key? To live in a home with an armored door because she was Farrell’s daughter?

She waited for the door to buzz, then reached for the handle and stepped inside. The entry was exactly the same, the staircase still covered in peeling blue paint, and she started up the first set of stairs with her heart racing. It had nothing to do with the physical exertion of climbing four sets of stairs to Farrell’s loft. It was him. The fact that he was here. That he was close. That there would be nothing to keep them apart except her own willpower, notoriously weak when it concerned Farrell Black.

But this would be different. She was a grown woman now, not a weak-willed girl straight out of college. She was a mother, and she would put her child first, whatever the cost.

She reached the landing and stopped at another metal door. It seemed like only yesterday that she’d stood on this threshold with Farrell’s key in hand and a positive pregnancy test in her pocket. Who could have predicted all that had changed since then?

Who could have predicted all that had stayed the same?

She knocked before she could change her mind. She needed to know what had been going on with her father so she could go back to New York, and Farrell was the only one who stood a chance of finding the answers.

He opened the door, and she drew in a deep breath, his beauty like a knife through her ribs. His feet were bare, and he was wearing torn, faded jeans low on his hips. They were loose, but not so loose that she couldn’t make out the bulge between his legs. Not so loose that she couldn’t remember the length and width of his cock, the way it had stretched her to the limit, filling her so completely she was sure she didn’t have any more room for him until he went deeper, harder.

His chest was bare, the sculpted peaks and ridges of his pecs leading to the corded muscle of his abs. The prominent “V” that led under the waistband of his jeans pulled her gaze downward, dared her to follow it to its conclusion, made her fingers itch to lay her palm against the hard stomach and slide it into his jeans. To take him, hard and pulsing, in her hand.

She forced her eyes to his face. It didn’t help. They were dark gray, almost black, and he was looking at her with a combination of anger and lust, like he wanted to hate fuck her right there in the doorway.

He stepped back to open the door wider. “Come in.”

She followed him inside, her eyes on the undulating dragon inked onto his back. The beast was rendered in deep blues and greens, the scales carefully detailed in black. Its tail was long and thick, winding its way all the way into the waistband of Farrell’s jeans. The dragon was blowing fire, the flames etched in brilliant red and orange. She couldn’t stop looking at its eyes. Fierce and cold, they were a reflection of inner rage.

She forced her gaze away from it, letting her eyes roam the cavernous space of Farrell’s loft instead. There were a few new things — a plush brown sofa, a sleek modern dining table, new cabinets and appliances in the kitchen — but it was otherwise exactly the same.

The open living space was flooded with gray light from the mullioned windows that had been part of the building since the 1800s. They rose all the way from the floor to the ceiling, soaring a good twenty five feet high. Still, the room was warm. It must have cost a fortune to keep warm.

“The building is quiet today,” she said. “I didn’t see anyone on my way up.”

“There isn’t anyone to see,” he said, walking to the fridge and pulling out a beer. “I own it now, and I got rid of all the other tenants.”

“Oh,” she said, trying to hide her surprise. “It must be nice to have some privacy.”

He ignored the statement. “Beer?”

“No, thank you.”

He shut the fridge, leaned against the counter, and studied her with hooded eyes, a predator calmly surveying its prey. His expression sent a jolt of something like fear — or was it anticipation? — through her body.

“What?” she asked, desperate to fill the silence that had become too heavy with unspoken words.

“I’m simply looking at you, Jenna.” His voice was gruff, and he pushed off the counter, walked toward her. His pace was slow and measured, his eyes never leaving hers. She held her breath when he stopped only inches away, so close she could smell him — musky and dangerous and utterly male. He tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “You haven’t changed, not outwardly, and yet there’s something different about you.”

I’ve been so lonely. I’ve missed you so much. I gave birth to our daughter.

“Maybe I’m just older.” She tried to focus on the words. On anything but his touch and the proximity that made her want to step into his arms.

But it didn’t matter that she resisted, because a moment later, he stepped forward. Then he was so close she felt the energy of his body like a current, a forcefield of white noise that blocked out the voice of reason screaming for her to run.

“We both are.” His voice was cold, the words clipped.

“What about the key card?” she asked, trying to keep her hold on something practical.

“It’s from a bank. In Madrid.” He said it casually, like he was as distracted by her proximity as she was by his.

“A bank?” Her voice was too breathy. It gave away the sensation running amok in her body. Sensation caused by his nearness, by the undercurrent of anger in his voice that said if he took her now, it would be hard and intense and all-consuming.

“That’s right.” His eyes were glued to her lips.

“That’s… strange.” She said it, but she couldn’t seem to sort the information. Her brain was misfiring, her heart beating too fast as her body flooded with something like adrenaline. Something telling her to run. To get out while she still could.

But there were more powerful forces at work in her mind. In her heart.

They told her she’d been waiting five years to be this close to Farrell Black. That she’d known this would happen when she saw him at the funeral. Maybe even before that.

That it was inevitable.

He lowered his head to her shoulder, turned his face toward her neck and breathed deeply, like a man long deprived of scent. She closed her eyes against the sensation of his broad chest brushing against her breasts, the whisper of his breath against her collarbone. His body was a lick of fire she was powerless to resist. She knew she was going to get burned. But it was so hot, and she’d been cold for so long.

She needed to leave. Needed to leave and never come back before this went any further.

His body barely grazed hers, and his hands remained at his side as he nuzzled his way up her neck, stopping at her ear, his lips still not quite touching her skin. He was less than an inch away. So close that if she moved at all she would brush up against him.

Her face against his cheek. Her breasts against the wide expanse of his chest. Her thighs against his powerful legs.

She forced herself to remain still. It was the best she could do, because there was no way she had the will to turn away. Not with her nipples hard and ready for his mouth, her pussy throbbing for his tongue, his fingers, his cock. Maybe if she didn’t move he would change his mind. Decide this was a bad idea. Say no for the both of them.

He leaned closer, and she felt the brush of his erection against her belly. It sent a lightning bolt of heat to her center, soaking her panties even as she kept her eyes closed, tried to pretend this wasn’t happening. Then his cheek was against hers, the whiskers of his five o’clock shadow setting her on fire as they scraped against her skin, his breath hot and urgent against her jaw as he moved closer to her mouth.

His hand slid up one arm, slow and easy. It continued around the curve of her shoulder, all the way to her neck. He held it there, his thumb stroking the hollow of her throat while she held her breath. Then he slid his hand into the hair at the back of her head, cupping it in his big hand as tenderly as a baby bird. She’d forgotten this about Farrell.

How he could be so hard. So demanding.

How he could be so soft. So tender.

He brushed his lips against her jaw on one side while his other hand held her in place by the hair at the back of her head. She was breathing loudly now, unable to hide the need pulsing through her body as he moved closer to her lips. His hand came up to her cheek, his thumb rubbing against her bottom lip even as his mouth found hers.

The kiss was tender and chaste. She sighed, sinking into his lips, letting her body go soft against him. For a moment time seemed to stop. There was only Farrell’s body and mouth against hers, one hand in her hair, the other bracing her cheek.

She felt the end of the moment like a coming earthquake. A vibration she could almost hear. A warning to duck and cover.

He grabbed a fistful of hair at the back of her head and tugged hard enough to send a jolt of pleasure-pain though her body. She gasped, and when she opened her eyes, he was looking down at her, fury swirling in his gaze like a firestorm.

Then his mouth was on hers again, and this time there was nothing chaste or tender about it. He used the hair at the back of her head to slant her lips under his, giving him better access to her mouth as he backed her up against the big window overlooking the street. She barely felt the pane of glass against her back as he plundered her, using his thumb to open her mouth wider for him. Like he couldn’t get enough. Like he would never be able to get enough.

The press of his lips was merciless, almost painful. Her arms went around his neck, and she pressed her body against his, molding herself to him, fitting all of her curves to the corresponding planes and hollows of his body like nothing had changed.

His tongue invaded her mouth, a conquering force that pillaged and burned as it laid claim. This wasn’t Farrell the lover, but Farrell the warrior. He wasn’t there to pleasure her. He was there to take his own pleasure. To prove he was still in charge.

It only made her want him more.

The small amount of stubble on his jaw scratched at her cheek, but it didn’t matter.

She fisted his hair in her hands and pressed closer, nibbling his bottom lip until he growled, reached a hand between them, ripped open her blouse like it was a piece of paper.

Then his bare skin was against hers. She sighed, sinking further into his kiss as their hands traveled each other’s body. He bit down on her lower lip. She tasted blood, but the sensation was so erotic she didn’t care. This is how it was with Farrell. How it had always been. The frantic need to own and occupy at any cost.

No rules. No niceties.

Pleasure.

Pain.

All the same in the name of joining their bodies.

He licked his way down her neck, trailing his tongue along her collarbone as he continued to her breasts. They were heavy with her arousal, and she moaned as he freed them from her bra. He took one of them in his hand while he lowered his head to the other, closing his mouth around her nipple. He sucked hard, and she cried out, arching her back into the pleasure of it. She reached a hand between them, letting it move down his muscled abs, into the waistband of his jeans.

He growled as she took him in her hand. Like the rest of him, his cock was massive.

Powerful.

Unyielding.

Her pussy ached with the need to feel the satiny length of it buried inside her. She stroked him while he worked her nipple with his tongue, flicking it against the hard little peak, then sucking and nibbling until she had to press her thighs together to keep from coming.

He let go of her breast, letting his hand travel to her jeans. It slid into her panties and he plunged his fingers inside her without preamble. His touch was angry, insistent, and she tried to keep her legs clamped together around his hand, wanting to stop the orgasm that seemed to have a mind of its own.

“You’re so wet, Jenna. So hot,” he said, moving back up to her mouth. He seared her with his gaze. “Do you think anyone else can make you this wet? This hot?”

The words sent a powerful rush of arousal to her core. She tried to turn her head away, wanting to deny the truth of it, but he turned her face to look at him as the fingers of his other hand worked her pussy with long, hard strokes.