Taken by the Beast (The Conduit Series Book 1) (10 page)

The next day, once I had thoroughly convinced Dalton I was perfectly capable of going on about my business as usual, I made it my personal mission to show the idiots serving the town council just how stupid and antiquated the idea of a ‘women only’ curfew was. Unfortunately, the town council only met on Thursdays and, according to his secretary, Mayor Altman was busy “herdin’ up a mess of cattle” and couldn’t be reached.

God, I hate this town.

Luckily for me, there was someone else I could vent all my pent up indignation on—someone who might be guiltier than all of the town council folk put together.

Abram.

As I marched toward The Castle, I couldn’t believe I had ever thought of Abram as anything other than a ham-handed jerk. To think I had felt sorry for him enough to try to save his dump of a club, let alone long enough to stop me from quitting.

Well, that was a mistake I would gladly remedy today. I would serve him my walking papers along with a piece of my mind.

I was almost on fire as I descended the stairwell, muttering aloud everything I was going to say to him. I had just gotten to the part where I would tell him to “kiss my fat, gorgeous ass” when I saw him.

He was outside, shirtless and sweaty as he stroked a paint brush across the front door. The hot sun glistened off his body, illuminating the tight muscle that corded his arms and shoulders as well as the pelt of coarse dark hair sprinkled across his chest and abdomen.

Ridiculously, I found myself biting my lip.

“Hey,” I said, my voice breaking a little at the end.

His head snapped up, moisture plastering his hair to his forehead, and he mumbled to himself. Standing, eyes narrowed at me, he took a bottle of water and poured it over his head, letting the moisture run down his body. Droplets settled at his navel and on the trail of dark hair that disappeared behind his low hanging jeans.

I swallowed around the lump growing in my throat, dismissing the warm flush in my chest and face as a reaction to the unusually hot day. I mean, clearly it wasn’t just me overheating out here. Abram was … drenched.

“Ms. Bellamy,” he said, grabbing a towel that hung from a nearby chair and drying himself off. “Forgive me. I didn’t expect to see you today.” He slung on a flannel shirt, leaving it unbuttoned and hanging loosely around his chest. “I take it you’re feeling better.”

His tone was almost indifferent—a world away from the intense concern that colored every interaction I’d had with Dalton since my return.

He kneeled over the paint tin to dip his brush and tipped his chin toward a paint pan to his side. “Grab a brush.”

A brush? Was he joking? First of all, I was wearing Dolce. Secondly, I wasn’t here to work. I never intended on working for him ever again.

I clenched my hands at my side and growled. “You’ve got a lot of nerve!”

He sighed and dropped the brush in the bucket. The paint splashed up, dots of white speckling the parts of his chest that were still exposed. Then he stood tall—taller than I remembered. Had he always been this intimidating? My breath caught in my throat.

“As always, Ms. Bellamy, being around you has been the most frustratingly mysterious part of any adventure.” He grabbed the handle, careful to miss the still-wet paint, and opened the door. “Why don’t you come inside? You can tell what fresh irritant has you disheveled today.” As if verbally rolling his eyes, he added, “I’m sure it’ll be interesting.”

I followed him into the club, already more furious than I had been when I’d arrived. This son of a bitch was belittling me. Maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised, considering the recent turn of events.

“So this is what you think of women?” I asked, shaking my head in disgust. “Really?”

Though the workers I’d hired wouldn’t come for a few more days, The Castle was starting to come together. The rubble had been cleared and a fresh coat of paint had been slapped across the walls. It was gray, which wouldn’t have been my first choice. Still, the fact that Abram had done it all by himself was more than a little impressive.

But not impressive enough.

Abram arched one of his dark eyebrows. “I’ll ask you one more time, as you seem intent on me knowing the other end of this conversation.” He leaned closer. “What are you talking about?”

“What do you think I’m talking about?” I scowled. “The curfew.”

He nodded once. “You’re welcome, of course. But I was referring to what it is that’s
bothering
you.”

I blanched, sure the heat in my face would come pouring out as smoke from my ears. This man—this ridiculous man—was
trying
to push my buttons. And worse, it was working.

“You smug bastard,” I said, jabbing the part of his hard, bare chest that peeked out from beneath his shirt. “I don’t know who you think you are or what right you think you have to—”

“To what?” he asked, smiling. He didn’t move my finger; instead, he leaned in further so that my entire hand was now splayed against him. “To do what was necessary to keep you safe?”

His skin was burning, and his pulse beat rapidly against my palm. I steeled myself against the confusion swarming through my mind. I knew how I felt. Angry. Only angry and nothing else. Right?

My eyebrows pulled together in that way my agent warned me not to let them. Not unless I wanted wrinkles. Right now, I didn’t care.

“Don’t you dare make this about me,” I said through gritted teeth. “This is about what you think of women!”

“I assure you I am a fan of women, Ms. Bellamy,” Abram answered, staring down into my eyes, more of a calm in his gaze than I’d ever seen before. “That’s why I prefer to keep them alive.”

“By making them second class citizens?” I didn’t realize at first, but my nails were beginning to dig into Abram’s chest. “You’re aware that this curfew does nothing but assume the women here can’t take care of themselves.”

He grabbed my hand and pulled it away from him. I flinched when I saw the scratches on his chest, but he didn’t show any signs of pain.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

“Judging by what’s happened in the last few weeks, Ms. Bellamy, I would say protecting yourselves isn’t among your strongest attributes. Collectively speaking, of course.”

“Women are every bit as capable as men.” I tried to pull my hand from his grasp, but he held firm.

“Perhaps,” he answered. “But men aren’t the ones who are being targeted. And, given that you were almost killed the other night because you couldn’t change a flat tire, I wouldn’t use this as your opportunity to boast of capabilities.” His tongue appeared, licking his lips. “Say what you want, but we both know you need someone to take care of you. No,” he amended, glaring at me as my heart hammered in my chest. “You
want
someone to take care of you. Don’t you, Ms. Bellamy?”

I reared back to slap him with my other hand, but he grabbed my wrist. Now both my hands were captive, and in that instant, we were nearly nose-to-nose, breathing in the same air—a musky air that had been permeated by his scent.

“Let go,” I said, hating the way both my breathing and voice had shifted.

His gaze bore into mine, as though he could see something deep inside of me, something I couldn’t even see myself. Or, rather, something I didn’t want to admit. Something that went against everything I believed and all of who I thought I was.

“Is that what you want, Ms. Bellamy?” His lips parted. “For me to let go?”

The breath caught in my throat. He inched a fraction closer, closing that last bit of space between us so that his chest pressed against mine. Suddenly, and against my volition, my nipples hardened. My heart jackhammered against my ribcage, and a flush crept up my body, warming every part of me.

Abram tipped his forehead down so that it rested against my own. “Is that what you want?”

The temperature of the room shifted. The sensation of his hands pinning mine sent sparks through my body. He pushed against me, and the evidence of his arousal stiffened against my thigh.

I opened my mouth, ready to push him away, to tell him that yes, I wanted him to let me go. But the words did not come. Instead, only a whimper escaped my lips.

“Not good enough,” he said.

He dipped his head, his lips brushing warm and rough against my neck, and my knees wobbled so abruptly that I wasn’t sure I could keep myself upright if not for his grip on me. Another damned whimper trickled from my mouth.

“Not near good enough.” His breath was hot against the side of my neck. “See, Miss Bellamy, I’m not sure you want me to let go. I think you want me to take care of you. But if you want that—if you want me to
really
take care of you—then you have to say it.”

His mouth traveled to my earlobe, the same earlobe Dalton had kissed not twenty four hours before, and he gave it a sharp nip.

I moaned, arching my back and pressing hard against him. The entirety of me trembled as pleasure vibrated up my legs and into the rest of me. I moistened, as if to prepare for him, as if to answer his question without saying a word.

“You have to say it,” he commanded. “If you want it, you have to say it.”

I hadn’t felt like this in … well, I couldn’t remember a time I’d ever felt
this
way. The attraction—the
need
—was all-consuming. I didn’t care about anything else anymore. Just this moment. So I told him what he wanted to hear—what deep down was really true.

“I … I do,” I murmured, heart in my throat. “I want it.”

He let go of my hands and grabbed either side of me, thrusting me up and wrapping me in his massive, muscled arms.

The world spun as he pressed his face against mine, ravaging my cheeks, nose, and neck with his mouth.

Finally, mercifully, he took my lips with his own. The rush was almost too much to handle. When his tongue pushed past my lips and into my mouth, I thought I might faint. The warmth of him caressed me, exciting me and comforting me all at the same time.

I wrapped my legs around his waist, and we slammed into a wall still slick with fresh paint. I smelled it all, the paint that now covered us both, the sweat that slid between our bodies, the scent of him that urged me to go further.

My fingers tangled in his hair as he kissed me deeply. He throbbed against me now, and I ached for him to quench the fire he had lit.

His hand, covered in paint, ran under my blouse, inching up from my navel. He bit my lip as he tugged off my bra, freeing my breasts and sending a needy shiver through my body. I moaned again, clutching against him and thrusting my hips into his.

His mouth still pressed against my own, I felt the smile creep across his lips as he scoured my breasts hungrily, electricity in his fingers and desire coursing through my every nerve. He pinched my nipples between his thumb and forefinger until my moans turned to begging, then he pulled at my blouse, ripping it open.

“Your dress,” he muttered.

“Fuck the dress,” I whispered. “Just keep going.”

He trailed kisses down my neck, my chest, my breasts. My body shuddered as he took them in his mouth, one and then the other. His tongue flickered across my nipples, sending shockwaves through me and beating past the very last of my defenses.

But it wasn’t enough. I wanted him everywhere. As my body rocked against his, his hand traveled lower, past my navel, in between my thighs. His face came back up near mine, his nose brushing across my cheek and his lips tracing my jawline. When I tried to push my body back against his, I was met with the resistance of him holding me still and his soft chuckle in my ear.

“What are you waiting for?” There was a pleading in my voice, a pleading for him not to stop, for him never to stop.

“You’re not ready,” he mumbled. His hand slid over the silk of my underwear, and his thumb rubbed my clitoris through the thin material. “I’ve never known you to be so quiet. Are you all right?”

My nails were digging into him again—his back, this time. “I’m going to kill you, Abram.”

“Not yet you’re not,” he whispered. His fingers dipped in the welcoming darkness of my underwear, and I gasped as he slid one into me, but his free hand flew up and pressed over my lips.

I stood, trembling against the paint-soaked wall. With Abram’s hand against my lips and his other hand inside of me, pushing deeper than I ever imagined anyone would go, it seemed as though I might explode.

After a moment, he removed his hands from me and stepped back, but when I whimpered, he just grinned. “Shh, Mrs. Bellamy. These walls are thin. You wouldn’t want the whole town to hear.”

I felt vulnerable, needy, and weak—but I didn’t care. My whole face burned as he assessed me with his gaze while sliding off his shirt to reveal the rest of his upper body. The paint had smeared across both of us, and he was covered in streaks of gray and desire. My heart leapt in my chest as his fingers trailed down to unbutton his pants, but there was one more thing we needed to do first.

“Wait,” I breathed.

He blanched. “Is this too fast for you?”

I replied with a devilish grin. “Not fast enough,” I said, both my voice and body still trembling with desire. “But now
you
have to say it. If you want me, you have to—”

“I do,” he said. “Since the first moment I saw you, I have.”

Well, that was a lot easier for him than it had been for me, but more importantly, I knew he was telling the truth.

His pants fell, revealing the fullness of his body. He was a sculpture, a masterpiece of skin, hair, and heart. Our bodies collided, and I wrapped my legs around him. He tore away my underwear, the shreds falling to the floor at his feet.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said, just as breathless as I had been.

And that’s when it hit me.

The most beautiful thing I had ever seen just called me the most beautiful thing
he
had ever seen.

All of the sudden, this town didn’t seem so bad.

He moved again, slower this time, to lay me across the bar. I was naked— trembling and exposed—but the look on his face told me I was safe, that he would never let anything happen to me. And, for the first time, I knew what he meant about me wanting someone to take care of me.