Too Wicked to Keep (9 page)

He slid his finger underneath the strap on her left shoulder and slowly dragged it off her arm, making sure that the lace still covered her. He did the same on the right. The lingerie slipped, revealing the breast nearest to his mouth—the one he took first. The sensation was exquisite and tight, a concentrated spire of need that drilled straight through her, burrowing into her body and hollowing out the space between her legs, preparing for his sex to join with hers.

As he worked his magic, he tossed her bra aside, then pinched her other nipple with sweet pressure, rolling the nub between his fingers just enough to create a swirling whirlpool of need that stopped her breath halfway up her throat.

Desperate, she touched the tip of the nipple he held and he shifted, throwing his leg over hers before doing precisely what she asked.

“So tight and sweet,” he said once he'd dragged his tongue over the sensitive bit of flesh. “I could taste you for hours. I could make you come just from this.”

Danny never made promises he couldn't keep. Her sex throbbed as blood rushed and swelled to the center of her need. She could feel the orgasm at the edge of her awareness, lingering like a long-awaited promise—a need too long unfulfilled. But Danny wasn't in any hurry to bring her to the edge. He was taking his time, relearning her body, regaining her trust by allowing her to choose where he touched her, where he kissed her,
and when. She relished the power, and instead pointed to the area just above her hip.

The game lasted for what felt like hours. From her hip, she led him to her belly button. From there, she deviated from the downward path and brought him back up to the curve just underneath her breasts, though he cheated once or twice with quick swipes across her nipples, just to remind her of her needs. She bent her leg up and indicated the back of her knee, which was a tactical error if she meant to slow down the progression of his exploration. He flipped her over onto her stomach and took his sweet time exploring the underappreciated crevice, all while he ran one teasing finger along the edge of her panty.

She grabbed a pillow and tugged it underneath her. Her bare breasts scraped against the material and her mind was lost in the possibilities of where she should direct him next. She settled on the small of her back and with a groan he was there. She could feel his hands, tense and rigid, scrunching the material of her panties. He wanted to drag them off, but was waiting for her invitation, which she gave by lifting her bottom. With that, she was naked, laid bare to him in ways she never had been before.

He groaned. “God, you're so perfect.”

She craned her neck to see him straddled over her legs, his briefs barely covering his erection, his hands hovering over her ass as if he didn't know what part of her to touch next. She wriggled under the weight of his hungry stare.

“Not perfect,” she said, catching his gaze with hers.

He arched a brow. “Don't argue with me. I know a masterpiece when I see one.”

She relaxed into the pillows. He massaged and
kneaded, kissed and caressed until she imagined her backside was suddenly on par with Kim Kardashian's or J.Lo's. It didn't matter how round it was or wasn't—it only mattered that he loved every inch of her skin and awakened every dormant nerve ending until she thought she might explode. She was done with this game. She wanted him inside her. And she wanted him now.

She drew her knees up beneath her.

“God, Abby, don't,” he begged, his voice twisted with restraint even as he buoyed her backside with his hands.

She grabbed a second pillow and pulled it underneath her. “You know you want me, Danny. I'm showing you how I want you.”

She tossed another look over her shoulder and witnessed the conflict raging through his body. His sex was so thick and elongated, the head peeked from his waistband. They'd done it in this position before—more than once. He'd introduced the sensations of this animalistic coupling to her and she couldn't help but want it again.

She grabbed his hand and slid it between her legs, where he could feel the slick heat of her sex. He smoothed his fingers around her labia, found her clit and pressed. She cried out in pleasure, and with that sound, he stopped fighting her. He left the bed long enough to remove his briefs and don the condom.

Her thighs quaked. When he rubbed the tip of his lubricated cock against her, she cried out in anticipatory pleasure. He took his sweet time easing inside. An inch. Maybe less. Sensations shot through her body, weakening her muscles until she thought she might melt. She drew her elbows in tight, bracing herself for the next wash of pleasure.

He didn't make her wait. He grabbed her hips, bracing her for the full length of him. With one swift thrust, he
slid deep into her sex, stretching her, filling her. Dizzy, she buried her face in the pillows and relinquished the last of her control.

He pumped into her with long, slow strokes that dragged the pleasure out with infinitesimal delight. Bracing her hip with one hand, he ran the other up her spine, all the time telling her how beautiful she was, how hot and wet and needful. Soon, his words became un intelligible—either because he'd lost his ability to speak or because she'd abandoned all need to hear him. She just wanted to feel him, inside her, in and out, compounding her pleasure when the last of his control broke and the tempo flew into madness.

Her orgasm didn't come in an explosion, but in a sudden awareness that she'd been in the middle of it all along—as if the minute he touched his lips to her throat, she'd started to come, and now this was the culmination of that long, drawn-out road to release. She buried her face in the cushions, her scream muffled when he finally stiffened and ground out a groan that meant he'd reached his breaking point. She collapsed and he came down with her, breaking their contact even as his body folded over hers like a warm blanket on the coldest day of the year.

It took a while before she had enough air in her lungs to breathe. In the meantime, Danny had twisted the comforter on her bed so it covered most of their sweaty bodies. She tugged the pillows out from under her and tossed them to the floor.

“That was unexpected,” he said.

She rolled over to face him. “Disappointed?”

He rubbed his face, which was flushed and wet with sweat. “With you? Never. You just surprised me.”

“I guess you thought marriage made me less adventurous in the sex department?”

“Maybe,” he confessed.

She snuggled into his arms, which seemed to take him aback. She smiled. In their previous affair, she never got the impression that she surprised him. Now, she seemed to be shocking him left, right and center. “Sex with Marshall was great, Danny. I think, after our affair, he stopped treating me like a china doll. So I've had two fabulous lovers in my lifetime, and thanks to both of you, I love sex. I missed it. And more importantly in this moment, I missed it with you.”

T
HE SUDDEN NEED TO
disappear seized Danny with such inescapable power, his body started to shake. He knew it was wrong. He knew it was cowardly. But he couldn't stop himself from kissing Abby briefly and then excusing himself to the bathroom.

He disposed of the condom and then, stalking the small space from corner to corner, turned up the shower to full blast and stepped inside before the water was even hot. The iciness sluiced over him and the shaking intensified—not from the frigid temperature, but from her confession.

She'd missed him.

For five years, he'd convinced himself that she probably hadn't given him a second thought unless it was to curse the minute he'd come into her life and nearly wrecked her future. He'd spent nearly six months—six months!—wallowing in his own guilt, regrets and despair. When he'd first taken the job to steal her painting, he never conceived of how quickly and powerfully a man could fall in love.

He had no real experience with the emotion. Yes, he
loved Lucy, but like a sister. His loyalty to her was a reflection of her unwavering devotion to him.

In the beginning, Danny had thought his connection to Abby was the same—not real, but a reflection. He'd created David Brandon to be her dream man, so she couldn't help but fall for him. And once she did, he'd simply gotten caught up in her fantasy and loved her back.

But after she'd refused to run off with him, he realized the truth. His feelings didn't fade. His pain became physical and only copious amounts of booze had dulled his agony. He'd spent six months wallowing in the mess he'd made of his life, when in truth, the only mess he'd made had been in his heart. While she'd loved a man who didn't really exist, he'd fallen hard for the real Abigail Albertini, the one who now, despite knowing the full truth of what a bastard he was, had just made love to him with complete and total trust and intimacy.

None of which he deserved.

She knocked on the door just as the shower turned scalding. He turned down the temperature and braced his hands on the glass tiles, but didn't respond.

“Danny?”

She opened the door.

“Yeah,” he said, trying to sound unaffected, casual, cool, when in fact, he felt as if he'd swallowed a writhing mass of poisonous snakes.

“Want company?”

Hell, no.

He leaned around the opening and forced a smile. “I was going to make it quick, but how can I say no to you?”

She'd wrapped herself in a plush pink robe. Her dark hair was a lush tangle and her apple cheeks glowed with
spots of color that matched her wrap. She looked well-loved, but worried.

Well loved because of him. Worried because of him.

“It's a simple word,
no.
One syllable. I won't be hurt if you say it.”

He groaned. She was too good for him. He'd run and she knew it. But she still came to check on him and he had no doubt that she was truly willing to give him space if that's what he wanted.

But hadn't he had enough space in his lifetime? Hadn't his life been about nothing but space? He supposed he might have been close to his mother while in the womb, but in life, she'd chosen a relationship with drugs over one with him. He'd never known his father, and once they'd finally met, Danny had been too hardened and too angry to let him in. Even with Lucy, he'd established boundaries. To keep her safe from prosecution in case one of their deals went bad, they communicated sporadically and under false names and appearances. The only person who seemed determined to be with him, whether he wanted it or not, was Abby.

And dammit, he wanted it.

He held out his hand to her, the Murrieta ring sparkling on his finger. The stupid thing was supposed to influence the wearer, wasn't? Make him more like the first man who'd worn it, drawing from him the qualities that made a man a hero? Well, Danny was no hero. He never would be. But he felt more like a man than ever before in his life. His emotions were no longer buried deep beneath layers of fear and resentment. Abby had drawn them to the surface, where he had to deal with them, like it or not.

As her robe dropped away, Danny's body reacted. When she took his hand and allowed him to lead her into
the spacious shower stall, all thoughts of regrets steamed out of his skin. She braced her hands on his cheeks and kissed him softly, but thoroughly, then pulled away.

“I freaked you out,” she said.

“What? No,” he argued, but gave up quickly. He couldn't lie to Abby. Not again. Not anymore. Not even about this. “Yeah, you did. I didn't expect you to trust me that way.”

“I don't think I expected it, either. Trusting you means trusting myself, and that's something I haven't done in a long time. Maybe ever.”

“How could you when the last time you did, your life nearly fell apart?”

“But it didn't,” she said, kissing his wet shoulder.

“I realize that now. I kept thinking that deep down, you still hated me. That you'd always hate me.”

She shook her head, and though he wanted more than life itself to blame it on the shower, her eyes were wide with moisture. “I never hated you, Danny. I was angry. I was devastated. But I wanted to believe that somewhere deep down, you really did care about me. A little.”

“More than a little,” he said. “I cared more than I should have.”

“But you still took the painting,” she said.

“I had a job to do,” he explained. “I'd already taken the payment. But I don't think that's why I went through with the job. I wanted to prove to myself that I didn't love you as much as I thought I did. I was wrong. I did love you.”

“Do you even know what that means?” she asked, running her hands over his shoulders and down his arms.

“No,” he admitted, his muscles relaxing under the
hot, beating water and her magical, hot hands. “But I'm learning.”

“Me, too,” she said.

Their kiss, hot and wet as the water showering down on them, was neither measured nor wild. It was somewhere in between an expression of desire and a sign of love. Danny didn't fool himself. Even if he did figure out that he was truly, madly and deeply in love with Abby, their relationship couldn't go beyond these walls. She had a life, a family, friends and associates who would never accept their relationship. And they shouldn't. She needed a man who could fit into every part of her existence and buoy her up, support her, make her better than she could be alone.

He wasn't that guy—at least, he couldn't be for the long haul. He'd fill that role the best as he could for now, but once he retrieved her painting and put the matter to rest, he needed to move on.

And yet, for now, he was going to take this time with her as a treasure more precious than anything he'd ever stolen. He would love her as much as he could and accept whatever love she offered him in return. But she needed to know—she needed to understand, up front—that he couldn't stay.

“Abby, this thing between us,” he said, trying to find the right words while she blanketed his chest in kisses. “It can't last. You know that, right?”

She hummed her agreement, her mouth encircling his nipple while her tongue flicked crazy eights across his sensitive skin.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her to look up. “Abby? When this is done, I'm leaving. Tell me you understand.”

“I understand,” she said, then pushed him so that he
slammed against the tile beneath the showerhead. “Now shut up and let me have my way with you before I go crazy.”

He laughed, then readjusted the fixture overhead so she didn't drown in the wash of water falling from above. Though the water was hot, the stall was cold. The contrasting sensations threw his brain into overload, especially when Abby slid down to her knees.

She was bold, his Abby. She was fearless and sexy and cruel. She licked his flesh as if he was a sweet lollipop, lapping up the water dripping down his body and humming her lips against his skin until he thought he'd go insane. She rimmed her fingers around his length and stroked hard and long, coaxing his erection to full capacity, teasing the tip with her tongue but not taking him into her mouth until he tangled his hands into her wet hair and said, “Please.”

The suction was madness. Her tempo was a gift. She continued to mouth him as if he were the most delicious treat she'd ever tasted, and even above the sound of the shower, he could hear her moaning with pleasure as if sucking him was getting her off as much as it was him. Maybe it was. He couldn't concentrate enough to tell. Not with pressure building. Not with the blood rushing down, filling his balls until they were heavy and hot. She cupped them and squeezed harder, swallowed him deeper. He couldn't help moving with her, groaning with need, begging her to finish what she'd started, to take it all the way and leave nothing behind.

When he came, the echo of his pleasure crashed against the tile walls. The shower water was starting to cool, even as Abby tilted her face to the water, then kissed a cooled path up his body.

“You're amazing,” he said, dousing her face in kisses.

“No, I'm horny,” she replied.

He turned off the water and reached out of the shower stall to reclaim her abandoned robe. “Then by all means, let me take care of that.”

 

A
BBY OPENED HER EYES
around midnight, blinking several times before her night vision made out the mass of twisted sheets on her bed. She dragged her hands through her hair, still damp from the shower, and wondered if her bedroom had ever been such a disaster area. The comforter had long ago slipped to the floor. Pillows were strewn everywhere. Half-empty wineglasses and takeout containers covered the surface of her dresser and bedside table.

And her chair.

Oh, her chair.

Last night, she'd curled into the soft cushions to prevent her from taking advantage of Danny's erotic dreams and making love to him before he had a chance to realize the act was real. But tonight, he'd spun the chair toward the window so he could take her from his lap, her arms braced on the window sill, his cock sliding in and out of her in a sweet, slow rhythm that had provided her longest and most delicious orgasm of the night. Through the reflection in the glass, she'd watched him pluck her nipples and flick her clit until she'd come like a raging wild woman. And she'd watched, fascinated, wondering if anyone outside could see her, if anyone outside would understand the significance of the act.

This wasn't just sex. Maybe with Danny, it never had been. Watching herself ride him had been deliciously wicked and painfully poignant at the same time. With Danny, she was a mad, sexual adventuress with no boundaries, no inhibitions, no shame. With Danny, she
was the woman she always wanted to be—the woman who could never exist with anyone else but him.

Since Marshall's death, she'd been searching for her true self. The need to retrieve her painting and, by default, contact Danny again had been just another trek in her own inner exploration. And he hadn't disappointed her.

But this time, she wasn't under his spell. She wasn't running from a future she feared or exploring sensual experiences she was certain she'd never get with any other man. She was, with eyes wide-open, having an affair with a man who'd once fallen in love with her, despite his best efforts not to.

Her body ached in the most delicious places. The musky scent of sex and sweat acted like an aphrodisiac, and even though she knew she might not be able to walk in the morning if they made love again, she couldn't help wondering where he'd gone as his side of the bed was empty.

“Hey.”

She rolled over, her body drawn to his husky voice. He stood in the doorway dressed in a pair of sweatpants with Lady cuddled in his arms.

“Oh, crap,” she said, sitting up. “The cats. I haven't—”

“I fed them,” he reassured. “Might be a good thing they were hungry. Black Jack didn't hiss at me for once.”

She relaxed into the covers. “They're getting used to you.”

He padded to the bed and dropped the cat onto the mattress. The tortoiseshell feline pounced onto the sheet and batted the folds and tents as if mysterious prey existed underneath. Abby laughed as Danny sat down on the edge of the bed and caressed her cheek.

“No one around here should bother getting used to me,” he said. “I won't be here that long.”

Unable to deal with that reality just now, Abby leaned into his hand. “Then how about if we all just enjoy you while we have you?”

Danny chuckled, but something in the sound made her look up. His eyes, so brilliant green, seemed—for a split second—sad. But he erased the expression the instant he realized she was watching. He drew his hand back, but she caught it and turned his palm so she could better see the ring that he'd inherited from his father.

“Tell me more about this,” she said, reaching across to turn on the decorative lamp on her bed table, which was more for show than light. But the 10-watt bulb illuminated the center stone enough for her to see a scratch in the shape of a Z. “What does the Z mean, or was the mark accidental?”

He allowed her to turn his hand and examine the ring from all sides. It was old, that was for sure. The gold had worn thin on the inside and showed signs of repair. The center emerald, though marred, still sparkled a green nearly as brilliant as Danny's eyes. The black opals on either side, however, flashed with brilliant turquoise and tiny flecks of gold. Her area of expertise was not jewelry, but she'd seen enough to know this was an exquisite piece of workmanship.

“Not accidental, no. It's the mark of my ancestor, Joaquin Murrieta. My great, great, great, great—” he counted on his fingers, then added one more “—great grandfather.”

“Neither Joaquin nor Murrieta is spelled with a
Z.
”

“Apparently, it came from a nickname. He was a sort of, um, bandit. A famous one. A couple of books and movies were based on his life.”