“Christ, get a hold of yourself!” he yells, shaking me fiercely enough to rattle my brain around in my skull and dry up the stream of hysterical panic and self-recriminations. “He’s fine. He’s got high blood pressure, and the doctors aren’t too impressed with his cholesterol at the moment, but…”
“But?” I ask, watching his face like a hawk for any sign that he’s downplaying the situation to keep me from having a meltdown.
“His attack came when we got news that Brennan was headed this way and that he was precariously close to you,” he finishes, uncurling my fists from his jacket to flatten them against his chest, his hands trapping mine.
I feel his heart beat strongly and look away, closing my eyes against tears of relief and the constant heartache that’s starting to surface now that I know Da—Beau isn’t lying dead in the morgue.
“Dove, are you listening? Did you just hear what I said?” he asks, his tone laced with frustration and an effort at patience.
What’s his—I realize two things at once. One, Eric is still a—as I’ve always known—problem that needs taking care of, and some real caution on my end lest he succeed where he’d left off before. Two, Beau and Vincent—
“You’ve known where I was all this time, haven’t you?” I ask in a choked whisper.
And here I’ve been so ignorantly smug about making my escape and getting one over on them all. It had been a small victory in the greater scheme of things, but something I’d been proud of, considering my epic fail by actually marrying a man who doesn’t even want me.
“Not all along,” he growls, glaring darkly. “We found you two weeks ago by sheer bloody coincidence. Seems you didn’t manage to make it altogether out of that photo the historical society took of the diner,” he muses, making my teeth clench nearly to the point of shattering.
I remember that smarmy little photog and his ‘skills’. I’d spent the better part of an hour dodging his lens, and it seems I’d failed. How Vincent had run across me in some obscure little Georgian local newspaper, though, is a good question, and one that saves me from actual conversation, so I ask it, watching his smile curve higher.
“You’d be surprised what money can get you in the way of information and a decent photo,” he drawls. “I had a techie from my company keeping an eye out for any indication as to your whereabouts. Color me surprised when he came screaming into my office and slapped down a photo of my wife, working at a bloody greasy spoon diner for minimum wage.”
That drawl and the way he’s licking his lips while staring at the cleavage revealed by my uniform has me wrenching back and scuttling to the farthest edges of the seat, right up against the door, which coincidentally is locked.
“I’m not your wife.”
Keep saying it and maybe it will be true.
“Oh, but there you’re wrong, dove,” he snarls, pulling me back into his chest, his left hand settling my ass firmly over his lap and the impressive—clench-worthy—erection beneath.
“What are you doing?”
Now would be a great time to start struggling and get myself the hell away from temptation. I freeze, though, taking in the clenching deep within my neglected sex, and his subtle shifting as he pulls me down and into his cock.
Every emotion and lustful desire I’ve been supressing roars to full and consuming life, sending me into that eerie realm of fantastic remembrance. In my mind’s eye I see him throwing me down to the leather seat and coming over me in a wave of need and lust.
I feel his breath whooshing past my lips just before his lips crash down over mine, his tongue thrusting in, owning me in mimicry of what I want him to do between my legs.
Those large hands cup my breasts, expertly strumming my hardened nipples to points of screaming readiness, and his cock, I feel it probing, pushing past the thin barrier of my panties before gliding over the slick entrance to thrust up—
I come back to earth with a jolt when his hand lands on the inner skin of my thigh and begins stroking in little circles that have my breath exploding out in little pants that leave me lightheaded and resentful.
It’s always been so easy for him. Not once since we’ve met have I ever put up anything more than a token resistance to his experienced and practiced seductions.
Even now, feeling bitter and in a state of turmoil, I want nothing more than to throw my hurt pride and scruples to the wind and kiss him, devour him, beg him to touch me and take away the lonely emptiness his loss has caused.
But I can’t, no matter how good I know he’ll make me feel, because when the pleasure fades all I’ll be left with is the empty ache of regret for giving him back the power I’ve only just gained.