Secrets and Sins:Raphael(3)

Something that had her visually tracing the slightly wicked arch of his  dark brows, the strong jut of his cheekbones, the carnal curve of his  bottom lip. Wishing it were her fingertips, her mouth grazing those  features instead of her eyes.

"I don't do this," she whispered more to herself than the quiet, intense man across from her.

He didn't smirk. Didn't pop out a glib remark. Instead he regarded her  with that incisive, razor-sharp stare. She managed not to squirm under  it. But inside she longed to glance away, hide from the  all-too-perceptive knowledge contained in that weighty scrutiny. Afraid  he would see the soft objection for what it was: a denial-an attempt to  convince herself that the avenue this evening was heading down would  somehow take a detour or spring a roadblock.

"Greer?" Ethan's voice doused her like a bucket of frigid ice water. She  jerked, met her brother's concerned frown. He glanced at Raphael, and  the vee between his brows deepened before he returned his attention to  her. "Are you ready? I need to meet Jason for dinner."

"I'm … " She faltered, her explanation trailing off as once more the  perfect socialite, eager-to-please daughter, and biddable fiancée rose,  rearing her afraid-to-rock-the-boat head. Ethan extended his hand toward  her, and her arm tensed as she lifted it. Then in the next moment she  lowered her hand to her lap, clenched her fingers together. "No." She  shook her head. "I'm going to stay a little longer."                       
       
           



       

"Greer," Ethan hissed, edging closer and blocking her view of Raphael,  who watched them silently and with ill-concealed interest. "I know  you're hurt and confused, but this isn't-"

Heat surged up her throat, flooded her face. Jesus, she didn't want  Raphael to overhear her brother going into  I-need-to-stop-my-sister-from-having-a-slutty-rebound mode. How  humiliating would that be? "Ethan," she murmured. "Please."

"Don't worry, Ethan, is it?" Raphael stood, and in an easy, smooth move,  inserted himself between her and her brother. His back was braced  against the edge of the bar while his arm and thigh pressed against  hers, forming a partial shield from Ethan's reproach. She blinked,  momentarily taken aback. Had he just tried to protect her? How … novel.

"I'm Raphael Marcel. Your sister and I met last week at my office. If  she wants to stay here, I'll make sure she gets home safely."

As expected, his assurance didn't go over well. More often than not, it  had been her guarding her older brother, being the gatekeeper of his  secrets, acting as the buffer between him and their father. Yet as he  surveyed Raphael, his mouth thinning into a straight, grim line, she  sensed the advent of a full-blown overprotective fit.

"While I'm sure that should ease my mind-"

"Wait a sec." Raphael pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his  jeans and withdrew a small slip of paper. "Here's my business card. Feel  free to pass my information along to the cops if I don't return your  sister home in one piece."

Greer groaned. Oh, Jesus.

"Ethan." She waited until his focus shifted from Raphael's teasing grin  and reverted to her. "I'll be fine. Please. Go to your dinner with  Jason. I'm sure he's waiting."

Indecision warred with refusal and frustration across Ethan's features.

"If you're sure … "

"I am." She offered him a smile. "Tell Jason I said hi."

He blew out a long breath and dragged his hand through his short brown  curls. "Fine. Call me when you get home." He pinned a steely glare on  Raphael before leaning down and brushing a kiss over her cheek. "Call  me," he repeated, voice firm.

"I will," she promised.

As Ethan disappeared through the pub's front door, Raphael's stare  settled on her like the heavy weight of a heated blanket-electric, hot,  encompassing, consuming. It instilled a warmth that penetrated the chill  of rejection, hurt, and doubt. Yet she couldn't entirely shush the  voice of reason that railed, What are you doing? This is crazy! God, he  looked every inch the rebellious, fuck-the-establishment type she'd  avoided in high school and college, afraid too close an association  would draw her father's censure. Gavin, with his short, well-groomed  haircut, conservative but expensive suits, and impeccable manners, had  been the antithesis of Raphael. He'd been acceptable, solid, safe.

He'd also never elicited the dip-and-roll in her belly with his nice lovemaking that Raphael did with one hooded glance.

Nice.

Jesus. How bland.

How … sad.

For once she wanted more than "nice." More than suitable. Satisfactory.  She wanted-"Damn it," she breathed, her lashes lowering. I don't know  what I want. Three days ago, her life had been planned out to a stifling  tee. And tonight … tonight she didn't have a fiancé or any idea what  tomorrow would bring. Or if she had the courage to face it.

So for the next few hours, she was going to do the totally selfish and  reckless thing and grab a hold of what she did want. Forgetfulness.  Oblivion.

Raphael.





Chapter Two

"Would you like another drink?"

A drink? Surprise arced through her. She'd thought …  Their conversation  scrolled through her mind like closed captioning across a screen. Heat  writhed up her chest, streamed up her throat, and set her skin on fire.  God, had she misunderstood … ?

"I-I'm sorry." The words stumbled over her tongue, embarrassment  tripping them up. "You don't want … " She couldn't finish the thought,  couldn't force the rest of the question past her lips. At the last  second, she tackled her dignity and wrestled it to the ground. With an  abrupt shake of her head, she slid off the barstool, avoiding his  scrutiny. "I'm sorry," she repeated hoarsely. "I should-"

"I don't … what?" One moment she was trying to edge past him, and in the  next, the rim of the bar dug into her back. The solid wall of his chest  pressed against hers. She gasped. Bit back a moan. He was so … big. Not  muscle-bound like a weight lifter but tall, wide in the shoulders, lean.  Hard. He surrounded her-his arms bracketed her, his chest covered her.  His warmth reached out for her. She shivered, and he shifted closer. As  if of their own volition, her hands grasped his hips, her fingers  curling into the band of his jeans and hanging on. Hanging on. How  accurate.                       
       
           



       

"I don't, what, princess?" he asked again, lowering his head. The dark,  surprisingly fragrant sweep of his hair brushed her cheekbone, tickled  her skin. His lips, sensual and firm, grazed her ear. "Want to drag you  out of here, lay you across the nearest flat surface, and fuck you until  neither one of us can stand? Hell yes, I want it. Want you. But this is  me trying to be considerate. Take note. It probably won't happen  again."

How could he make her laugh even as he caused her body to burn? Gavin  had never uttered such raw, earthy words to her before. No man had.  Almost as if she were too pure, too pristine for the carnality behind  them. But when Raphael stated how he wanted to fuck her-God, just  thinking it made her blush-he hadn't struck her as coarse or ribald.  He'd sounded … honest. Need and hunger had echoed in the growl that had  darkened his voice. For her. In the five years she and Gavin dated and  were engaged, she'd never felt needed.

"Noted." She squeezed her eyes closed and tightened her grip on his  jeans. "And appreciated. But if it's all the same to you, I'd rather  skip the drink."

A newer, fine tension invaded his body. The breath in her ear deepened, roughened.

"Let's go, princess."

He stepped back, grabbed her hand, and forged a path through the crowd  until they pushed through the front entrance. The cold December air was  like a dip in a freezing creek after the sauna-like bar. She inhaled-

"Can't wait. Just one taste." The low mutter was her only warning before  he whipped around and crushed his mouth over hers. Stunned, she gasped,  and he took immediate advantage. His tongue plunged past her parted  lips, swept inside, swirled … conquered. No gentle query. No persuasive  brush of a mouth seeking permission. It was wild, wet, erotic as if it  were their hundredth kiss instead of the first. He demanded her response  with the almost-rough molding of her mouth. Insisted on her submission  with the unyielding grip at the nape of her neck. With the firm,  steadying palm at her back. God. It was fierce. Passionate.  Overwhelming.

And she wanted more.