A View to a Thrill (Masters and Mercenaries Book 7) (14 page)

She could relax because she wasn’t going to give him what he wanted.

She couldn’t tell him that she loved him.

God, she wanted to be able to love him. She’d never felt about anyone the way she felt for him but she didn’t trust it, didn’t believe it could last. She wanted him so badly, but she would have to leave him if only to protect him.

She let her hands find his hair. She had him for the moment and she wanted everything she could have from him. She held him to her breast, reveling in the way he sucked and licked and bit at her. He moved from one nipple to the next and she wondered how it would feel to wear his clamps. He would pick pretty clamps and slip them over her nipples one by one. They would bite into her, a reminder that he was her Master. When he touched her, she would move and whimper and shiver and feel the touch of his clamps.

Maybe she was a little more submissive than she was willing to admit—but only when it came to him.

Simon’s hands moved over her back, sliding down to cover her butt. Sweet heat suffused her. Even as he cupped her ass, she wanted more. So much more. She wanted to be exactly in the place he’d described to her. She wanted him to take her to his home and make her his queen, or duchess, or whatever as long as she was his just for a little while.

“Tell me you want me.” Simon was staring up at her, his blue eyes hotter than she could ever remember them.

“I want you.” It was easy. She could give him that. She wanted him to take her, to be the only man who ever entered her.

Damn it. She didn’t mean that. She would move on after him.

And still it was true. “I do want you.”

He stood up and hauled her into his arms like she weighed nothing. “Then let’s not waste more time.”

She agreed. She’d wasted far too much time.

Chapter Six

He was an idiot. What the bloody hell was he doing? He carried her from the disgusting bathroom into the relatively clean by comparison bedroom. He couldn’t fuck her here. She deserved more. It was why he’d started talking about his stupid dreams. He’d started having them the night after he’d met her. He was back at Norsely but this time he felt like he belonged. This time he wasn’t just the spare. He wasn’t always in his brother’s shadow, the younger son who screwed up everything. He was a son of Norsely and he belonged.

It didn’t matter. He gently placed Chelsea on the bed. He had everything he needed. He had money and a place in the world. He didn’t need a stupid manor house. He didn’t need his brother to know him.

He did need her.

He was starving for her.

“I’m going to take your pants off now.” He was the slightest bit wary. She was twenty-seven. He didn’t buy her “I didn’t have time to have sex” act. Something had happened. He wasn’t a fool. He knew her history. He’d read the file on her and her sister. There had been a reason Ian had put a knife in her uncle’s back. And her father… The one good thing Eli Nelson had done on this earth had been to kill the fucker. He’d tortured his daughter. Something had set her off men, and he had to be careful because he didn’t want to be just another man who did her wrong.

She was on her back, propped up on her elbows, somber eyes looking down at him. “I don’t want you to see me.”

Her scars. She was touchy about them. “I’ve seen you, Chelsea. They didn’t bother me before. Do you want to see mine? I’ve got scars, too. No one gets to my age in this business without a few scars.”

She nodded and rolled to her side. She was such a hard case. In order to get her to open even the slightest bit, he damn near had to bleed for her, and yet he shrugged out of his shirt. His chest bore the scars of his youth. She’d likely seen them before, but he hadn’t pointed them out, hadn’t told her the stories.

He pointed to a long, snake-like scar that ran from his left side collarbone to almost touch his sternum. “Not exactly pretty.”

She got to her knees, her eyes widening. God, when she looked at him with that little bit of wonder in her eyes, his cock got rock hard. No woman had ever looked at him the way Chelsea did. She wasn’t lusting after his money or the fame that came with being royal. She just wanted what he could give her. “Can I touch it?”

It was going to be a frustrating night. “Yes.”

She let her fingertips trace the scar. “Where did you get it?”

“I was fifteen and working for the summer at my uncle’s ranch. A calf got stuck in a fence and then I took his place.”

“What? What the hell were you doing with a cow?”

It was good to know he could still surprise her. “A calf, love. I wouldn’t have been able to get a full-size cow out. Unfortunately, I got stuck and panicked a bit. The barb tore its way across my chest. My uncle’s foreman sewed me up. It was also the first time I tried rotgut whiskey. I woke up with a raging hangover, this scar, and my aunt screaming at my uncle.”

“Uhm, your uncle is a billionaire. He couldn’t take you to the doctor?”

Her hands on his skin felt so fucking good. “Apparently that’s not the cowboy way.” He couldn’t help but grin. “I didn’t mind. I just wanted to fit in. I liked riding herd. I understood it. My mother was an equestrian champion in her youth, but I always preferred western tack. Working a horse like that should mean something beyond showing off for a ribbon. There’s purpose in riding herd.”

So much of his life had been for show, but those summers in Texas held meaning.

“What about this one?” Her fingers moved to a place just above the waist of his slacks. She had to be able to see just how hard his cock was, but she stared at a nasty puncture scar above his hip bone.

“RAF training. I was in a helicopter accident. Luckily I wasn’t the one flying.” It had been bad. High winds had sent the chopper into a tailspin and they had hit the ground, bouncing several times before stopping. Everyone had survived, but he’d broken his arm in two places, broken two ribs and lost a small portion of his liver. Apparently that grew back. Lucky for him.

“You can fly just about anything, can’t you?” She brushed against the scar, staring at it like it was a piece of art she was studying. She seemed to have made a study of him.

“Yes. I flew Tornados mostly.” Panavia Tornados, a sleek, styled fighter jet. Sometimes he missed flying. It was something he’d been bloody good at. “But I also can fly choppers and small aircraft. I quite like flying. I’ve been trying to talk Tag into getting a company jet.”

“He’s a cheap bastard.” She smiled a little. “That’s two whole scars, Weston. Not exactly impressive to a girl like me.”

“The rest are lower. Do you want to see them?” He took a long, steadying breath.

Chelsea stood. She was obviously awkward without a shirt, and her skin had flushed as though she’d finally remembered where she was. For a second, he was sure he’d lost her and that she’d go back and find her shirt and they would be at another impasse. Then she slowly began pushing the pants off her hips. She shimmied out of the PJ pants and stood in front of him wearing nothing but a pair of panties that a granny likely would throw aside as far too distasteful.

She grimaced a little. “Sorry. I wasn’t really thinking I’d be showing off the undies today.”

“Chelsea, love, those are about a size too big and the waistband is coming off.” It was so unsexy and yet he found it more charming than the woman who had shipped herself to him wearing nothing but a pair of Louboutins and a cream-colored La Perla thong. He wasn’t about to have Chelsea escorted out the way he had that one.

She frowned. “I hadn’t done laundry. The asshole assassins didn’t give a crap that I’d just gotten back from Europe. Though you should know I don’t have a lot of pretty things. I don’t really need them.”

“No, you don’t.”

She smiled. “Good. I like to be comfortable.”

“No, love. Again, you didn’t read the contract. No panties at all for you. That should be deeply comfortable and you don’t have to worry about laundering them.” He loved the fact that she was now standing with him mostly naked and she’d obviously forgotten to be self-conscious. All he had to do was piss her off, and he was very good at doing that.

“You can’t take my panties.” Her hand went down as though to protect that wretched piece of fabric.

“I can make you give them to me.”

She shook her head but there had been no way to miss the way she shuddered. It wasn’t in distaste. “I don’t think so, Weston.”

“Ah, a challenge. I like a challenge.” Ever so slowly, so there was no way for her to be startled by the move, he reached out and cupped her breasts again. They were small but beautifully formed, and fit perfectly in his hands. Her nipples peaked again, elongating, and he couldn’t help but fall to his knees in front of her. “I’ll get them off you. I swear it, and you’ll be the one to hand them over to me because you’re in control. You know that, right?”

Her voice came out in a breathy puff. “I’ve heard the whole Dom speech. The sub is always in control. Yeah, sure.”

He kissed her nipple. She would look so gorgeous in clamps. He really had to rethink his go bag. It contained burner phones, cash, alternate identification but no nipple clamps, and that seemed like a mistake. Of course he should always have a pair of clamps for her pretty tits. “You’re in control, Chelsea. And all you have to say tonight is no. One no and I’ll stop and we’ll sleep. I won’t ever force you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“Except not wear proper underwear.”

“I want access to my sub’s pussy.” He could smell her arousal. That sweet, spicy feminine scent hit his nose and it smelled a little like victory.

Her fingers sank into his hair, holding him to her breast, though he had no intention of leaving it. “I thought I wasn’t getting any of that.”

He circled her nipple with his tongue, palming the other breast. “Any cock? No. Not until I have what I want. I have standards, too, you know.”

“Yes, I can plainly see that. It must have been hard to turn down all those women who used to throw themselves at you.”

He tipped his face up to look at her. “It wasn’t hard, because they didn’t really want me. They wanted money or to be in the tabloids or access to my brother. It was easy to turn them away.”

Her expression softened and she smoothed back his hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound so…I don’t judge. I didn’t realize. It sounds like a fabulous life, but if no one really sees you, I guess that would kind of suck.”

Ah, the wisdom of Chelsea Dennis. And yet she’d hit the nail on the head. “I need you to see me, Chelsea. I want to see you. We have a lot in common.”

She sighed a little. “No, we don’t, but I don’t really care anymore.”

She was wrong, but he didn’t want to waste time schooling her. It was past late and they had to move in a few hours. And he really wanted to get those nasty knickers off her.

He tongued her nipples, moving back and forth, giving her stronger suction with each pass. She could handle a good deal of pain, but she’d only ever been worked over in a clinical fashion. The Doms she’d worked with—he wouldn’t use the word play—had used floggers to take her to subspace. There was never the promise of anything sexual for Chelsea. She seemed to use BDSM as an alternative to pain medication when her legs hurt. He wanted to show her it could be so much more. He licked her nipple and then gave her a little bite.

She gasped, but her hands tugged at his hair to draw him in, not pull him off. That was where he wanted her to go.

He continued the nipple play even as he let his hands move lower to cup her ass. That was a gorgeous backside. Full and round, he dreamed of spanking her, of getting her pink and hot and ready to fuck.

He pulled away and was rewarded with a little moan that sounded like disappointment. “Lie down on the bed. I checked it. It seems clean. The sheets smell like fabric softener. On your belly.”

Her eyes flared. “What?”

He softened his tone. “I want to touch you. I want to inspect you. Have I done anything that brought you pain?”

She shook her head.

“Then obey me. If you don’t like it, you can tell me to stop.”

She turned away from him and crawled on top of the bed, giving him a delicious view of her backside.

And her legs.

“God, you’ve got a beautiful arse.”

“I don’t know how you can think that word is sexy.” At least she was giggling.

He put a hand on her back, loving the silky feel of her skin. “I should be more American? Ass is sexier? I go back and forth. I can use whichever you prefer. I’ve spent enough time in the States to use the lingo.”

It bothered his parents that he sounded so very American much of the time. He was self-aware enough to know he’d likely done it to annoy them. And to feel closer to his cousins.

“It’s not about the word. I don’t know that a bottom is sexy at all, Simon. I mean, we sit on it. Sure Charlotte always talks about how hot Ian’s is, but Ian is a giant walking ass so I guess if she didn’t like them she wouldn’t have married one.”

She had the most sarcastic view of the world. “Do you know what I’ll do to your…ass?”