Chosen by Desire (40 page)

C
arrie stomped into the living room, each step magnifying her frustration. If there was one thing she’d learned in all of this, it was that she hated feeling defenseless. Thinking you were capable, and then not being able to do a damn thing to help yourself, was the worst feeling in the world. And they wouldn’t
let
her do anything. Nor would they listen to her.

They
meaning Max.

“Where are you going?”

“To the kitchen.” She didn’t bother to look over her shoulder at him as she gathered the coffee cups. “I might as well clean up. That shouldn’t prove to be too challenging or unsafe for me, should it?”

“You can’t fault us for wanting to protect you.”

“I can when it takes away my power.” She picked up the tray and headed into the kitchen. She set the tray down with a clatter and began rinsing the cups.

Max came to stand next to her. “It’s not our intent to take away your power.”

She wanted to kick him. “But that’s what you’re doing nevertheless. You’re patting me on the head and telling me to wait in my room like a good girl. Maybe I have something to contribute. And, really, this is my mess. I should have to clean it up.”

“You don’t know anything more than we do.”

She knew the culprit had to be Francesca. Only Max hadn’t reacted well to her accusing someone he grew up with. Someone who worked with him—closely. But Francesca had motive and opportunity, not to mention the skills. Plus, she hated Carrie and had never made a secret of it.

She’d considered giving Rhys Francesca’s name, too, but Max would have hated that. So she thought she’d look into it herself, only here she was, in Max’s steel-enforced fortress, a damsel in distress.

Carrie snorted and dumped all the spoons in the sink. “I
hate
feeling defenseless.”

Slipping his arms around her waist, Max turned her around and tangled his hand into her hair. Before she could do anything, he situated himself between her legs.

He tipped her head back. His eyes blazed something sharp, and he lowered them until they were all she could see. “I won’t see you hurt.”

“I won’t see you hurt, either,” she replied just as fiercely.

His hands tightened, pulling her against him. His mouth came down on hers, avid and hungry.

It sparked the hunger in her, too. Moaning, she locked her legs behind him to make sure he wouldn’t move away. His hands slipped under her butt, scooped her up, and set her on the cold marble countertop.

Panting, trying to catch her breath, she nibbled the taut column of his neck. “I’ve never had kitchen sex before.”

“Good.” He gripped the collar of her shirt and tore it open like it was paper instead of silk.

She blinked down at her suddenly naked body. “That was your shirt.”

“Looks better this way.” He ran his hands down her neck, her breasts, her belly, to her thighs. He spread her legs so her heels unlocked and she was bared to him. But apparently not bare enough, because he bracketed her with his hands and thumbed her open.

Electricity shot through her body. Leaning back on her hands, she watched him watch her. “Tell me this isn’t going to be a long, drawn-out foreplay session.”

“I want to taste you.”

“I want you first.”

His blunt, thick finger ran over her. “Let me.”

She shivered, from his touch as well as the desire in his voice. She could imagine his tongue gently swirling around her. But she wanted him with her—she wanted to feel him in her—so she sat up, undid his drawstring, and pushed his clothing down far enough to free his erection.

Before he could protest, she brushed her fingers over its head and rubbed in the wetness she found there. Then she gripped it and tugged. “Come here.”

Surprisingly—or maybe not—he didn’t put up a fight. He stepped in closer until his hardness nestled right where she wanted it. She wiggled herself against him, watching the way his expression darkened with need. For her.

“I like it,” she whispered.

“Like.” His short laugh was incredulous. He grasped her hips and thrust himself against her. “
Like
doesn’t begin to do justice to this.”

She bent forward to lick his nipples, one and then the other. “It seemed an adequate enough word at the time.”

“I want to be in you now,” he commanded.

“You realize you’re bossing me around again, don’t you?”

His gaze narrowed. Without warning, he captured her nipple between his lips. He lapped at it once, a long, slow flick of his tongue, before ruthlessly sucking it until she writhed on the counter.

Letting it go with a wet
pop,
he lifted his head. “I seem to remember you saying you didn’t mind me taking control in the bedroom.”

“This is the kitchen,” she managed to say between pants.

He scooped her up, tossed her over his shoulder, kicked his pants off the rest of the way, and strode out of the kitchen.

“Hey!” She tried to squirm off but he had a firm hold of her. “What are you doing?”

“Taking you to my bedroom.”

“You’re such a control freak.” She smacked his butt. “Next you’ll pull out handcuffs.”

He looked over his shoulder at her. “Don’t tempt me.”

She blinked at the erotic purr of his voice, picturing him cuffing her to his huge bed. She knew exactly how he’d look at her, how he’d prowl up the foot of the bed until he was poised over her, not touching and letting her anticipate every wicked thing he’d do to her.

A fresh stab of excitement coursed through her, and this time she caressed his muscular butt. “Hurry.”

He jogged up the stairs, strode to the bed, and tossed her onto it. Before she got a chance to catch her breath, he sheathed himself in a condom and joined her, sliding inside her as he covered her.

Her body arched of its own accord. “Finally.”

Taking both her wrists in one hand, he stretched her arms over her head, using his free hand to palm her breasts. He captured her lips in a voracious, all-encompassing kiss.

It shot from the top of her head to the tip of her toes, lighting everything in between. Intense, full of passion, potent. But soft and loving at the same time.

Because his soul was in it.

She opened herself to him and took all of him in—the dark and the light, the sharp and the soft, the hurt and the love. The energy swirled around her, through her, binding her to him in such an intimate way that for a moment having him inside her seemed incidental.

But then he thrust, and she thought she had to be delusional to even think that. Crying, she locked her legs around his back.

He sucked her lower lip, holding her firmly in place, as his free hand slithered between their bodies. She opened her legs, silently begging him to touch her there because she couldn’t make her mouth form the words.

“Do you feel me?” Max whispered. “Do you feel how much I want you? All of you.”

She could only nod as he rubbed her softly—the way she liked it.

“You’re
mine.
” He kissed her again, and the same riotous feelings rushed through her. “You can’t doubt that anymore.”

She moaned in assent. The room started spinning, and even with her eyes closed she felt like she was spiraling out of control. The only thing she felt was his hardness in her, his fingers playing her, and the tug of his lips on hers.

It all converged—strong and relentless—and she gasped. Her thighs gripped his waist, and she arched up. Her cries mingled with his guttural groans as he came, too.

He slowed and then stopped, blanketing her, his heart thundering against hers. She held him there, not wanting the intimate connection they’d finally created to be broken.

He let go of her wrists and, running his hands down her body, rolled off her and gathered her to his chest. He closed his eyes. “I love you.”

The bottom fell out of her stomach. “
What?
”

“I love you,” he said again, as if it was the most common thing. He rubbed her back drowsily. “Sleep now.”

“
Sleep?
” She propped up on her elbow, gaping at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

He wasn’t. He was out like a light, breathing rhythmically. He looked so boyish and dear, she couldn’t get pissed. Instead, she rested her head on his chest and watched him. Curling her hand around his shoulder, she inexplicably felt the heat from his mark and, at peace, she closed her eyes and dozed off, too.

S
tartled awake, Carrie lifted her head from where she’d been nestled on Max’s shoulder.

Someone was coming up the stairs.

Footsteps on the metal stairs. Clacking.

Heels.
A woman.

Her heart gripped. She remembered her attack at the bar—the fear and feeling of helplessness—and she reached to shake Max awake.

She froze as Francesca’s immaculate red head cleared the top step.

What was
she
doing here? Angry—for being afraid as well as the intrusion, Carrie sat up, clutching the sheet to her chin.

Francesca walked into the room, stopping abruptly when she saw Carrie in bed. Her gaze fell to Max, still sleeping and obviously naked, and she stiffened. She glared coldly at Carrie before turning and going back downstairs.

This was her chance to confront Francesca. Carrie hopped out of bed and looked around for her shirt. Remembering Max had torn it off her, she hurried into the bathroom to grab a towel.

Francesca had her hand on the latch to the front door when Carrie skidded to a halt in the foyer. “
Wait.
”

She didn’t think Francesca would actually listen to her, but she stopped, her back still turned to her.

Carrie took a moment to catch her breath and then said, “Why did you do it?”

“Bring you clothes?” She gestured to the left. “Because Max requested it.”

The über-coolness of the woman’s tone pissed her off. “I know you have issues with me, and I understand why, but there was no need to steal the scroll from me.”

“What?” Francesca whirled around, her brow furrowed.

“The jig is up.” She tucked the towel tighter around her body. “You don’t have to pretend. I know it was you. I understand why you did it.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she replied archly.

“I’m not asking you to return it for my sake but for Max’s. If the scroll gets out, his life will never be the same. In a bad way. You can’t want that. You love him.”

Francesca’s face paled. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out until the third try. “What?”

“You love him.” A person had to be pretty dense not to notice, but she didn’t think it’d be nice to point that out.

“I—” She fingered the pearls around her neck. “I don’t know what gave you that idea.”

Maybe the protectiveness? The absolute attention to his every need? The mooning looks? Carrie just said, “Woman’s intuition. Which is why I understand why you don’t appreciate me in the picture. I’m just asking you not to hurt Max out of spite for me.”

“I’d never hurt him. Which is more than I can say for you.”

Carrie blinked. “Excuse me?”

“All you’ve brought him since he’s known you is trouble. However, regardless of what I think of you—”

“Gee, thanks,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“—that doesn’t mean I’d steal anything from you.”

“Of course you took it. It had to be you. The attacks, the prowler Max saw climbing up to my balcony? I saw the way you beat up the punching bag and your skills climbing that silk.”

“Why would I climb the wall when I had access to your room from inside?”

Good question. “Because you wanted to throw us off?”

Francesca just stared at her with the composure of the innocent.

And her gut told her it wasn’t faked. “You really didn’t take it?”

“Of course not.” The woman’s spine straightened with all the indignation in her being. “I’m no thief.”

Well, damn. She’d been so sure of her hypothesis. But at least she didn’t have to prove to Max that Francesca was the baddie.