Authors: Kate Perry
He wanted to touch her.
No—he wanted to ravage her. He wanted to eat her up like she was breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He wanted to tear her clothes off and leave bite marks on her skin, marking her as his. He wanted to see her sweaty and messy from him, limp on his bed and unable to move because he’d loved her so hard.
He gripped the handles and drove. To Hyde Park, he decided. It was the obvious choice.
It was where he used to bring girls, when he wanted the added thrill of being outside. He hadn’t been there in thirteen years, but it seemed the right scene for this crime.
Arriving at Hyde Park, he eased the motorcycle onto a path, careful not to jar Imogen, on the lookout for any patrols. He zipped toward the Serpentine, to a spot he knew would be secluded.
Behind him, Imogen held him closer. “Is it safe here?”
“You know who comes here now? No one.” He eased the bike to a stop, behind a large tree where he usually hid it when he came here at night to think. He cut the engine. “Which is why it’s perfect for us.”
Imogen slid from behind him, standing next to him as he kicked the stand and propped the bike up. She took the helmet off and shook her hair out.
He watched her hand smooth the long tresses. He wanted that hand back on his tiger. “That was fabulous. Do you ride your motorcycle often?”
Too often, but he couldn’t help himself. “No.”
“What a shame.”
He let his eyes roam over her the way he wanted his hands to, slow and thorough. She was in jeans and boots. Her top covered all the good parts of her, like wrapping paper on a present.
He wanted to rip it off. He crossed his arms and leaned against the bike. “Nice cape.”
She arched her brow. “It’s a poncho, but thank you.”
“Do you always dress like Zorro?”
“Only when I don’t want to be recognized.” She shrugged. “It worked for him.”
“Are you often recognized?”
“Yes,” she said without a hint of ego. “It goes with the territory. It’s worse lately, though.”
“Because of the sex scandal.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You watched it.”
“Of course I did.”
Looking at him like he’d disappointed her, she began to walk down the path that led closer to the Serpentine. He pushed off the bike and stalked after her, trying not to get too excited by the chase.
“Well?” she grudgingly asked.
“I can see why the public is so entranced by it. It leaves everything to the imagination.” He studied her. “I’m surprised you let yourself be videoed. You seem more cautious than that.”
“I usually am.” She glanced away.
“Did you love him?” he heard himself ask, surprised that the reply mattered.
He wasn’t sure she’d answer, but she finally said, “We were in a relationship, and when it starts to go stale you try everything to get the spark back.”
“You’re loyal.”
Her mouth twisted with wry amusement. “That surprises you.”
“Loyalty is hard to come by. Your boyfriend is an idiot.”
“Ex-boyfriend. And he is.”
“If I ran into him, I’d be tempted to punch him.”
She smiled more naturally. “Not that you would, because think of the press.”
“True.”
“Let’s sit on that bench.”
He looked to where she pointed. The bench lined the path, obscured by shadows cast from surrounding trees. It was a good spot, actually, because the shadows would obscure any park video monitoring.
Instead of sitting on it the way a normal person would, Imogen stepped on the seat and balanced on the back.
He joined her, and they sat in silence. She leaned forward with her hands clasped between her legs.
He mimicked her posture when all he wanted was to pounce on her—to take her beneath him, roll her on top, and any other way he could think of.
He gripped his hands to keep them off her. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Why, Mr. MP, that sounded like a compliment.” She tipped her head to look at him. “What did you expect?”
“A movie star.”
“Are you insinuating that I’m not glamorous?”
“I have a feeling you’d be glamorous after a run.”
“You’d be right.” She studied him. “You’re exactly like I imagined.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”
“The conservative look works for you. It makes me want to unbutton you and muss you up.”
Her words went straight to his head—but not the one on his shoulders. That was exactly what he wanted, too. “You’re rather direct.”
She shrugged. “You have to ask for what you want.”
“What are you asking for?”
“Are we going to play games, Merrick?” She faced him. “We both know why we’re here. The only things to negotiate at this point are the details.”
“We agreed that it wasn’t wise to see each other,” he said cautiously, ignoring the animal impulse that insisted he just take her.
“And yet here we both are.” She took his hand.
A thrill of desire went through him at the contact, sharp and exciting, like a bolt of lightning. He’d never felt anything so strong, not even when sex was new and wild when he was a kid and had the world by the tail. “I should walk away,” he said mostly to himself.
“You couldn’t. If you were going to walk away, you’d have ignored my text.”
Damn it—he knew that. He didn’t need to hear her say it.
Imogen studied his hand like it was a map. “The only thing left is coming to terms.”
“Terms?”
“We both agree that we need discretion. I can’t afford any salacious press over the next few weeks. We don’t tell anyone, and we meet in the cover of night, like this. And we don’t see other people.” She leveled him with a look. “I don’t share.”
She said it like she expected him to argue the point, but he only wanted her. The thought of another man touching her made him want to punch his fist through a window. “Agreed.”
She turned his head so he looked at her. So close, even in the dark, he saw the fathomless blue of her eyes and wanted to drown in them. “This is a terrible idea,” she whispered.
“And yet here we both are,” he repeated as he lowered his mouth to hers.
There was no build up. There was no sweetness or hesitancy that usually accompanied a first kiss. There was only need.
Imogen hummed, her fingers raking his hair. She leaned into him and kissed him, challenging him with her lips to keep up. She trailed kisses down his jaw, to his neck. She undid the top of his shirt and pushed it open—
She sat up, breathing heavily. She ran the tip of her finger over the lower part of his clavicle. “You have a tattoo here.”
He had more than one tattoo, but few people knew.
She angled his chin away. “Tribal vines. Are there letters woven in?”
“M-V-M,” he said. Michaela, Valerie, and Merrick.
She looked like she was going to ask him more about it, but then she tipped her head and said, “Where else do you have tattoos?”
“What makes you think I have more?”
“I just know.” She looked down his body with that X-ray vision of hers.
Not needing her to invade him or his psyche any more than she had, he did the only thing he could think of to distract her: he touched her. Pulling her in front of him, her back to his chest, he covered the juncture between her legs with his palm.
He gave the area a quick scan to ensure their privacy before he placed his mouth by her ear and said, “Slide forward and undo your pants.”
“Interesting way to change topic, Merrick.” But she did as he said.
The moment she unzipped her pants, he slipped his hand down her abdomen and into her silky wetness. He eased a finger between her folds, softly exploring, teasing breathy gasps from her.
She arched into his touch. “This isn’t discreet.”
“You’re not stopping me.”
“I want this too badly. It’s a conundrum.”
He felt her writhe against him and agreed completely. His mind told him to walk away before they stepped into something complicated, but he couldn’t convince his hands to let her go. He wanted to bury himself in her, to lap her up and make her his.
Her sighs went directly to his blood, more intoxicating than whiskey. “We should stop before someone wanders by and catches us,” she said.
No.
His reaction was immediate and forceful. He wanted her to come completely apart in his arms. He couldn’t wait. He wanted to hear her cry for release—from him. “No one’s here but you and me, Imogen,” he assured her. “You won’t be compromised.”
He wouldn’t let anyone see her like this. This was all his, and he was keeping it that way.
“Promise,” she demanded, raising her arms to circle his neck from behind.
“I promise.” He snaked his hand under her layers, up to her bra. He pulled the cup down, the sound of its fabric ripping causing a flare of excitement to zip through him.
Imogen moaned. “I liked this bra.”
He rolled the tip of her breast between his fingers.
“But I like this more,” she added with a gasp. “Merrick, make me come.”
Yes.
He focused in the spot that made her roll her hips faster, his finger gliding over her so softly she had to reach for it. When she was poised on the edge, he whispered in her ear. “Unravel for me, Imogen. Show me what I have to look forward to.”
She gripped his neck and cried out, muffling her cries against her shoulder.
He held her as she shuddered with the remnants of her orgasm. He looked around, wondering what’d happen if he had her here, on the bench.
He couldn’t chance it.
He was dying though.
When she’d recovered enough, he eased her onto the bench and stood, pacing, trying to get a hold of himself. She had him tied up. He ran a hand over his neck. “I should take you home before we tempt fate further.”
Her lips pursed but she stood without a word, buttoning her pants and straightening her clothes.
Good, because he was on a short leash and it wouldn’t take much for it to snap.
They returned to the motorcycle in silence. He handed her a helmet.
She grabbed his shirt. “I’m going to explore your body until I find every last tattoo. FYI.”
He swallowed the urge to tear his clothes off and to tell her to have at it. “I thought you were trying to be good.”
“Darling”—she trailed her fingers down his chest and pulled him forward by his belt buckle—”you’re going to find out how good I can be.”
He caught her arm, unable to let her go even though he needed space to regain his equilibrium. “I thought you were trouble when I saw you.”
She smiled as she stepped back. “Then we’ll have to make sure I’m worth it.”
Chapter Nine
“Do you hear that?” Fran asked, setting a plate of cookies on the table.
“What?” Holly took one without being told. Fran’s cookies were the best. “Gigi rehearsing?”
Shaking her head, the older woman tsked. “She’s not rehearsing. She’s singing for a man.”
Holly checked the time. “Isn’t she working with her voice coach right now?”
“Yes, but I know my lambs, and I know when something is different.” Fran pursed her lips, listening. “There’s something under her singing. You’ll know when your son falls in love the first time. You’ll hear his heart in his actions.”
Holly stopped and really listened, trying to imagine Jamie a man and in love. Something in her chest melted as she shouted in her head
Oh hell no
.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think there’s a man.” Fran listened carefully and then nodded. “Definitely a man.”
And his name was Merrick Graham. Holly didn’t know for sure, but the ripped bra she’d seen in Gigi’s room made her believe the actress had called him.
It’d been a hunch, to get his number for Gigi. She’d been doing what she’d been told—to encourage Gigi to go wild—but she also thought it’d make Gigi happy.
The torn underwear would make Marjorie happy. Holly hadn’t had anything exciting to report since she’d been working there, so she was relieved to have found something at last.
“Except I know Gigi,” Fran continued, “and she’s determined to get her career on track.”
“Does that mean she wouldn’t date someone?” Holly asked.
“That means she’d do whatever she needs to do to get herself back on top first. Acting has always come first with her.” Fran wiped down a tray and set it in the oven. “All my lambs are ambitious, but Gigi has the most drive.”
Holly had had ambitions before she’d gotten pregnant, but nothing definite. She’d always seen herself in smart business suits, going to work in a posh office, and living in a high rise surrounded by glass. Her reality had turned out so completely different.
She never regretted it. She loved being Jamie’s mom. It was a blessing.
But if she’d change one thing about her life, it’d be having someone to share it with—the hard times as well as the good ones. Someone kind and sweet, smart and funny. And sexy—someone inspiring after the exhaustion of wrangling a child.
Someone like Peter Sands.
Her face warmed with the heat of her crush. Really—she needed to grow up. “Fran, if there is a man, he’d be lucky to have her.”
A tall blonde who looked like she owned the world strolled in, an expensive bag in the crook of her arm. “Have who?”
“Gigi.”
The woman laughed, setting her bag on a chair and going to kiss Fran on the cheek. “Gigi said that if she ever dates again, we’re to lock her in a closet and throw away the key. Although she specified that she expects we’ll slip your shortbread under the door, Fran.”
“The other girls prefer it with ginger but Gigi likes chocolate.” Fran frowned. “At least she used to. She won’t even have one bite now, what with being determined to be fit as a fiddle.”
“Gigi suffers for her art.” The blonde faced her, hands on her hips, inspecting her head to toe. “I suppose you’re Gigi’s wrangler from the studio?”
Holly resisted the urge to squirm under the intense scrutiny. “I am.”
“Beatrice.” The woman held out her hand. “Gigi’s eldest sister.”
She shook the woman’s hand. “Holly Martin.”
Beatrice glanced at the laptop on the kitchen table that Holly had been working on. A frown wrinkled her forehead as she bent to get a closer look. “Are you doing Gigi’s bookkeeping?”