Naughty Bits 2 (25 page)

Abruptly Amador moved, rolling her to her back, his big body framing hers, his warm lips caressing hers for the briefest of moments. His weight rested on his arms as he stared down at her. “You trust me,” he said, and it wasn't a question.

“Yes.”

“And I am worthy of that trust,
cariña
, but what if I were another? What if I had used estela to garner your submission with dark intentions?”

She knew where he was going with this, trying to point out the dangers of estela, the reasons she had to leave without it. She'd come too far, risked too much, to accept defeat so easily. “I chose to give myself to you because I sensed I could trust you. I had my free will.”

“There is nothing wrong with giving yourself to someone who deserves the gift you offer—and your body and your trust are gifts—but those things should be given freely and to a man who deserves them. You would have given yourself to my men, unable to stop yourself from seeking satisfaction at all cost. As your protector, I didn't allow them to take you. I only allowed them to touch you, as they did, for one reason—to show you how easily you would have gone to a place you didn't want to go under the flower's influence.”

Jordon swallowed hard, her chest pounding with the rapid beats of her heart. He was right. She didn't want him to be, but he was. She'd needed satisfaction and would have taken it however she could have gotten it, if not for him sending the other men away.

His finger brushed hair out of her eyes. “I know how important this discovery is to you. It is to me, as well. But if the flower escapes our protection here, it will be used to manipulate people. It would control humankind, rather than help it.”

Insistence and hope rose inside her. “There has to be a way to use its abilities for good.”

“I have no doubt there is a way,” he agreed readily. “And we've tried. What you see here is only what we've allowed you to see. We have great minds at work and labs with high-tech equipment. But despite decades of efforts, regardless of how it's packaged, how it's manipulated, the flower's ability to control desire always prevails. Until we discover how to stop that from
happening, it must stay here.” A smile touched his sensual mouth; his eyes softened. “There is only one way you can work with estela.” He didn't wait for an answer. “You, and your friend, as well, could join us. Be a part of our research team.”

She laughed at that, a bit halfheartedly. The offer was tempting, but she had a job, family, friends at home. So did Olivia. The here and now was fantasy, a detour meant to be left behind. Still, she felt regret at the prospect of leaving it behind, not quite ready to do so.

“You could come back with us,” she countered, finding she meant the words, surprising herself with how much. “Study estela with us. Perhaps we have resources that would help.”

“Ah,
cariña
, you know deep down that I, like estela, am a part of this jungle. I belong here.”

Indeed. Part of what made him so special was the wildness beneath the surface, a wildness that could never be captive to another type of life. But she clung to more time with him. “I'm not ready to leave yet.”

“No one is rushing you,” he murmured against her lips, a second before he kissed her—a long, sensual kiss. His arousal became evident as his erection settled more fully between her legs, growing longer, fuller with each stroke of his tongue against hers. And when he slid inside her, filling her, completing her, she decided estela had given her a gift. A gift of insight. For now she knew she was capable of giving herself to another man—and that she could trust again despite a past that had made her doubt she could. But first, before giving trust to another, she had to learn to trust herself, to trust her instincts. Instincts that she now knew would lead her to the right place—back to satisfaction, to a new life, complete with passion and pleasure.

HOURS LATER, CHALE LED OLIVIA BACK TO THE
main chamber, where she found Jordon already waiting. Olivia glanced at her friend, who looked worn, satiated and alive, a new light shining in her eyes. Olivia could definitely relate.

Olivia reached out, grabbed Jordon's hand and squeezed, happy to see her friend. Together they stood before Donato, as Chale and Amador took their seats beside him.

Donato's soulful eyes studied the two women. After a long, thoughtful moment, he spoke in a soft tone. “What you have learned here, you will tell no other.” It was a statement, not a question.

They were both intelligent enough to know that estela must forever remain a secret, or at least until the world was prepared for such a powerful aphrodisiac.

“We understand,” Jordon said, and they both nodded in agreement.

Donato smiled, stood and gestured with a wave. “Your guide will be waiting for you.”

Chale stepped up beside Olivia while Amador moved in next to Jordon. The two men slowly led them back outside, to the larger cavern where they'd first entered the evening before.

Olivia squinted against the morning light, surprised that the night had flown by so quickly. Her gaze raked over the majestic area, soaking in all the beauty as they followed the same path out. A moment later, they came upon the rope. Olivia glanced up to see their guide. Arms crossed, he nodded his head slowly.

Olivia gripped the rope and tugged, testing it. She turned to Jordon and noticed that she was speaking quietly with Amador.

“Perhaps we will meet again,” Amador said.

“You can still come with us,” Jordon whispered to him.

“I belong here,” Amador replied. “But perhaps one day, that will change and I will find you.”

Olivia cast one longing look Chale's way, keeping the memories of his erotic touch close until they, too, met again, as she somehow knew they would.

As though reading her thoughts, Chale smiled, gathered her into his arms and brushed his lips over hers. “Until we meet again, little one.”

“Until we meet again,” she whispered into his mouth.

M
EGAN
H
ART

THIS IS WHAT I WANT
.

Your hands make circles around my ankles. They shackle me for but a moment before your fingertips move upward over the edge of bone, the dip and hollow of muscle and flesh. Over my calves and the prickly surface of my knees, where they linger to stroke the soft, smooth underside. Those untouched places. Your fingers linger there, seeking creases
.

Your thumbs move up the sun-warmed flesh of my thighs, which I part for you beneath summer's bright golden light. Like the breeze that twitches the ends of my hair, your fingers drift along my skin, moving higher
.

This is what I want. You. Touching me
.

You take the time to trace the faint white line, the place where once my flesh parted beneath the edge of a razor wielded by an unsteady hand. You don't ask about this scar. You ask nothing, say nothing. You have no voice but that which I grant you…and so far I haven't given you permission to speak
.

You kneel in front of me, and this is where I like you. How I like you. On your knees, my body aligned for your worship and your hands smoothing a constant upward path.

This is what I want—your breath on my skin. Your fingers parting me. Your mouth finding the sweet, small pearl of my clitoris. I want
your tongue there, and the pressure of your lips. I want you to lick me as I stand over you, you upon your knees.

I want you to worship me.

 

“Hold that elevator!” Eve Grant called across the lobby, already knowing it was a futile request. The elevator was super slow and had a cranky habit of stalling, forcing the employees of Digiquest to trudge up and down the stairs. Nobody was willing to contribute to a breakdown by stopping the doors once they were closing, not even at five to nine and knowing she was only hollering because if she had to wait for the elevator or take the stairs, she would be late clocking in.

Almost nobody.

A hand appeared at the last second, sliding between the slow-closing door and the wall. The elevator door bounced against it before grudgingly sliding back open. Eve grabbed up her bag and ran. Her sprint wasn't dignified or graceful, but she wasn't about to let the chance pass.

“Thanks,” she said as she hopped into the elevator just before the door closed, finally. “I appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

Lane DeMarco, six-foot-four of gorgeous and a half inch of fantastic, smiled at her. Eve automatically smiled in return. Lane's smile was hard to resist.

Eve and Lane had been hired at the same time—she in customer service and he in IT. They'd been through the battlefield of employee orientation together and two years of office picnics and holiday parties, but it hadn't made them anything more than acquaintances. He was just the sort of guy who'd flirt enough to flatter but not freak out, the kind who'd smile and hold the elevator for someone. Anyone. It didn't make her special or anything.

Lane lifted an insulated cup to his lips and sipped. Watching his throat work as he swallowed was bad enough, but when
his tongue slid out along his lips to swipe away the creamy coffee, she had to look away.

“That smells good,” she said about the coffee, because the only thing worse than making inane conversation was standing in awkward silence.

Where were her words when she needed them? Why could she speak to strangers online, share with them her most intimate secrets, yet she couldn't do more than mumble with Lane? Why was he so…unattainable?

Lane swirled the liquid in the cup and sipped again. “It's called a Mocha Mint. I got it from the new place next door, the Beanery. Have you tried it?”

“No.” Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she'd run out of the house without breakfast. Again. She really needed to get up earlier if she was going to blog before work. “I'll have to check it out.”

The elevator dinged. One more floor to go. It actually might have been faster to take the stairs…but then she'd have missed out on the exquisite torture of riding up with Lane.

The door opened on their floor. Lane hung back to allow Eve to exit first, depriving her of the chance to ogle his ass.
Shit
. Was he ogling hers? Eve glanced over her shoulder, but found Lane's gaze trained on her face. Was that better or worse? Worse, she decided, but not unexpected. Lane might be the star of most of her naughty online fantasies, but to him she was just another computer to fix.

As if he'd read her mind, he asked, “Are you still having that problem with your chat windows freezing up?”

“Oh, yeah.” She hadn't forgotten about the support request she'd put in. Lane wasn't the only IT guy on staff, but she'd been hoping he'd be the one to take the task.

“I'll swing by in a bit to check it out, okay?”

She nodded and gave him a little wave as she watched him saunter away.
Gah. He's all that and a bag of chips
.

In her pod, Eve tossed her bag onto the spare chair and shook her mouse to wake the computer, then logged in quickly, barely making it before the clock clicked from 9:00 a.m. to 9:01 a.m. and made her officially late. Her queue was already five customers deep, the blinking cursor an impatient reminder she was here to work, not fantasize about Lane DeMarco, no matter how tempting it was. Her fingers tapped away at the keys that would bring up the first customer from her queue. She had a minute or two of prewritten remarks to get through before she had to actually engage her mind.

Some poor sap was having a dickens of a time figuring out how to get his wireless devices to talk to one another, a problem so common Eve had no trouble solving it. She finished the chat with the last of the scripted phrases and logged off. Immediately, a new message window opened and she started all over. It was another easy chat with a simple solution. The faceless person on the other side of the Internet didn't abuse emoticons or need the instructions repeated more than once, and Eve worked her way through the necessary steps without issue. Unfortunately, just before she inserted the text asking if she'd completed the chat to the customer's satisfaction, the screen froze. She tried every key combination she knew and finally got it working again, but the customer had already logged off. Damn. It could mean a survey response of unsatisfactory for her, maybe, which wouldn't look good on her performance statistics, but she didn't have time to worry because the next window demanded her attention and she got back to work.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Four hours later her stomach still rumbled and she desperately needed a break. She hadn't even had time to do more than take a peek or two at her blog. The comments were coming in fast and furious, but had to go unanswered, a fact that was killing her. She peeked again, satisfying herself with
at least reading what people were saying before pushing away from the computer with a stretch. She headed to the restroom and then to the break room. The busy morning had kept her from pondering too much about what she'd write later tonight, but with the bathroom out of the way and a coffee and doughnut to fill the hole in her gut, Eve had time to think about what waited for her at home.

Most of the comments to her blog were one-liners or casual compliments. Praise for her writing or the ideas she'd presented. A fair number were from what she considered admirers—bloggers who got turned on by her entries and weren't shy about telling her so. Every once in a while she even earned a “troll,” someone who commented with the sole purpose of insulting her or her readers and taunting them into a battle of words. Eve never engaged trolls, simply deleting their comments without reply.

Sometimes, though, she got something special. A fellow blogger, maybe, with similar tastes. Occasionally a particular comment turned into a spectacular dialogue and led her to places she hadn't known she could go—or wanted to. Other times, someone new found her online persona and left a comment that led to another, and a friendship grew out of that small, random moment.

She sipped the bad coffee and nibbled the sugary doughnut on her way back to her pod. Her pulse leaped a little, thinking of what they'd said and what they'd say, how they'd react, her faceless admirers.

Her worshippers.

Some, she knew, like Puppetboy1241, would rave about this morning's post. He always loved the ones in which she demanded homage. He'd already offered, privately, to be her slave not only online but in real life, too.

Well, not hers, precisely. Not Eve's. He wanted to be slave to Eris Apparent, the name she blogged under. It was a
tempting offer and one she might have considered but for one small reason. A simple, silly and ridiculous reason, Eve thought as she rounded the corner into her pod. She stopped short at the sight of her computer screen, which she'd left open to her queue but was now back at the log-in screen, and the Mocha Mint cup, steam still curling lazily from the top, sitting on her desk. An unattainable reason.

Lane DeMarco.

 

This is what I want.

You, surrounded by books. They teeter in towers ready to topple with a glance, and you've settled in the midst of them like a king looking over stacks of gold. Papers in piles make whispering noises when you shuffle them. The room smells of ink and paper. Of intellect.

You're bent over the desk, scribbling furiously. Your glasses have slipped down to the end of your nose, and I know you'll push them up when you think of it, but for now your tongue is caught between your teeth as you concentrate. Your pen scratches on the paper, creating worlds with words.

You're lost to everything.

Except me.

I make no noise, but you lift your head anyway, as if you've scented me…and maybe you have. Among the smells of ink and paper, of dust, I carry the odor of roses, because that is how you imagined I would smell. I wear white, because that's what you dreamed I would wear.

I'm the princess of every fairy tale you've ever read. The maiden in the tower, the sleeping beauty, the cinder-smudged waif waiting for her prince. I am your desire made flesh; my blood, the ink in your pen; my skin, the crumpled softness of your parchment.

You put down your pen. I glide to you on slippered feet, silent. There is room on your desk, when we make it. The sound of the books hitting the ground is very loud. Neither of us turns our head to see the destruction. All you want to see is me.

You reach for me. Your hands find all the places on my body you've spent long hours creating. You kiss me, soft and slow, and hold me as carefully as though I were built of glass.

I sigh, as you want me to, when you push me onto your desk and lift the silk of my skirt over my thighs. Your hands slide up my skin. Your mouth brushes the soft floss of my pubic curls and your thumbs part me to your gaze.

“You're so beautiful.”

I have longed to hear your voice from your own mouth, to hear you say the words you've thus far only written. I like your voice. It's low, deep. Rough like the rasp of a cat's tongue. I shiver.

You kiss between my legs as sweetly as you did my mouth. I arch into your embrace when you slide your arms under my shoulders. Your mouth finds my throat. My fingers rake your back when you enter me; your cry of surprise urges one from my lips. You push into me, nevertheless, and fill me with heat and pleasure.

I was made to take pleasure from your touch, and I writhe under you as you thrust. I wrap my legs around your waist and hold you closer. Under my hands your shoulders tense.

Ecstasy fills me like water, overflowing. My body shakes. You hiss when I carve the evidence of my passion into your skin. You fuck me harder and we both surge into delight.

Later you stroke my hair as you murmur the litany of my many names. I am your princess, your waif, your creation. I am your desire made real.

 

Her latest blog entry had been live for only a few minutes before the first comment came. The rush of it swept through Eve all the way to her toes. There was nothing quite like the thrill of almost-instant feedback.

You're brilliant.

“Thanks, Puppetboy,” she murmured, leaning back in her chair. It wasn't the first time he'd said so.

Depeche Mode crooned at Eve from her speakers and she adjusted the volume as she refreshed her browser to reveal three
more comments. Her e-mail program dinged at the same time, alerting her. She smiled, savoring it. She'd make poor Puppet wait for a reply while she read the others.

Eva had started blogging two years ago during a messy breakup with the man she'd been certain she was going to marry. Not because she was madly in love with him, though she had been, once upon a time. No, she'd been certain she would marry Brad because he loved her.

Or at least he had, once upon a time.

For Eve, the standard, once-a-week missionary position had ceased to satisfy, but Brad had been threatened by her suggestion they explore what he called “that kinky shit.” She'd long felt he didn't really listen to her, but time and time again he'd proved it when she'd tried to interest him in something beyond the plain vanilla sex life they had.

She couldn't pinpoint when she knew she no longer loved him, nor could she determine exactly the moment he stopped loving her. It would have made things so much easier if she could have. But no, convinced of the other's esteem, both had struggled in the relationship for too long, until finally they not only no longer loved each other, she was pretty sure they'd hated each other. Because someone who cares about another person doesn't try to hurt them over and over again just for fun, which was what it felt like Brad had been doing to her, and a person who loves another doesn't shut that person out completely, the way she'd done to him.