Secrets and Sins: Raphael: A Secrets and Sins novel (Entangled Ignite) (2 page)

Her breath stuck in her throat, captured by the fist of need lodged there. And as his gaze roamed her face and the echo of his gentle caress hummed under her skin, the hunger strangling her was more than physical. Yes, he was wildly sexy like an exotic, untamed, unpredictable creature. His confidence and I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude were as alluring to her as his hooded, knowing stare and lean, muscled body.

Yet there was something behind the sex and swagger. The simmering desire he didn’t even attempt to conceal as he lingered on her mouth before returning to her eyes. That heat touched her, stroked her battered spirit and bruised self-esteem in ways that put her two steps above pathetic and only one above a
Bachelor
contestant.

But there it was.

“You don’t know me,” she murmured, and if there was a shade of desperation tinting the protest then she couldn’t erase it.

Another gentle caress stroked under her bottom lip. “You’re right,” he agreed simply. “I don’t know if you like the crusts on or off your PB&J sandwich. I don’t know if you prefer to fall asleep to the sound of the television or total darkness and silence. But even an idiot—including that lackwit you were engaged to—can’t deny your beauty, elegance, sweetness, and intelligence.”

With any other man, she would’ve scoffed, waved the words aside as blatant flattery—blatant bullshit flattery. But not with Raphael. She wasn’t well-acquainted with the idiosyncrasies of his personality, but she sensed he didn’t do smooth sweet talk. Not because he couldn’t—she didn’t doubt he was more than capable of enticing a woman out of her panties. Most likely he just wouldn’t bother. And that made his words that much more precious.

“I don’t eat peanut butter and jelly.”

His eyes rounded as his lips parted on a loud, exaggerated gasp. He slapped a palm to his chest as if her admission had wounded him.

“What the hell? Are you American?”

She chuckled, shaking her head. God, he’d made her laugh more times in the minutes they’d been together than she had since finding Gavin with another woman three days earlier. It didn’t seem possible she could discover humor in anything when the life she’d planned and built for herself was crumbling apart at the foundation. But…

Raphael tipped his beer up to his mouth for another sip. She swallowed, attempting to wet her suddenly dry mouth and throat. Something more than amusement coiled inside her. Something proper bankers’ daughters didn’t utter aloud. Something that should’ve had her pushing away from the bar and cutting a path through the crowd for the front entrance.

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.

A needy whimper swelled up her throat and joined the erotic dance like a third partner. She rose on her tiptoes, clutched his shoulders, the thick, soft material of his shirt bunching under her fingers even as she angled her head for deeper penetration. Her tongue curled around his, sucked. His taste. She moaned. Oh, it was beautiful. Underneath the tangy scent of beer lay an earthy, sun-warmed-land scent that called to her. She drew harder on him, telling him without words she needed more of him. Of his kiss. Of his touch. He groaned long and low. His fingers flexed hard against her neck and spine.

He tore his mouth away, swore, then as if unable to help himself, crushed another kiss to her lips. “My house is a twenty-minute drive. I’m not gonna make it that long.” He cupped her cheek, pressed the pad of his thumb into her tender bottom lip. “You live closer?”

She nodded. “Yes,” she breathed. “Back Bay. Not far.”

“’Kay,” he murmured, brushing a kiss across her forehead. “No second thoughts? No what-the-fuck-was-I-thinking?”

Regrets?

She regretted spending her entire life trying to make up for being damaged goods to her father. She regretted wasting so much time stifling her passion and dreams in order to conform to an unobtainable image of perfection that she no longer recognized who she was anymore. She regretted devoting five years to a man she’d trusted and believed to be a friend but who saw her as nothing more than a lucrative career move.

Oh, yes, she had regrets. Plenty of them.

But
this
?

“No,” she whispered. “No what-the-fuck-was-I-thinking.”

He studied her face for another long moment. “Good.”

Nodding, he dropped his hand from her face, enclosed her fingers in a gentle but firm grip, and led her away from the bar. Not far down the street he paused in front of a large black SUV. With a short beep and double flash of his headlights, he opened the passenger door and boosted her into the seat. She shivered against the chilled air as he jogged around the front end and joined her in the truck. He jabbed the keys in the ignition but didn’t crank the engine. His fingers fisted the metal, and she waited, confused, as he bowed his head and muttered something under his breath.

Before she could question him, he jerked the keys free and fell back in his seat. He turned to her. Shadows shrouded the vehicle’s interior, but she could make out the wild tumble of hair around his face, the compressed line of his full mouth, and his eyes… Her breath snagged in her throat. She couldn’t make out the color in the dim light, but the intensity behind the unwavering stare? If he’d reached out and pressed his hands to her shoulders, he couldn’t have more effectively ensnared her.

“Tell me, princess, have you ever made out in the backseat of a car before?”

Stunned, she could only shake her head.

“First time for everything. C’mon.” With lightning speed, he snatched her hand from her lap and guided her between the tight space separating the driver and passenger seats. Grip firm, he steadily maneuvered her toward the rear of the vehicle.

“Wait,” she objected, finally locating her voice. Even if the breathless quality dampened the power behind the protest. “We can’t…someone could see—”

“Tinted windows,” he muttered, settling on the farthest row, grasping her waist, and tugging her across his lap. He swiftly adjusted her legs until she straddled him. The pleated skirt of her dress flared over their thighs and his hips. “No one can see a thing. Now kiss me.”

She cast a furtive glance to the large side window. Uncertainty warred with the desire clenching her stomach and gathering in the throbbing flesh between her legs. Through the dark film on the glass she could make out the shapes of the closed businesses, but not any details. Still…

“Trust me.” His low voice brought her attention back to him. He grazed the backs of his fingers down her cheek, drew them down her neck to cup her nape. “I wouldn’t risk exposing you like that. Get wild with me, princess.”

The dare in his challenge was unmistakable. Get wild. With him. Fear flashed through her. She was as familiar with “wild” as Hugh Hefner was with celibacy. She closed her eyes and a sigh shuddered from her lips. She wanted to be that carefree, reckless woman. Even if only for tonight.

She lifted her lashes, met his hot gaze, and slowly sank down until the hard ridge of his erection pressed against her sex. Twin groans echoed in the quiet. She gasped at the delicious pressure—the pleasure that satisfied and aggravated the needy ache deep inside her.

“I need…” She didn’t finish the thought. Couldn’t assign a proper description to the hunger that pounded inside her chest and echoed in the grasping emptiness centered in her sex. It exceeded anything she’d ever experienced. So instead she dug her nails into Raphael’s shoulders and rolled her hips, undulating in a slow grind over the hard flesh that—
thank God
—would be buried inside her tonight. She tried to relay without words what she desired from him—what a part of her knew only he could give. A soft cry tumbled free, and she dropped her head back, repeating the erotic dance.

“Do it again.” His demand was almost guttural, and the grip at the back of her neck tightened. “Ride me again.”

She whimpered both at the sensual command and the sharp pleasure that intensified with each pass of her clit and folds over his erection. Greed, lust, and a virgin feminine power swelled within her, yanked her into their undertow. She lowered her arms, palming his knees and giving herself leverage and more control over the speed and depth of pressure.

His heated, rough murmurs filled the rapidly warming interior. He told her how beautiful and sexy she was. How good she felt riding his cock. How he couldn’t wait to be inside her and watch himself slide in and out of her. She trembled, his words so erotically charged that when he cupped her breasts and brushed his thumbs over her beaded nipples, she almost came.

With hurried but sure hands, he shoved her jacket off her shoulders, the material trapped at her wrists. Unerringly, he located the zipper at the back of her dress and yanked it down. When he tugged the sleeves over her shoulders and arms, she lifted her arms, wriggling free of the constricting material. The jacket slipped silently to the floor, and the top of the dress pooled around her waist, leaving her torso bare except for her white lace bra.

For a moment, old insecurities invaded the sexual haze she’d drifted into. She wasn’t top-heavy by any stretch of the imagination. Her small breasts—more than an A but not quite a full B—had never inspired an uncontrollable passion in men before, and she’d always been self-conscious about her size. Even Gavin, who’d claimed to find her beautiful, had offered her a chest enhancement, aka boob job, for a wedding gift. Surely Raphael, with his stunning looks and sex-on-a-stick aura, attracted women who resembled women and not girls barely out of their teens…

“Shit, you’re gorgeous. Fucking perfect,” he groaned, palming her flesh, squeezing and shaping. He didn’t bother with unclasping the back closure but lowered the cups so they pushed up her modest cleavage. Not that he seemed to mind—or notice—that it was modest. No, as he leaned forward and captured an aching tip between his lips and laved it with his tongue, emitting a deep, vibrating moan, she believed to him she was truly…perfect.

“Oh, God,” she breathed, tangling her fingers in his hair and holding him to her. Each tug reverberated in the core of her, pushing her closer to the edge she both raced for and backpedaled away from, wanting this wicked torture to last.

His fingers and mouth played her like an instrument, tuned her tight and made her sing. He plucked, strummed, and stroked her body, drawing forth the sweetest pleasure, resonant notes that echoed in her head, her belly, and lower, deeper.

One hand abandoned her breast and slid down her stomach, passed over her skirt. The soft, urgent caress reversed at the hem and began its ascent up her thigh. The material hiked and bunched over his wrist. Cool air washed over her inner thighs and the wet, pulsing flesh between her legs.

Except for their labored breath, a heavy silence weighted the air, almost like the pregnant pause before the fury of a storm struck. He lifted his head, stared down at her spread thighs and the white panties that had to be damp and almost translucent by now. Her chest rose and fell as she sank her teeth into her bottom lip and gazed at the top of his dark head. She tensed, fighting against the urge to close her legs, hide the obvious evidence of her need.

Maybe he sensed the impulse within her, because he shifted, cupped her. Pressed the heel of his palm against her clit. Hard.

She broke. Cracked wide open and everything poured out of her—ecstasy, cries, whimpers, words, doubts, fears. Everything. The orgasm crashed over her, through her, leaving her shuddering, weak, and craving more.

And as Raphael levered his hips up, jerked his wallet from his back pocket, and snatched out a small foil square, the yearning sharpened. He tossed both to the seat and reached for his belt.

And she reached for him.