Sweet Seduction Stripped (22 page)

Wow. Where to start with all of that?

"Why didn't you just get in touch with me? You know, make contact, quell your curiosity and get me out of your system."

Ric pulled back and looked down at me. He still held me in a loose embrace, arms wrapped around my waist, groin to groin, hips to hips. But he'd placed space between our upper bodies, so he could look me in the eyes when he spoke. His were intense, dark green.

"You have no idea how hard it was to stop myself from finding out your name. Finding you. But it was the last line of defence that I was determined not to cross. And then you hacked me. So, all bets were off."

"I couldn't have done that," I admitted. "The temptation..."

"The temptation made it hot."

"You've probably built me up as some sort of unattainable fantasy," I commented.

"Dancer. The reality far outstrips the dream."

"Does it?"

"Baby," he said with a soft smile. "I thought you were blonde."

"What?"

"I've never gone for blondes," he whispered. "Always liked brunettes."

"Then why did you think I was blonde?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Something you must have said one day that led me to believe you were blonde. And then you appeared on my screen. Sleep tousled dark chocolate hair. Beautiful big brown eyes. And those legs. Fuck me, I had some perverted fantasies about those once I'd seen them. Never thought you'd have legs that defy nature, make a man think impure and debauched things."

"So what
did
you fantasise about me before you knew my name and what I looked like?"

Another shrug. "Your voice mainly, although I didn't know it would sound so husky and sexy-hot. I knew how you thought, though. The words you used. So, I fantasied about you having a dirty mouth, talking slutty to me while I fucked you from behind as you wrote code." He shook his head, looking mystified. "Your words. I fantasied about your words. Jesus fuck, I am perverted."

I started laughing. I couldn't hold it in any more.

"It's not funny!" he exclaimed, but he was grinning. "It's demented."

I laughed harder, pressing a hand into my stomach because the muscles had begun to hurt.

"It's not even hard core," Ric mumbled. "I could at least have imagined you sucking me off with sexy eyes and a naughty smirk. Although," he added, ignoring my now loud outbursts, "I did picture an itty-bitty thong on more than one occasion. And glitter. Truck loads of fucking glitter. I think I might have imagined getting it on my cock."

I barked out another laugh. He ignored it.

"Does that count as good, debauched fantasy fodder? Glitter on my dick?"

I took a step backwards and landed on the edge of the bed, missing it enough to slide off the side and end up in a heap of hysterical laughter on the floor. I ached. My chest, my throat, my eyes, my stomach. All from laughing so hard I thought I might just pee.

"Can you get massage cream with glitter?" Ric asked, appearing in front of my blurry eyes. I think he was on all fours. "No, if we're to do this fantasy, it should be lubricant with glitter. We could decorate your pussy. Or here's a thought, I could screw your boobs, mounds of plump glitter covered beauties," he added, his hands moulding to my breasts and squeezing. "While my glitter covered cock strokes back and forth."

I sucked in a deep breath and then moaned as his thumb and finger pinched both nipples at once.

"Fuck," he murmured. "Can't stop imagining it now."

I blinked the moisture away and stared up at him.

"Do it," I whispered.

He swallowed.

"You want me to fuck your tits?"

"Yeah. We'll make do without the glitter."

"Bloody hell," he breathed, still fondling my breasts, massaging, rubbing,
kneading
. "I..." he started, then cleared his throat.

"Do it," I repeated, watching with intrigue as he unravelled before my eyes.

This was power. This right here. He was coming apart at my words. Words he'd fantasied hearing me say for close to three years.

I slid down further and laid myself out on the floor in front of him. His hands followed my breasts as though he was attached to them and would never let them go.

"Baby," he said, almost a warning.

I gripped my breasts on the sides and lifted them up, pressing them tightly together.

"Imagine the glitter," I whispered. "Imagine it all over my tits, coating your cock, floating on the air between us.

He made a sound. Half choked, half in exasperation. And then he was moving, looming up over my body, removing his towel from his hips and settling one knee on either side of my waist. He grimaced as his bad leg bent, but I kept his focus on my boobs, moving them, shaping them, arching my back and moaning through my lips.

"Do it," I pleaded.

"Like this?" he husked, shifting to all fours again, then using one hand to guide his straining erection into place. "Squeeze them tight," he ordered. Then let out a moan as his first stroke thrust through me. "Need lubrication," he panted, leaning over and stretching to reach his jeans which were still on the floor. "Always come prepared," he muttered, pulling out a small tube and then letting it dribble over his cock. He saw that I was watching transfixed, so moved the gel like substance falling from the tip of the container to my breasts instead. All the while holding my eyes with his.

He painted me, then used a hand to rub it over my skin. And finally he moved his shaft back into place and started to rock.

"Amber," he moaned.

"Think glitter," I teased.

"Pervert," he shot back and then lost himself to the sensations. To the fantasy brought to life. To the moment.

To me.

And I lost myself in him. His face in suspended slack-jawed bliss. His voice as it rasped out on a cry of release. His hot come as it coated my breasts and up onto my chin.

Ric might have been turned on by my mind and what I'd said to him over the past three years on-line. But there was no denying he was turned on by me. By my body. By this.

His heated green eyes  half opened to look down at me and then he slowly lifted a hand and rubbed his release all over my chest.

It was hot. Sexy as fuck. And it was exactly what it seemed.

Him claiming me. Marking me. Telling me I was his.

I had a feeling there would be no more walls. We'd stripped each other back, looked into the dark abyss of our pasts, and not turned away.

I was Eric Shaw's. He was mine. Both given freely and accepted.

And, fuck, it felt good to be the possession of a man like him.

And to know I owned him too.

Primal. Basic. Beautiful.

So fucking good.

The tablet computer sitting beside the bed - God knows when he'd placed it there, I'd known he still held it, but hadn't seen where it went when we rushed in here last night - chimed, distracting us both from our staring match. A staring match that had heated up and was destined to become something else.

So maybe the chiming of the tablet was a good thing.

Ric growled, shifted his gaze to my come covered chest and then smirked. The tablet forgotten again.

"You wear me well," he murmured, running a finger through the mess.

The tablet chimed again.

"You better get that," I whispered. "And I'll get washed up."

He frowned.

"No," I argued. "I am not wearing you all day."

"No fun," he whispered, offering me a smile and a soft kiss on the lips. And then he sprang up to full height and held out a hand to help me upright.

I was surprised at his dexterity, considering his bad leg. But I think Ric was still floating, somewhere in the vicinity of cloud nine. He was definitely feeling no pain. Endorphins. I made a mental promise to make sure he received a lot of that chemical in the future, because it clearly worked wonders on his pain.

I walked into the bathroom with a smile, only to be halted at Ric's expletive back in the room. I turned slowly, dread washing all other emotions away. Slamming into me like a two tonne truck.

"What?" I asked, lips already numb.

The minute his eyes came up to mine I knew he was contemplating lying. Hiding the truth. Telling me to go have a shower, everything's all right. It wasn't. I could see. But he thought about saying it. He thought about misdirecting me. And then he shook his head, crossed the space between us and reached for my hand.

"Baby, come sit down for a sec."

Oh, God.

"Is it Dad?"

"No, your father's still fine, this is something else. Come. Sit," he encouraged softly.

"Just say it," I whispered, my body unable to hold out much longer. I thought I'd felt fine this morning. No more tiredness. Fighting fit.

I'd thought wrong.

"I need to check this all out with Nick and see what they've come up with in control," Ric started.

"Don't you dare go without telling me first."

"It's not officially confirmed. It's just happened and we don't know for sure."

"What?" I pleaded.

He sighed, clenched his fingers in mine.

"The C&C building has just collapsed."

What?

"Collapsed?" I asked, not certain how to take this. It wasn't exactly what I had expected, and I wasn't sure what it meant. Or how I should feel.

"They're thinking explosion," Ric explained, glancing at the tablet's screen.

"Like a bomb?"

"Or a gas leak," he offered. "It's undetermined at the moment. HEAT have been called in."

HEAT, that was the fire investigators.

"So, it's burning?"

Ric nodded.

Oh, God. What time was it? I glanced at the time display in the lower right corner of the tablet's screen. Seven-fifteen. We
were
late, I thought distractedly. But seven in the morning at C&C would mean no one was there. Just an empty building. Thank fuck.

I may not have liked what Jaxon was involved in, but not all of those working for him knew just what sort of man they called boss.

"Thank God it happened when no one was there," I murmured and Ric grimaced.

That sensation of dread multiplied. Got combined with fear and worry and confusion and a calmness that didn't belong in amongst such wretched apprehension.

"What?" I whispered, voice barely audible above the tremor of my lips.

"Harding didn't leave his office last night. We had him under surveillance through the bug you placed on the desk. He bedded down on the sofa there at four," Ric advised, reading off the tablet again. "Hadn't moved by the time the building blew up."

He lifted wary eyes to my face.

"Baby," he said, and for the first time I wasn't sure I wanted him to use that term. "I'm sorry. We think he died in the building collapse."

I shook my head. Possibly because I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Probably because I wasn't sure how to react. Undoubtedly because I was more confused than ever.

Not that hearing your former workplace has just been blown up and collapsed into a pile of rubble shouldn't elicit certain reactions. It did. Sudden relief I wasn't there. Immediate compassion for all my workmates. Dawning horror at what this could mean. I felt them all, but in amongst it was the sensation that I couldn't face Jaxon's death. Not when I'd just found out such terrible things about him. Not when I'd walked away, without a backward glance or word, and fallen into another man's arms.

OK, that emotion I could identify. Guilt.

"Amber, sweetheart," Ric said, drawing my attention away from the internal struggle I was having and back into the room. And him. The object of my guilt.

He stilled, at whatever look he saw on my face, and then moved quickly. Hands cupping my cheeks, nose almost pressed to my nose, hot breath swiftly flowing over my lips in agitated waves.

"Do not take this on your shoulders," he pleaded. "This has nothing to do with you and where you are now and why. This is a coincidence, nothing more. An unfortunate, tragic coincidence."

"Do you really believe that?" I accused softly. "Unfortunate?"

"What do you want me to say, Amber?" he shot back, his hold tightening with his rising anger. "I'm glad he's gone? Is that it? You want me to say it? OK. I will. He's gone. He can't hurt you. Manipulate you. Make you break down and cry." His voice lowered, "
He can't hit you.
"

It helped. Ric reciting all of Jaxon's flaws. Which made me a bad, bad woman to be thinking ill of the dead. But the confusion was so consuming, I needed clarity. Ric provided the light that illuminated the oncoming dark.

"OK," I said, nodding my head in between his hands. "OK. You're right."

"Sweetheart," he said, pain lacing the word. "I know you'll mourn him. And it's OK. But please, don't ever think things could have been different. The only difference is he could have won and you could be dead."

I pulled back and blinked at him.

"He would never have killed me," I argued, truly believing that fact.

"Dancer," Ric said with infinite sadness and a type of anguished knowledge that made my chest hurt, "There are worse things than physical death."

Oh, God. Just... God. What had this man suffered? What had he feared I would suffer if he hadn't rescued me from Jaxon?

That ache in my chest expanded, until it was difficult to breathe. I hid the desperate need for air from him and offered a small smile.

"I'm OK," I choked out, which belied my turmoil and upset, but somehow Ric let me have the illusion that I was.

"Have a shower," he whispered. "I really need to get to control and sort out this mess."

I nodded. He leaned forward and kissed me on the lips softly, tenderly, lingering there for a suspended moment, and then pulled back, swiped up the tablet from beside him and strode over to a dresser, placing the offending article on top. Well out of my reach. Or my vision.

I watched as he dressed quickly. Nondescript black jeans and t-shirt. He was going commando, which I didn't comprehend until he walked back to his dirty clothes on the floor and started to extricate his weapons and essential PI stuff, discarding his used boxers in another pile on the floor.

"There's spare clothes in the dresser, something will fit," he said, once fully dressed, fully armed, and holding the tablet again. "Take as long as you need and then come find me. There'll be people everywhere, ask them to take you to control."

I nodded. It was all I was capable of right then. Ric paused at the doorway, indecision and pain obvious on his face, then just when I thought he'd leave without doing anything else, he spun on his heel and stormed to the bed hauling me back to my feet and crushing me to his chest.

"I love you," he whispered, and I knew,
I knew
, he was only saying it because he was scared he was losing me to my grief. To Jaxon, even though the man was presumed dead.

"It's all right," I managed, running a hand up his back and threading my fingers in his still damp hair. "I'm fine. I'm not going anywhere."

A hitched breath left him, he tensed, pulling me closer still, and then murmured, "I think you've already gone."

Then he was out the door, leaving me standing there naked, and feeling like the rug had been pulled from beneath my feet all over again.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at the now closed door without seeing it and tried to decide if I wanted to cry from frustration or from loss. Then realised none of those tears would be for Jaxon.

Huh.

Shaking my head I stood up and returned to the bathroom, determined to face what may come dressed, alert and... maybe not clear headed, but I'd settled for not so confused.

The water was set to steaming and for a while I just let it roll over my skin making me feel, taking all of my concentration to focus on that sensation and no others. But it was inevitable, left on my own, that my mind would play tricks. Not falsities, because to remember is to recall exactly what I've seen. But the fact that my brain decided to provide me with detailed images of all the nice things Jaxon had done for me in the past, right at that moment, was truly cruel.

And as much as I told myself that they were memories from a past that no longer existed, I still felt the soft caress of his hands, the dazzling smile he offered when he looked down at me, the way he'd stop everything when I walked in the room. Of course, I forced myself to acknowledge, he also got phone calls in the middle of the night, tearing him away from our bed. And he also laid a trap, set me up, and threatened my dad when I passed his test.

My fists clenched and with a howl of anger I smashed it into the tiles on the bathroom wall. Stupid. Reckless. But I was infuriated. With Jaxon's mind games. With him being dead.

With the fact that I felt sorrow at all for a man who had, in the end, treated me bad.

The tears were probably for the blinding pain in my knuckles, but they were possibly also for the lost life of a man I had lived with for twenty months. A man who I may not have truly loved, but I had felt something for. A man who had managed to trick my perfect picture recall enough to fool me into believing he was not who he really was.

Was I actually angry with myself for being duped? Not many people can do it. If I pay attention, and bother to close my eyes and think things through - in other words
recall
- then fooling me so cleverly is a hard ask. But Jaxon had done it. He'd fooled me.

He'd made me into a fool.

And so the next lot of tears were possibly all pity, laced with frustration and doused in shame. But then, they could have also been because Jaxon had denied me a chance to say, "Fuck you."

Yeah, that's what they were for.

"Fuck you, Jaxon," I said in a growl. "Fuck you for getting killed before I could do to you what you did to me."

Oh, and didn't that turn me into someone I couldn't look straight in the eyes. I'd never considered myself vindictive. But there you go. I wanted to send that money back into his bank
account, get him accused of robbing those PaP Holdings people, instead of ASI. I wanted to uncover the truth, hand it over to the cops, have him arrested and put away for life, knowing the woman he'd fooled had done it. I wanted to break down the security on C&C's system, play with it, like a cat would a mouse before they pounced and sank their claws in. What exactly my end game would be, I hadn't thought through yet. But it would have been big. And clever. And unforeseen.

And now he'd taken away that chance. Denied me my revenge. Left me hanging in limbo with limited moves available and no answers to the questions that still doggedly teased my brain.

Who was he?

I just didn't know and would now never find out.

I exited the shower, feeling no better than before I went in. In fact, I felt worse. My hand throbbed, but I could move the fingers so not broken, although the knuckles were grazed and the skin cut, making me drip blood on the floor. I must have cracked one of the tiles. I hadn't noticed. Or maybe my skin is just so thin there that any trauma, even blunt, would split it.

I'd never thrown a punch before, how would I know what would happen to my hand.

Dressing was a challenge. One bandaged hand from the glass shard that had cut it at Champagne & Chandeliers. One wrapped up in a hand towel and throbbing from the acute injury I'd just self inflicted. I pulled on Katie's jeans again, because they thankfully fit pretty well and a new t-shirt from the dresser door. It was baggy, men's size, covering me up and hiding me as best I could.

I hadn't been able to manage with my bra, so embarrassingly I went free. Not an experience I was hoping to have when inside a PI firm filled to the rafters with sexy bad-ass men. But I didn't have a choice now, my hands ached. Both of them.