When I'm With You Part IV (5 page)

She'd been a virgin. He'd never been with a virgin before, so he hadn't previously known if virginity was a state a man could discern or not. It seemed blaringly obvious, however, or at least it had in Elise's case. Then she'd confirmed it, and he'd been caught in the delicious, agonizing trap of Elise's pussy. He couldn't move forward.

He sure as hell wasn't going to back out.

She'd been a
fucking virgin
. He told himself that again and again, but all he could focus on was her pussy squeezing his cock. She shrink-wrapped him—hot, wet, clamping. To make matters worse, he wasn't used to being inside a woman raw. For some reason, it'd been imperative for the first time with Elise. He both relished and regretted that decision now. She had a pussy that could drive a man stark, raving mad.

Again she bobbed her hips, trying to take control. He snarled and held her immobile, spanking her lightly.

“Who will ride whom, Elise?” he muttered roughly, grasping for a thread of logic . . . straining as her heat emanated into him and her muscles clutched and rippled. He watched the beguiling sight of her slender rib cage's movement as she panted for air and absorbed his question.

“You will ride me,” she said in a breathy voice.

His cock lurched in her tight sheath. “That's right. Now hold still while I fuck you.” He groaned in rising agony and held her to him, flexing his hips, withdrawing and then sinking into the glory of her. She really was an inferno, and now he was submerged in her, hard and high.

No going back now.

He beat their flesh together, fucking her in hot, feverish bliss.

He watched, spellbound, as he withdrew almost entirely and saw her abundant juices clinging beneath the rim of his cockhead before he plunged back into her.

God, there was no going back ever.

He slammed into her and they groaned in mutual pleasure. Snarling, he reached, pulling at the leather strap, releasing her wrists. He pulled her up, plastering her soft, supple body against his front, and resumed fucking her in a slightly bent-over, upright position. He clenched his teeth together at the delight of the taut new angle. He caught her scent and the haze once again began to crowd out his vision. He filled his hands with her luscious breasts, using his hold on her to pump her body back and forth on his cock. She joined in the frenzy, flexing her knees, bobbing up and down on him.

“Ooh, that feels so good.
More.
Make me take it . . . hard. I've been
so
bad.”

He saw red with lust. He gave her a swat on her ass. She was driving him berserk.

“You're going to pay for that dirty mouth,” he informed her. Hell yes, she was going to pay. But he was going to be the one to burn in torment, having her taunt him so perfectly.

He plowed into her, forgetting everything but this vibrant, beautiful woman who was burning him from the inside out. He didn't allow her much leeway, but she managed to bounce against him, straining at his hold, racing for the finish line. He firmed his hold on her, his palms sliding across the silk of her skin, his thumbs sinking into her buttocks. She tightened around him and keened as climax hit her. He growled at the feeling of heat rushing around his cock.

He pushed her back down into a bent-over position. Her hands went out instinctively, bracing herself on the rail. Swamping pleasure eclipsed his consciousness as he took her with long, pounding strokes.

All sounds blended, creating a roar of lust in his ears: the sounds of Elise's sexy whimpers and cries as he drove into her, the erotic slap of skin against skin, the blood pounding in his ears, Jax's snort and whinny of excitement in the distance.

He loosened his hold on her hips sufficiently to let her take part in their frantic mating. She immediately joined the frenzy, bobbing her ass in a smooth, taut roll, absorbing his forceful thrusts with her soft, strong body, taking him for the ride of a lifetime.

Another rush of heat flowed over his cock, her muscles tightening. Her whine segued to a scream. Her vaginal walls convulsed around him.
Ah God
, she was coming again.

He drove into her and held her ass tightly to him, roaring as pleasure ripped through him, feeling the shudders of Elise's body quaking into his—both of them shaking and gasping from the same impact, burning in the same fire.

He'd forbidden himself from leaping wholesale into her flame. He knew regret would come.

But the first thought that penetrated his bliss as his climax waned was how
right
it felt, how inevitable . . .

. . . how indescribably sweet.

Read more of Elise and Lucien's red-hot romance in

Part V of WHEN I'M WITH YOU

WHEN YOU SUBMIT

Available from InterMix on April 2, 2013

Keep reading for a taste of Beth Kery's sexy and thrilling romance

RELEASE

Available now from Berkley Heat

Genevieve ripped open the sealed envelope and withdrew the slip of paper. The security code to enter Sauren-Kennedy Solutions Inc. had been written in a bold, slanting hand. She recognized Sean's writing. She clenched her eyelids.

Slowly, the pain faded.

It had just been the unexpectedness of seeing his handwriting. She was shaken up—who wouldn't be after watching their house turn into a smoldering, blackened husk? Practically everything she owned had been destroyed tonight. She didn't have the energy to worry about what it meant to return to the penthouse after so many years.

Besides, Genevieve was in excellent practice at shoving any memory of the penthouse into the corners of her consciousness like a dirty, shameful secret.

She held up the paper and keyed in the numbers written in the familiar scrawl with a shaking hand. Sean had forwarded the updated security information through her lawyer about a year and a half ago. She'd never even opened the envelope, figuring she'd never use the contents. Thankfully she'd kept the code in the small safe at her boutique.

The code entry activated a retinal scan. The flash of light in her eye made a memory leap into her consciousness in breathtaking detail.

He'd taught her how to keep score at Cubs games. Sunlit gold strands of dark blond hair mixed with light brown as Sean leaned over and wrote on the program perched on his thigh. The bold, succinct strokes he made with the pencil contrasted so markedly with the instructions uttered in his mellow, New Orleans–accented voice—

The lock snicked open softly and Genevieve plunged into the office, acting as if she could run from her memories. It was the trauma of the night that was making her remember with such graphic detail. That's all.

The deep-pile carpeting muted her footsteps as she entered the posh reception area. Genevieve set down the bag she'd hastily packed at her Oak Street boutique and reentered the code, securing the doors once again.

Sean had made Sauren-Kennedy Solutions the most sought-after private intelligence firm in the country. These premises were nothing if not secure. Her husband, the former owner, might have been as knowledgeable and clever as any client could hope for when it came to intelligence work, but it was Sean who'd earned the trust that mattered. She knew from her lawyer that Sean had procured several lucrative government contracts over the past few years.

All was silent in the offices at two a.m. She looked around, feeling like an interloper instead of part-owner of the business. She took in the receptionist's circular mahogany desk and wondered if Carol still worked for them. She wouldn't know. All of Sauren-Kennedy business affairs were managed by her attorney. The offices had been redecorated since she'd last been there, but that wasn't too surprising. She hadn't set a foot on the premises for more than three years.

Her husband had been killed five days after Genevieve had last stood here.

For a few seconds, she wavered on her feet.

She shook off her doubts and marched toward the elevators. Why
shouldn't
she stay here? She owned the place, didn't she? Her step sounded more brisk and confident than she felt when her heels hit the polished granite tile.

The penthouse was on the top floor of the building where Sauren-Kennedy housed its offices. Max had insisted they buy a huge house on a wooded estate in the suburbs when they married, but he hadn't been completely immune to Genevieve's disappointment about moving out of downtown Chicago. She'd been such a city girl ever since she'd moved downtown during her college years. It'd been where she'd discovered what she was capable of as a clothing designer and entrepreneur; where she'd first found success. The penthouse renovation on the top floor of the high-rise where Max's company was housed had been for her—their city place, the weekend getaway.

Her phone began to ring as she stepped off the elevator. She drew her cell out of her purse and groaned softly when she saw the caller. Instead of ignoring the call from the man she'd been dating for eight weeks now—which is precisely what she felt like doing— she forced herself to answer.

“Hi, Jeff.”

“Genevieve? A friend of mine who reports on the northern suburbs just called me about the fire. Are you all right?”

Genevieve lingered in the foyer, the phone pressed to her ear and her leather carryall clutched against her chest. “Yeah, it's been a hell of a night. And yes, I'm fine. Everything is going to be fine.
Please
, don't worry,” she finished emphatically.

Jeff was a respected sports writer for the
Chicago Tribune
. He traveled a lot, and Genevieve knew he was in New York at the moment, covering the NBA All-Star Game this weekend. It didn't surprise her that one of his fellow reporters had called him about the fire. Given the fact that Genevieve and he were so far apart, she knew he would worry all that much more. They hadn't been seeing each other for long, but Jeff seemed pretty damn interested.

Genevieve had yet to decide how she felt about that.

“My friend said your house was . . .”

“It was completely destroyed,” Genevieve finished evenly when Jeff trailed off.

“
God
. What happened?”

She slowly started to make her way toward the penthouse front door. “I don't know for sure. The fire chief said he'd get a report to me by tomorrow. Well . . . today, actually,” she added when she recalled it was nearly two a.m.

“I'll catch a plane back in the morning.”

“No.”
Genevieve made an effort to soften her voice when she realized how harsh she'd sounded. She didn't want to be rude, but she had enough on her plate at the moment without having to worry about Jeff hovering around and worrying about
her
. “You have the game to report on this weekend. Besides, you've heard we're supposed to be getting the snowstorm of the century starting tomorrow? I seriously doubt any flights will be getting into O'Hare for the rest of the weekend. And like I said, I'm
fine
. Things could have been much worse. No one was hurt. There's nothing in that house that can't be replaced.” She sighed heavily and placed her forehead against the penthouse's wooden door. “To be honest with you, it would have been a lot harder on me if my boutique had burned down.”

“Are you sure you're all right? Where are you going to stay?”

“I'm staying at a penthouse I own downtown.”

There was a short pause.

“You never mentioned owning a penthouse downtown.”

Genevieve straightened and began wearily searching in her purse for her keys. “We haven't really known each other for that long, Jeff. It's on the top floor of the building where Sauren-Kennedy is located.” She found her keys and looked for the least used one on the keychain. “Listen, I'm going to go. I'm here, safe and sound, and I'm exhausted.”

“Sure. I'll give you a call tomorrow, all right?”

She gave a small smile. He really was a nice guy. Good looking. Great job. Funny. She couldn't imagine why she was so . . .
uninspired
by him.

Of course, she hadn't been inspired by much of anything for years now. Not in the romance arena, anyway. She'd been hoping Jeff Winton was the one who would pull her out of the doldrums, but it seemed unlikely.

Not that it was much of a surprise that she wasn't feeling romantic at the moment, Genevieve thought wryly.

They said their good-byes and Genevieve inserted the key. The lock turned smoothly. She stepped into the dim, marble-tiled foyer. Without bothering to turn on the light, she removed her coat, her gaze never leaving the magnificent, luminous sight before her. She'd forgotten the stunning first impact of the penthouse view. She walked past the galley kitchen on the left and into the silent living room.

A different world existed outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. You became a denizen of the clouds when you came through that door, leaving behind the noisy, bustling world of sidewalks and traffic-filled streets. She stood next to the couch and the patio doors and looked down onto a different universe. She was like a bird perched on the top branches of a dense, metal-and-glass orchard of skyscrapers. That ground-world seemed so far away up here . . . so distant and muted.

The spires on the Sears Tower were partially obliterated by fast-moving, dark gray wisps. They were predicting a blizzard over the weekend. Genevieve had sensed the impending storm earlier in the heavy, oppressive air as she'd stood watching her house burn from a safe distance.

A woman moaned.

Genevieve froze. A man's low voice penetrated the thick silence, his mellow tone belying the firmness of the command.

“Don't strain for it. Let me give it to you.”

She recognized that voice.

She turned around, her breath caught on an inhalation. She hadn't noticed the dim light at the end of the darkened hallway when she entered. Slowly, as though entranced, she walked toward the soft glow that spilled out of a partially opened door. Not the master bedroom, Genevieve thought. Not the same bedroom where she, her husband, and Sean had shared a carnal night of pleasure.

The night that had changed her life forever.

Genevieve's heart slammed against her breastbone as she approached the room. She couldn't have stopped herself from looking if she'd tried. It was as if she'd suddenly recalled with perfect clarity why her dirty little secret held so much power over her.

Because it was also exciting and forbidden. And at the core of that secret had been something neither time nor death nor harsh truths could diminish.

She peered into the room, her breath burning in her lungs.

The woman was naked and bound. Long blonde hair spilled down her back as she knelt on the floor. Her wrists had been restrained behind her back in a pair of leather cuffs.

Genevieve noticed all of this despite the fact that her attention was only for the man who stood before the kneeling woman. He wore a pair of faded jeans and a white collared shirt that had been unbuttoned, exposing an expanse of smooth skin gloving defined muscle.

The scar just above the waistline of his low-riding jeans was paler than the rest of his golden-hued skin. He'd been shot in Iraq, Genevieve knew; nearly died in an airless Army medical tent in the midst of the desert. When he'd finally regained consciousness in an Army base in Germany, they'd told him he'd won a medal for leading the successful rescue of a dozen soldiers being held hostage in a heavily guarded artillery station. He'd told them they could keep the medal and send him back to New Orleans for a reward.

They'd recruited him into the ranks of military intelligence instead. Sean always used to say he should have just accepted the medal and kept his damned mouth shut.

His nipples were copper-colored. Genevieve could easily see the erect, flat discs through the smattering of curly, light brown hair on his chest. As usual, his short, wavy hair was tousled. It fell on his forehead as he looked down at the woman with a fixed, intent expression as he slowly pushed his cock between her widely spread lips.

Genevieve stared, held captive by the erotic sight. It was as if her brain had frozen right along with her muscles. She
felt
, she realized dazedly. It had become warm and achy between her thighs, but she was unconnected to her sexual arousal . . . as though she observed her body's response in the same bizarre, detached manner with which she watched the man she'd once loved with all her body and soul having sex with another woman.

Even though she throbbed in desire, Genevieve had gone numb. When the woman strained forward with her head, drawing several inches of thick, veined flesh between her lips, Sean grunted in dissatisfaction. He tightened his hold on the handful of blonde hair he grasped at the woman's nape. Genevieve knew from experience the restraint of his hand would be gentle.

But firm.

The woman moaned in obvious protest when he withdrew his cock from her mouth. It made a popping noise as it cleared her lips. His penis fell at a downward angle, weighted by the heavy, tapered cockhead.

“I'm about to spontaneously combust down here, you bastard.” Her voice sounded gruff . . . desire-roughened. Genevieve could see that the crests of her small breasts were pointed and hard.

He wrapped a big hand around his erection and stroked himself, his manner casual. “Didn't you say you were a trader at the Mercantile Exchange? Doesn't that job require the characteristic of patience?”

The woman tried to duck forward to get at his cock, but his hand at the base of her neck held firm. “Damn you,” she hissed. She looked up at him, her expression both plaintive and irritated. He chuckled as he released her hair and stroked her jaw and cheek. The woman's lips curved in shared humor. No one could resist Sean when he smiled.

“I'm going to have to do something about that itch you have, or you're not going to play nice, are you, darlin'?” he teased with the soft New Orleans drawl that contrasted so sharply with all that hard muscle and brawn. Just the sound of his voice so close to her ear used to make Genevieve shiver . . . heat up her very core.

He helped the bound woman up from her kneeling position, his manner relaxed; his touch gentle.

Genevieve blinked, realizing her gaze had been glued to his glistening cock. It looked magnificent as it poked out from the fly of his jeans, a ready tool awaiting its master's bidding.

It didn't surprise her that he seemed so controlled. Not really.

Even when he'd allowed full expression of his wild, primitive nature on that New Year's Eve three years ago, even when he'd lost himself in the depths of intense passion, Genevieve had guessed Sean wasn't typically so expressive during lovemaking. He was usually so somber, so contained; his gaze alert, watchful. He lived like he was always ready for the other shoe to drop . . . like it was inevitable something was about to happen.