Twisted Bond

Текст добавлен: 14 сентября 2016, 22:03

Текст книги "Twisted Bond"

Автор книги: Emma Hart

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“And by different parts, you mean Dr. Gentry and Melly, Daniel, and Ryan, right?”

“Exactly them. We spoke with her psychiatrist first thing this morning, but she wasn’t able to answer whether or not Lena’s ‘other sides’ would know about each other. And as far as we know, it was something she hid from everyone.”

“Wow. How old was Marshall when Lena met his dad?”

“Twelve. Just.” Drake leans against the counter, crossing his arms. “She was a freshman in college, and that was that. Her doctors found no evidence of any trauma in the past bringing on her disorder, and they studied her extensively for emotional, physical, and sexual abuse. Her disorder was just one of those things, but it was triggered to a serious level after Melly was born.”

That makes sense. “So, that’s it? The case is closed now, right? You have his admission on tape.”

“We do. And it’s all thanks to you.”

I shrug and look away, grabbing a cloth from the side of the sink and rubbing at an imaginary spot on the countertop. “Would you believe me if I told you it was a coincidence? I just happened to notice the paint on Marshall’s shirt as he walked out, connected it with the time of the break-in, and that was it.”

“You were right though. The killer would come to you.”

“Well. He wanted to kill me.” I smile sadly, pausing in my useless cleaning. I glance at him. “Guess it’s lucky I’m a damn good shot with a gun and always keep more than one close to me, huh?”

His pink lips curve into a bright smile. “Sure is, cupcake.”

“One of these days, Drake Nash, I’m gonna cupcake your ass into next week.”

“I know.” His smile grows. “Until then, I’m gonna keep calling you it.”

“I know.” I glare at him. “Was that everything? I have to go and prove to my mom that I wasn’t used as target practice for a murdering lunatic.”

“In a minute.”

“In a minute?” I raise my eyebrows.

“Put the damn cloth down, Noelle. There ain’t a mark on your counter.”

I open my mouth to argue, but the glint in his eyes makes me shut it. Yeah. Caught. “Fine.” I throw it in the sink with way too much vigor just to make my point. “What do you want now?”

He drops his arm and crosses the kitchen, his eyes getting the frustrated glimmer I’m so accustomed to. “I’m real pissed at you.”

“When aren’t you?”

“Don’t ever put yourself in the way of a killer again, you hear me?” He stops in front of me, his eye twitching as he reaches for me. The backs of his fingers brush my cheek, lingering against my jaw. “Two seconds. That’s all it would have taken for that to end differently.”

“But it didn’t,” I say softly, wrapping my fingers around his and pushing his hand down. “Y’all gotta stop focusin’ on me as some damsel in distress.”

“I know you’ve got your badass gene”—his lips quirk—“but it’s my job to protect you.”

I swallow. Hard. “Well, the danger has passed, Sir Knight, so it’s no longer part of the description.”

I turn away from him, but he grabs my arm, spinning me back to him. Our bodies slam together, and I inhale sharply, my skin tingling where his fingers are wrapped around my bicep.

“You think it’s just my job? That’s the only reason I do it?”

“Yes.”

He moves us so my back is against the counter, and he lets me go only to trap me fully against the counter. He leans in, his breath hot on my lips as I fight back the urge to breathe frantically at his closeness.

“Newsflash, bella,” he rasps, “That time your house was broken into and I came over? It was my day off. Houston? My day off. Every single fucking time you’ve called me and needed me, I’ve dropped whatever I was doin’. Know why? ’Cause you bein’ safe is more than my goddamn job, Noelle.”

There goes control of my breathing. “I didn’t call you for the break-in here,” I whisper.

“Yet I still came.”

“Why? Why would you do that? You don’t like me. I don’t like you. We’re like oil and water.”

He moves closer another inch. “I don’t like you. You’re the most infuriating woman I’ve ever met. You’re almost guaranteed to piss me off every single time you open that sweet little mouth of yours, but for the life of me, I can’t fucking resist you.”

My eyes flutter shut when the distance between our mouths closes to a single breath. “Luckily, I have plenty of resistance where you’re concerned.”

He grasps my thighs and lifts, his hold strong and powerful, and I’m catapulted onto the counter. He eases his hands over my legs and pushes them open, stepping between them easily. “Really? Where’s that resistance now, huh?”

I say nothing.

“If I pulled this dress off you, tugged your obviously small panties to the side and fucked you right here on the counter, you’d object, wouldn’t you? You’d tell me where to go. You’d tell me to stop and leave you alone.”

I swallow.

“Come on, Noelle,” he breathes, sliding his hands up my legs, his thumbs dangerously close to the triangle of fabric protecting my increasingly throbbing pussy from him. “Where’s your fight? Your resistance? Where’s the big, fat no you just told me you’d give me?”

And Lord help me, I don’t do any of those things.

I grab his face and close that ridiculous distance between us. I press my lips to his and curl my fingers around the back of his neck, the ends of his curly hair tickling my fingers. Drake’s fingertips dig into my thighs as he pushes against me, taking control of the kiss and bringing a hand up. He buries it into my hair, his other hand yanking my dress up around my hips.

I let him go and yank at his tie, undoing the knot and whipping it off from around his neck. He smiles against my mouth, but dammit, I don’t care.

I hate this man, but right now, I just wish he’d fuck every ounce of that hatred out of my body.

His fingers play with the band of my underwear as mine go to work on the buttons of his shirt. One by one, I undo them as his mouth keeps mine busy with each gentle nip and suck and flick of his tongue.

When the final button is undone, I slide my fingers up his lightly toned body, ghosting them over the hard packs of muscle, and I shove his shirt down over his shoulders. He releases me for a second to throw it to the floor, and the break in the kiss means he’s looking at me.

He’s looking at me, my heels on, my panties on show, my dress bunched up beneath my breasts.

My cheeks flush beneath his heated look, and he says nothing as he steps forward and curls his hands around the bottom of my dress. He pulls it up, forcing me to raise my arms, and tugs it right over my head, discarding that on the floor, too.

“What are we doing?” I ask quietly, my whole body humming with desire and screaming at me to shut the hell up because it doesn’t actually matter what we’re doing because it feels fucking wonderful.

“What we should have done years ago.” He grabs me and pulls me off the counter, holding me firmly against his body as he spins.

One kick sends a chair clattering to the floor, and my almost-bare ass finds itself planted on the kitchen table. I open my mouth, but he presses a finger to my lips.

“You gonna protest?”

“No.”

“Then it can wait. This can’t.” He kisses me once more, this time deeply. His tongue swipes mine, and I gasp under the force of the kiss, falling back and holding onto him to keep me up.

He leans me back, though, kissing me roughly and quickly in such a way that my toes curl in my shoes. I reach between us and unbuckle his pants, yanking the zipper down so they fall away. Our bodies come together, and I can feel his hard cock against me, pressing against my clit, tempting and sinful at the same time.

I can’t breathe—at all. This is wrong. God, this is so wrong. But it feels right. It feels heavenly and thrilling and head-spinningly sexy.

His lips on my neck send shivers cascading across my skin, and the quiver of my muscles as his fingers work their way across my breasts and down my body to my hips is all consuming. His breath is hot and fast and desperate, and I’m sure mine is the same because my lungs are burning, but I don’t know if that’s fear or pleasure or excitement or all three of those things mixed into one.

I have no idea what I feel. I just feel everything, nothing discernable, everything interchangeable. I feel everything as right mixes with wrong and perspective changes and determination distorts into the strongest kind of blood-pumping desire I’ve ever felt.

And then he does what he said he would. While I can feel everything without knowing anything, he slides my panties to the side and he pushes his cock into me, and I’m nothing but him filling me until I can’t breathe.

I flatten my hand against the table behind me, my other twining in his hair, my legs wrapping around him as he thrusts into me.

I still can’t breathe. I can only feel. Be. Gasp. Moan.

This is everything I dreamed it would be but nothing like I thought.

Drake Nash inside me is the cruelest kind of perfection. His kiss is the most delightful kind of pleasure. His skin against mine is the maddest kind of insanity.

He’s my nemesis and my ally, my dream and my nightmare, my anger-inducer and my pleasure-bringer.

And right now, he’s all of those at once as he moves relentlessly. His teeth graze my bottom lip and his moan vibrates through my mouth as he pulls me closer to me, pushes himself deeper into me.

My grasp on him tightens until I need both hands. Until I’m pushed so close to the edge that I can’t do anything other than hold on to him, my nails digging into his tan skin, my legs squeezing his waist, my pussy clamping down on to him until my head spins and he groans and my body trembles with the edge of my orgasm.

One groan.

That’s all it takes.

My whole body tenses as the orgasm hits me like tidal wave, hard and bruising and impossible to fight against. I fall into it, into him, just for this moment, letting it all go as I give myself over to this utter bastard.

My name falls from his lips in a low, desperate rasp that almost sounds like a beg, and he leans me back, holding me tight as my hips tilt up and he rams into me. His harsh movements guide me through my pleasure as he seeks his own, and he buries his face into my neck, groaning once again, but this time, he’s coming, letting go the way I just had to.

I drop my head back when the harsh thumping of my heart slows, but we don’t move. Drake doesn’t move. He stays, leaning over me, holding me tight, his skin searing into mine without a care in the world.

He turns his head so his lips brush me. “Please tell me there isn’t a chance of mini yous any time soon.”

Oh shit. No condom.

“Don’t worry. I’m good,” I breathe back, dropping my arm from around his neck and covering my eyes. “I’m a responsible woman.”

“Who just had sex on her kitchen table.”

“I didn’t say I was sensible.”

He laughs, the low sound sending goose bumps over me. Damn, I wish he’d stop doing that. I humph at his amusement, and he slowly stands, pulling me up with him. He hesitates for a moment then drops his mouth to mine.

I swear I can feel the swollenness of his lips from the harsh way he kissed me. This time, though, the touch is soft but firm.

I bite back a sigh when he pulls out of me and reaches for his boxers. Without pulling his pants up—which are hilariously around his ankles—he bends for my dress and hands it to me. I take it from him and pull it over my head, kicking my shoes off before I slide off the table and ease the fabric of the tight dress over my butt and down my legs.

I step around him, awkwardness descending. The room is rife with it, but I’m almost sure I could step into the yard and still be embraced by the words either of us refuses to say.

“I meant what I said,” Drake says when I turn the kettle on. “About Giorgio Messina.”

How’s that for a post-sex conversation starter? “I’m sure you did.”

“Stay away from him,” he whispers, coming up behind me. His chest is hot against my back, and he wraps an arm around me, his hand flattening against my stomach. “He’s not good for you.”

I sigh, pausing with the teabag in my hand. “I canceled our next date. I’m too busy tryin’ to stay alive to pander to Nonna’s silly little demands.”

“What if,” Drake murmurs against my ear, “I asked you out? Would you say yes?”

“We’d kill each other in ten minutes.”

“But it’d keep your nonna happy. I’m Catholic, and I’m a quarter Italian. She can’t complain.”

“I repeat: We’d kill each other in ten minutes.”

“Isn’t that part of the fun?”

“Really? You call that fun?” I raise my eyebrows and turn to look at him, but I can see he’s deadly serious. Fighting? For fun? Is he fucking crazy?

But then… Nonna and Nonno—they fought. Every day. Like cats and dogs.

Passionately.

Ridiculously.

Relentlessly.

And they were married for fifty-something years before Nonno gave in to the cancer that ate at his bones.

And like she told me once… It isn’t fighting in a relationship you have to worry about. It’s when you stop fighting, ’cause that means you’ve stopped caring. As long as there’s something to piss you off that’s worthy of complaining about, it means you still care with all of your heart.

I look at Drake, his icy eyes framed with dark-brown lashes, and his sharp cheekbones curving down toward his soft, pink mouth, which is currently turned up in that God-awful, smug smile I can’t stand. I look at him, still feeling his naked body against mine, him inside me, his lips burning mine with every begging kiss, and Nonna’s words go around and around in my mind.

Hey, he’s handsome. Catholic. Italian. It could be worse.

And we’re sure as hell gonna fight like cats and dogs anyway. Or, as Bek puts it, like gunpowder and a match.

Maybe that really is us. Maybe, no matter what, Drake and I will always be gunpowder and a match—explosive.

“What’d’you say, Noelle?” he asks, running his fingers through my hair.

“It’s real dumb,” I reply honestly. “We can’t have a single conversation without getting at each other’s throats.”

Slowly, those damn lips move into a sexy smirk that has my heart hopping. “Who said a thing about a conversation?”

I shake my head with an amused sigh and tap his arm. “I’d tell you to behave if I thought for a single darn second you’d listen to me.”

“Never,” he confirms.

“Fine,” I say before he can carry on. I touch my thumb to his jaw, feeling the roughness of his stubble scratch my jaw. “We’ll go on a date. One date. As long as you pay. And there are—”

“Cupcakes at the end of the night. I know.”

My smile matches the one slowly stretching across his handsome face. “Okay. But I’m not promisin’ I won’t kick your ass by the end of the night.”

He curls his hand around the back of neck and leans in, his lips barely brushing mine. “I’m countin’ on it, cupcake.”

Read other books by Emma Hart

To be continued in

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By day, New York Times and USA Today bestselling New Adult author Emma Hart dons a cape and calls herself Super Mum to two beautiful little monsters. By night, she drops the cape, pours a glass of whatever she fancies – usually wine – and writes books.

Emma is working on Top Secret projects she will share with her readers at every available opportunity. Naturally, all Top Secret projects involve a dashingly hot guy who likes to forget to wear a shirt, a sprinkling (or several) of hold-onto-your-panties hot scenes, and a whole lotta love.

She likes to be busy – unless busy involves doing the dishes, but that seems to be when all the ideas come to life.

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TWISTED BOND (Holly Woods Files, Book One)

Emma Hart

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