Текст книги "Storm"

Автор книги: Jo Raven

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“Fuck you.”

He shrugs, his mouth twisting. “It would have been my first thought, too.”

“You’re a bastard.” My heart thumps hard. “I wouldn’t ask this of you. It’s your house.”

“Ray.” His voice is low and flat. “You think a fucking house is more important to me than your life?”

I have no answer to this. Because if my family thinks money is more important than me, why would Storm, perfect Storm whom I barely know, do that for me? I look away, press my forehead to the window.

My anger is gone, pushed aside by sadness. There’s only so much space inside my heart.

“Your life matters,” he whispers, and his voice softens. “You matter. To me.”

I bow my head, my eyes burning. He takes my chin in his hand, turns my face toward him.

“I’d never ask you for this,” I say. “I wouldn’t want you to—”

“Shh.” His thumb caresses my cheek. “I’d give all I have for you. But don’t you see, Ray? Haven’t you connected the dots?”

My head aches so badly. “No.”

He stares at me, eyes narrowing. “Baltimore. Jordans.” He waits for something, but I have nothing to say. “Ray. I’m the Jordan heir. Don’t you know who the Jordans are?”

I swallow. “… Rich people? Sorry, I stay offline to avoid leaving tracks, and I rarely buy magazines.”

He chuckles, and for the first time in what feels like days, a real smile spreads on his handsome face. “Very rich. Jordan Enterprises. Developers and Investors.”

That definitely rings a bell.

“You’re their son?” I remember a scandal some years back. The only son and heir to the Jordan Enterprises seen in seedy bar. Bad boy Troy skips town.

Troy Jordan. Heir to millions.

Holy shit.

“When my parents died, my uncle took over until I turned twenty-one. He died before I reached that age, but now I’m twenty-one, as of last week, and I can claim my inheritance.” He pauses. “I can pay your father’s debt. And I will. Because I want you to be safe.”

“This is nuts,” I mutter, my breath hitching, my brain aching as it tries to wrap around this. “Totally nuts.”

“Sorry I didn’t tell you from the start,” he says. “I guess my trust issues are bigger than yours. But this is the truth.”

“If you’re telling the truth, then...” Jesus Christ on a pogo stick. “Why say you’ll help me out? You can have anything and anyone you wish for. You don’t need me.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” He leans in, his breath caressing the shell of my ear. “I need you, Raylin O’Brien. You’re my one bright light, the only person I can trust in the whole world right now. Even more than myself.”

PART II: BULLETS

Chapter Twelve

STORM

We’re flying back to Baltimore. My private jet, a Gulfstream G450, is waiting for us at the Boca Raton airport, notified by Hawk to come pick us up.

I get out of the limo and go around to open Raylin’s door. She climbs out and stands on the tarmac, in her torn shorts and blouse, her long dark hair whipping in the wind.

Alive. Unharmed. Unbearably beautiful.

“You okay, Ray?”

She nods. She hasn’t spoken a word to me since our little talk. I think she’s in shock. I take her hand, and she lets me guide her to the plane. A flight attendant is standing on the ground, waiting for us, dressed in a formal skirt and jacket.

Going back home.

Swallowing my reluctance, I help Raylin up into the dimness of the plane. We take our seats around a table, and the attendant comes to see what we would like to have a drink. Raylin just shakes her head, so I ask for juice. Despite drinking a whole bottle of champagne in the car, I’m parched.

And famished.

The attendant—Sondra, according to her name tag—brings us blueberry juice and a tray of warm prosciutto-and-fig sandwiches and lobster rolls with fresh chives and tarragon. She has barely set it down when I’m stuffing my face with everything, barely tasting it.

Takes me a while to realize Raylin is just staring at the tray, frowning.

I sigh and swallow the rest of my sandwich. “Come on, Ray. Eat. It’s good. I’m sure you’re hungry.”

She picks a roll, sniffs it. “I’m not…”

I wait, but she never finishes what she was about to say. She looks… nervous.

No, scared. She’s fucking scared.

“Hey.” I pat the empty seat by my side. “Come here.”

For a moment I think she will refuse, and I prepare to go around and get her, push her until she tells me what is wrong.

But she gets up and pads over to me. She’s still barefoot. We both are. In the rush of adrenaline, I didn’t even notice. I’m still only in my surfing shorts.

Shit, Baltimore will be a lot cooler.

Making a mental note to tell the flight attendant to call for clothes before we arrive, I wait until Raylin has sat down, and then I drag her to my side, wrapping an arm around her. She feels so slight and fragile pressed to me. I’d do anything for her.

I don’t think she realizes it.

“Is this a private jet?” she whispers.

“Yeah.”

“Yours?”

“Yes.”

“How is this…? I don’t…” She never finishes her questions.

“Eat first. Try this.” I take a lobster roll and lift it to her mouth. She makes a grab for it, but I lift it higher. “Uh-uh. You had your chance to eat on your own. Now I’m gonna feed you.”

She glares up at me, but opens her mouth when I offer her the roll and bites. Ignoring the way she makes me go hard just by sinking her small, white teeth into the damn roll, I feed her more. Something inside me relaxes as I make sure she’s okay. We’re entering my domain now, my world, and she’ll need my help and reassurance.

I need to show her nothing between us has changed, in spite of the private jet and lobster rolls. Truth is, I was so much happier eating frozen lasagna and microwave popcorn, but going back is necessary, and not only because the beach house now has some extra ventilation holes. Which, by the way, I should have someone fix and set up the alarms before the house is cleaned out.

Already the pressure returns, stress tightening my chest. Not because of the beach house, but because of everything my return implies.

That I accept my place as the heir of the empire my grandparents and my parents built. That I’ll take the bloody throne and become just like them. Live, and die, like them.

“Troy…” Raylin nudges me in the ribs. “Storm.”

I blink and find myself clutching the glass of juice so hard it’s a miracle the glass hasn’t cracked. I put it back down. “Yeah?”

Her mouth twitches, like she’s holding back a smile. “You okay?”

Tension seeps out of my shoulders. “Yeah. I am.” Now I am, seeing her smile. “And you?”

“Better.”

She presses her small body closer to mine, and I tuck her head under my chin, closing my eyes, suddenly exhausted. “I’ll keep you safe, baby. Trust me.”

“I do,” she whispers against my chest, sounding as tired as I feel. “I trust you.”

And that’s enough for me right now. More than enough. That’s everything, and the beginning of more.

***

She wakes up when we land, tensing in my arms, and I stroke her face until she relaxes again.

“Have you ever been to Baltimore?”

She shakes her head minutely, her pretty mouth pursed.

“You’ll like it.” Hell, I’ll make sure. I’ll give her everything she wants. Take her anywhere she likes. And, first of all, I’ll pay off that fucking debt that’s putting her life in danger. “You’ll see.”

She gives me a sleepy smile, and I kiss it off her lips, lick it off like crystal sugar. She tastes like that, sweet and addictive.

We roll to a stop and the plane’s engines wind down. “I asked for clothes,” I tell her, unwilling to move and let her go even for a minute. “We can change here. A car will be waiting for us.”

To take me home. Fuck.

I wonder if Rook heard the news and will come visit. The idea is both exciting and alarming. Rook can be one scary motherfucker when he’s in a bad mood, and my vanishing act is sure to have pissed him off.

Meet my friends: Hawk, sarcasm incarnate, and Rook, the eternal grump.

I relinquish my hold on Raylin when the attendant comes in with our clothes. Black pressed pants, shirt, and jacket for me, and a gray dress for Raylin. She also brings shoes, coats and even generic underwear.

The attendant hangs the clothes on a hook and turns to help Raylin undress.

Raylin takes a step back, and I get between them. “We’re fine, Sondra. Go ahead and check if the car is here.”

Raylin grabs the dress, then glances up at me, slender dark brows knitted. I’m not sure she’s enraged about the conservative gray knee-length dress or just shocked.

“I didn’t ask for anything specific,” I say, wincing inwardly at the pants, jacket, and white shirt. I ignore the tie as I start undressing. “They brought what they thought we might want.”

She nods, and her silence is yet another sign she’s not dealing with this so well. Dammit. I need to get her alone with me again, work her over until she relaxes and tells me what’s on her mind.

That requires putting on clothes and get into that car.

A glance at my phone make me wince again. I put it on silent during the flight, and I only have, like, thirty missed calls and countless text messages to wade through. Everyone, from the company Board of Directors to the cleaning lady needs to talk to me and have my signature on something. I hope I can put off meeting with the lawyers until tomorrow, at least.

My heart is hammering with adrenaline. What I want to do right now is run, let it out of my system. Or swim. That might do the trick. Do some laps in the pool.

I’m falling back into my old habits and barely noticing. Back into my old life, though my apartment where we’ll be heading in a minute came to me only after my uncle died. But this… this lack of worry about where everything comes from, transport, money, food, this lack of effort on my part for most things people have to fight for is like slipping into my discarded skin and becoming that guy again.

That guy, that snake, lurking in the Garden of Good and Evil, and knowing the truth has never been a blessing. At least, not to me.

***

The white limo drives us to the city center. The short drive there is spent in silence. Raylin keeps tugging on the hem of her dress. She kicked off her shoes the moment we stepped into the car. She looks different, in that dress, and yet the same. Just as sexy, and the cut clings to her curves, making my mouth water.

Shit, I wish the building had a helipad like the one where my uncle used to live, but I couldn’t do it after he died and I came back. Couldn’t live in his apartment or the family home. No way.

My leg throbs in rhythm to the pounding in my head. I watch the city roll by through the tinted windows, and I’m so sure something else will happen on the way—another accident, like a car crashing into us, bullets slamming through us, a bomb going off and tearing us to pieces—that I start when Raylin puts a hand on my thigh.

“We stopped,” she says. “Where are we?”

I blink, and sure enough we have arrived. The building soars up into the sky, sparkling in the midday sun, a tower of glass and polished steel.

“We’re home,” I say, the word meaningless to me, but at least we made it here. So far so good.

Paranoid, my mind accuses, and I hear Hawk’s voice like an echo behind it. Paranoid. When will you accept the fact nobody’s after you?

The doorman gets my door, and I squint into the daylight. I climb out and quickly round the limo to open Raylin’s door myself. She gives me her hand and I pull her out, put an arm around her, keeping her close to me as we hurry to the entrance.

Could it be all in my head? Could he be right? I guess everyone thinks his luck is worse than that of others, when in fact we’re all struggling to keep our heads above the water. Fact is, tragedy can strike just about anyone, rich or poor, ugly or beautiful. I should know.

Only problem is, I don’t really believe in luck. I believe in consequences. You lie in the bed you made for yourself, that’s what I believe. No matter how my parents’ death fucked me up, how it tore me apart, I’m pretty sure they brought it on themselves. Karma, man. It’s a bitch.

As for my uncle, I think he tread waters too deep to keep his footing.

We enter the elevator, and I insert my key to start it. The doors close and I breathe a sigh of relief.

Yeah, karma. And as for myself… No clue. Guess I must have been an asshole in a past life. A real first-class motherfucker.

“You okay, Storm?” Her voice is a silver thread in the maze of my thoughts, and I follow it to find her staring up at me with those big eyes that look right into my soul.

“I should be the one asking you this. This is my life, and I’ve dragged you into it. I’m sorry.”

“You mean after I dragged you into a shoot-out with the Chinese mafia.” Her brows draw together. “You almost got killed because of me.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Are you apologizing for saving my life? For flying me away in your private jet and taking me to your home?” She tsks. “How awful of you. You should be on your knees.”

“Dammit, Ray.” It takes me a second or two, because she looks so solemn, and then I crack up. “If you want me on my knees, I’ll do it.” My laughter fades at the mental image. “Yeah, I’ll get down, but I’ll have you naked and wet for me, first. And then I’ll make you come so hard you won’t know what hit you.”

She starts and opens her mouth, her eyes wide and a flush rising to her cheeks—but then the elevator dings and slows to a stop.

Twenty-third floor. The penthouse.

The doors slide open with a whisper, but she doesn’t move, still staring at me. So I put my hand on the small of her back and give her a tiny shove.

“Welcome to my world, Ray.”

Don’t let it scare you away.

RAYLIN

I walk into his apartment and try to keep my jaw from hitting the floor. Yeah, he’s a millionaire, I got it, okay? Heard it the first time. Been in the jet and the limo, but holy crap Batman…

Knowing and seeing it for yourself is never the same thing, is it?

Pretending nothing’s out of the ordinary, that I see pads like this one every other day, I wander through the huge open-plan living room and kitchen which opens to a terrace. There’s a lit-up pool I can see through the floor-to-ceiling glass doors. The furniture is black leather and metal, one wall taken by a huge bookcase filled with books, messily arranged in rows and piles. A charcoal rug covers the floor.

“It’s… nice,” I whisper, my voice cracking. Dammit. I clear my throat. “Cozy.”

Storm grins and shakes his head.

Okay, so it’s not exactly cozy, but it’s not cold, either. It’s very obviously a guy’s pad, and it has Storm’s touch. Probably. What with the leather and metal and all.

Not that I’d know what his style is. I barely know the guy, and the thought is almost enough to make me panic again.

Almost.

But I won’t. I was serious before. He helped me, saved my life, protected me when he had no obligation and no reason to do so. I owe him, and I trust him. He has no need of me. Doesn’t need to help me. And with his looks and money, he could get any girl he wanted, if it’s sex he’s after. God knows he’d get a better deal.

It’s enough. More than enough for now. I’m exhausted. I may sleep for a few days, if he lets me. He has security, right? Bodyguards, too, I’m guessing. Should be safe for a while.

Take what you can get today, Ray. You’re overthinking this. Stop it. It never helps.

I open the sliding door and step outside, onto the terrace. The pool reminds me of the mansion on the beach, and the scent of the sea is here, too, though it’s colder. I shiver as I cross the terrace, walking alongside the pool to reach the rail, and I tell myself it’s from the cool wind whipping back my hair.

Okay, so I’m still in shock, even if things make more sense now—like how at ease he seemed in that mansion. His mansion. Correction, one of his mansions. He probably has several scattered around the country. Hell, around the world.

Scratch staying calm. How am I supposed to wrap my head around this? My hands tighten over the rail. It’s steel and glass, like the building. Cold. Perfect. Expensive.

Storm says he trusts me. Says I saved him from himself. Whatever that means.

A millionaire who thinks someone’s after him and the daughter of an alcoholic conman wanted by the Chinese mafia. Sounds like a bad joke. I’d laugh out loud if I wasn’t pretty sure he told me the truth. He was right when he said he never lied to me. He didn’t.

But I’m also pretty sure he didn’t tell me everything. Still hasn’t.

Then again, neither have I. Trust is something you dole out in spoonfuls. It’s another face of respect. It comes to you bit by bit, little by little, until it’s wrung out of you despite your will. When you’re won over, worn down until you have to believe, have to open up.

Slowly.

Nothing slow about this wild ride so far. No wonder my head is spinning and I can’t decide what to do next.

I’m tired of running. But how can I stop?

Storm.

No, not Storm. Troy Jordan.

All right. There lies the heart of the problem. I’m in Troy Jordan’s penthouse, looking down at the harbor, the sunlight glinting on the water. White sailboats float in the blue. Tall buildings rise around us. Damn, this place must cost a fortune.

But he’s still Storm, I remind myself. Nothing has changed.

Oh really, Ray? Keep telling yourself that. Self-delusion is a great thing. Up until now you chose to ignore the clues and were comfortable believing he broke into that mansion, just like you, that he’s just like you in every way. But he’s not. In any way. He belongs in a completely different world, one you have no hope of ever entering, or even understanding.

You thought his life was similar to yours. That he’d get it when you told him every last secret you hide inside.

And now…

“A dollar for your thoughts.” He appears by my side and leans on the rail, dark hair falling in his eyes. He has unbuttoned his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. His tanned, corded forearms rest on the polished metal.

My thoughts are a tangle. I’d rather not share them. “Only a dollar? Thought you were a millionaire.”

He chuckles. God, I love that sound. I could drink it from his mouth, spread it on the floor and roll in it like a cat. “Still not convinced? You think I’m renting this place by the hour, just to show off?”

I wish it were that. So much simpler. “Maybe.”

He sighs. “Well, I haven’t got more than twenty dollars in cash on me right now. I didn’t dare use my cards because they could be tracked.”

“In case someone was looking for you.” To kill you.

Which I still am not sure I believe.

“Yeah.” He lets out a long breath. “So how about those twenty bucks for your thoughts?”

“My thoughts aren’t worth that much. Not even a dollar, in fact. I was shitting you. Storm…” I swallow hard. “I’m not worth that much.”

“That’s where we disagree, baby. Told you.”

Yeah, he did, didn’t he? And nope, I can’t trust he’d do that for me—pay millions to set me free, even less if it means putting himself in danger. I trust it even less than I believe his story about some mysterious guys after him.

“You matter to me.”

I want to believe that so bad. So I do what I do best: I ignore it as best I can. Just like I ignore every hope and wish I have for the future.

He straightens, rubbing at his side that’s tangled up in the vines and roses inked on his skin. “It’s going to rain.”

I glance up at the fluffy clouds, then back at him. “Does it hurt?”

His hand stills. “Sometimes.”

“I meant the tattoo.”

“Sometimes, yeah. Because of the thorns, ya know.” He winks, and I snort softly.

“Why the roses? What do they mean?”

“Why the fuck do they have to mean something? It’s just ink.” He turns away, but not before I see his hands twitch. “I’m starving. I’ll order some food.”

Secrets.

I thought I saw a pain in his eyes that matches my own. A desperation that mirrors mine. A dark shadow that I could feel in my own chest, like a second heartbeat.

But what do I know? I know nothing.

So I shrug and follow him inside. I follow his lead, until I figure out how things will play out, and what role will be assigned to me in this new game.

Chapter Thirteen

STORM

Raylin shrugs when I ask her what she would like to eat. She shrugs when I ask her if salmon is acceptable. She shrugs when I tell her she can shop for clothes from the online catalogues on my laptop, so she can wear something she likes.

I’m this close to banging my head on the wall. Her face is blank, her voice flat, her defenses are all up and in my face.

Why is she acting this way? I get that she didn’t expect any of this, but hell, a week ago I hadn’t, either. I hadn’t expected to find her, or bring her here. Much less hurry to sign in for my inheritance, so I can pay off the Chinese mafia.

I’m doing this to help her. I didn’t want to come back here, goddammit. Not yet anyway. Not until I’d figured out a plan, and I’m not only talking about making sure I survive to see my twenty-second year.

No, I’m talking about the secret I’m keeping, the one that’s been eating me alive all these years, the one I couldn’t do anything about—until now. Maybe. If I can work it out.

I didn’t need any mafia on my back, too, but if that’s what it takes to keep her safe, to keep her alive… I’ll be damned if I let her parents fuck up her life any more, like my parents did with mine. She doesn’t deserve that. Nobody does, but least of all her. She’s sweet, she’d kind, she’s fearless, and she makes me feel…

Like what, Storm? Come on, let us have it. Make you feel like what?

No.

So I open the door when the concierge pings me on the number I only use for such matters, and he carries inside the delivery boxes from my favorite restaurant, depositing them on the kitchen counter.

“It’s good to have you back, sir,” he offers as he takes them out of the paper bags and goes in search of dishes. “Would you like me to serve you outdoors, on the terrace?”

“No, Cyrus, thank you.”

“You’re right, sir. It might rain.”

“Yeah, it might.” Out of the corner of one eye, I catch Raylin’s slightly slack-jawed expression, and I’m torn between laughing and groaning out loud. “Thank you, Cyrus. I’ve got it from here.”

“Of course, sir.” He gives a small bow in Raylin’s direction. “Madam.”

As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, she leans against the counter and a choked sound leaves her throat. “Madam? Seriously?”

Not sure how to interpret that, I pull out dishes and silverware. “Wanna eat here or by the pool?”

She bites her lip, then turns around and leaves the room without a word.

Know what? Fuck this. Enough waiting around for her to tell me what the matter is. I just drop everything and go after her.

Because she’s mine, has been mine since I saw her on that beach, and I’ll make sure she knows it.

***

She’s standing at the door of my bedroom, one arm over her face, dark hair spilling over her shoulders, shiny and soft. Damn, just looking at her, at the curve of her long neck, those pretty curves and shapely legs, makes me hard.

And goddamn angry. Fucking pissed that she won’t tell me what’s wrong.

“Ray,” I say, but she doesn’t move.

Her breath hitches, and her shoulders shake, a slight tremor that cuts through me, through my fury like a razor blade.

Dammit. I take her arm and lower it, then pull her to me.

“Why are you crying?” I whisper, my chest tight. “What’s going on?”

She doesn’t speak for a while, but lets me hold her to my chest, so it can’t be that bad, right? I hate to admit it, but I’m glad she’s feeling something, that she’s showing me how she feels, because I’m shaken. Her slight body trembles in my arms, and it’s fucking crazy that I came back, that I brought her back with me, that I made her promises I intend to keep no matter the cost. That I’d do anything for her.

That I need her as if my life depends on her.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” I say. “I’ll keep you safe, Ray. I swear I’ll do all that’s in my ability to protect you.”

A joke.

Fucking Christ, Storm. Even if you pay her debt, you’re the last thing she needs. She doesn’t need your dark secrets and the danger that follows you.

“Can’t.” Her small fist hits my pec with a small thud. “Can’t believe in fairytales and a prince charming. Never have.”

“That what’s bothering you? You’ve seen me. You know me.”

“Do I?” she asks softly. “Do I call you Troy now?”

“There is no Troy,” I explain to her patiently, because I know this sounds nuts, and if this is what’s scaring her… “He’s just a name. Storm is real. Troy is a ghost. Do you understand?”

She’s clutching the front of my shirt, saying nothing, and I wrack my mind, trying to figure this out.

Then she pushes off me, wiping at her cheeks, face closing off again.

Fuck. This. Shit.

The sting I feel in my chest can’t be fear, fear that I’m losing her already, before I even get a chance to really be with her… right? And yeah, I know I said she shouldn’t be with me, that I’m a danger to her, but dammit, I can’t.

Can’t let go yet. Not ready.

So I hem her in with my body, push her against the wall and brace one arm by her face, leaning in and kissing her. Tasting her anger, her fear, her need. Going back to what we know, what works for us. What brought us together in the first place.

You’re a liar, Storm. That wasn’t what came first. Her curiosity, her concern, her warmth, her bright spirit, that was the beginning. That was what drew you to her from the start.

I kiss her harder, to silence the voice in my thoughts, biting her soft lower lip, drawing it between my teeth until she whimpers. Her curves are soft, molding to my body. She tastes of summer and freedom and wild girl, and I groan as my stomach clenches and my dick hardens. I trail my hand up the silky material of her gray dress, over the mound of her breast, feeling her nipple bunch up under my palm.

She puts her hands on my chest, giving me a little shove, which I ignore. My tongue slides over hers, and she moans.

So hot. And oh fuck me, she’s still wearing the high heels my assistants bought for her. Breaking the kiss, I peek down, glimpsing them at the ends of her long legs.

Shit. I grab her leg, lift it around my thigh, and press her to the wall, eating up her mouth. I ache to bury myself in her, lose myself, forget. My hard-on presses into her softness, and my hand dives under the silky fabric of her dress, slides over her smooth thigh up to reach the lace of her panties.

Her hands curl on the front of my shirt, bunching up the Indian cotton, and a gasp leaves her lips as I slip my fingers into her panties, following the line of her slim hipbone, down and down.

Right between her legs.

Oh fuck. Her panties are soaked, her folds slick, and she jerks under my hand. Need to fuck her now, but there are too many fucking layers of cloth between us.

Too much between us, and I need to take her now, but kissing her is so good I can’t stop. Swallowing the tiny moans she produces, feeling her slender body shudder, I push two fingers into her, fucking her in long, hard strokes.

Mine. You’re mine, Ray.

Another shudder and she tightens around my fingers, coming apart, her hips shimmying against mine, her breasts heaving, pressing into me. It’s so good I break the kiss and grit my teeth to keep from coming on the spot.

Her eyes are dry now, hazed with pleasure and undecipherable like the future. She’s panting, leaning back, her leg still curled around mine, a line of fire. She’s not looking into my face, though. For a brief moment she let me see her—tears, pain, pleasure and all—and now she’s closing up already.

No fucking way.

My leg twinges, warning me I should rest, put it up and ice it, but the hell I am. Without another word, I bend and lift her in my arms. She gasps and writhes, but I only tighten my hold, crushing her to me as I carry her into the room and throw her down on the bed.

“No girl has ever been here,” I tell her. “Only you. Do you hear me?”

In my room. In my bed. In my head.

Her eyes widen, and color rises to her face. She still won’t meet my gaze, though. Goddammit. Then I sit back and shrug off my shirt, discarding it quickly. Her eyes widen some more, going dark with desire. They skim over my chest, over the ink covering my sides, then drop lower, to the bulge in my dress pants.

She reaches for me, and I don’t let her. I’m in charge here, now. I grab her slim wrists, pin them over her head and keep them there one-handed.

“Look at me, Ray,” I whisper, my voice so hoarse with arousal I barely recognize it. “Stop trying to hide.”

She glares, defiantly staring over my shoulder at some point in the distance.

“Oh, baby.” I shake my head and chuckle, because at least she’s not ignoring me anymore. She may pretend all he likes, but her anger radiates off her like fire, scorching me. Turning me on so goddamn bad I have to keep still and think unsexy thoughts for a long moment to get myself back under control.

It almost works, but the sight of her lying underneath me in this conservative gray dress she’s wearing? Okay, I’ll be honest here. It’s driving me nuts. It’s so prim and proper I need to rip it off her.

Oh yeah, it has to go.

“Keep your hands there,” I growl like a damn caveman, and she obeys, barely blinking as I let go and grab the side of her dress. “Keep still.”

I rip the seam of the dress open. She squeals but doesn’t move as I rip the other side open, too, all the way up to the sleeve.

Not enough.

“What are you doing?” she whispers, breathless. “The dress—”

Digging my fingers into the opening, I rip the sleeve off, then pull it down and off her arm. Much better. I deal with the other one the same way and tear the dress off her.

She’s breathing hard, lips parted, the flush on her cheeks telling me she’s not scared. She’s excited.

And it makes me even harder. It’s a loop of desire. Her desire feeds mine, my cock swelling to the point of bursting and my balls growing heavy and taut, and a light flush spreads over her pretty tits, the nipples erect and dark. The scent of her arousal fills my senses. She lifts a hand, and I grab her wrists and pin them back over her head.

A tiny flare of anger flashes over her face, and then more arousal, and holy fuck, my cock twitches and leaks inside my pants.

I can’t. Hold back. Much longer.

“Take them off.” She moans when I bend over her and capture one nipple with my teeth, then soothe it with my tongue. “Your pants.”