Always Right (9 page)

Once the majority had cast its vote for the DC office to move forward, Amanda had no choice but to pay her share of a special assessment. Fifty thousand dollars, owed in the blink of an eye. Hell, she should consider herself lucky. The more senior partners were paying a hell of a lot more than that. They were happy to do so, because the DC office would pay out like a gold mine in less than a year.

But she couldn’t tell Kyle. She’d promised her partners that she wouldn’t breathe a word to anyone. The future of the firm depended on it.

Kyle glared at her with blue eyes that seemed to burn a new path to her soul. His mouth was pulled into a brutal line, a hard slash that couldn’t possibly be related to the lips that had lured her at Artie’s.

She sank into the far corner of the couch and pulled her knees to her chest. Even though it was August, the height of the North Carolina summer, she pulled her old quilt up to her chin. She wanted to disappear beneath it, wanted to make this whole miserable situation disappear.

But she didn’t have that luxury. This wasn’t a courtroom, where she could argue that some facts were inadmissible. This wasn’t a trial, with strict rules about who could say what when. Instead, this was messed-up, mixed-up
life
.

But that didn’t mean she couldn’t use her skills to make herself understood. She pulled the quilt closer, but she raised her chin and finally met Kyle’s gaze. “I can’t tell you what the money’s for.”

“That again,” he said, the words hard as stone. “Can’t? Or won’t?”

She shrugged. “I’m not going to. So the semantics don’t matter.”

“They matter to me,” he said. And then he shocked the hell out of her when he asked, “You’re safe, though, right? No one is coming after you? No one is going to hurt you?”

She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had worried about
her
safety, about
her
well-being. That’s what she was supposed to do. That was her job. She shook her head, grateful that she could say, “I’m safe.”

She watched him measure out her words. She was used to this—determining what a judge was thinking, figuring out what opposing counsel was going to say, going to do. She saw that Kyle wanted to fight. He wanted to push her harder. But she also saw that he wasn’t going to do it. He was going to lean back against the arm of the couch instead. He was going to sigh. And she wasn’t the least bit surprised when he sighed and said, “Christ, I’m tired.”

Because he’d given in, because he’d let her win, she went ahead and asked, “What time did you get in last night?”

“The plane landed a little after midnight. By the time I got home, it was after one.”

“You could have called.”

That
earned her a sharp look, but his voice was mild as he said, “I wasn’t going to chance waking you up. Not when I thought you were skipping today’s game.”

She didn’t look away. “I came.”

The words were simple enough, but she blushed at the double entendre. She immediately thought of two weeks of phone conversations, of late-night seductions, and she suspected he did too. At the frank appraisal in his eyes, she wanted to bury her face against her knees, wanted to smother her flaming cheeks against her quilt. But she didn’t look away. She owed him that much.

So she wasn’t surprised when he leaned toward her, when he reached a hand toward her face and brushed his thumb against the corner of her lips. But she was mortified when she realized he was wiping away a dollop of spicy brown sauce, a remnant from the dinner she hadn’t finished.

She could cringe in embarrassment.

Or she could lean forward and purse her lips and take his thumb into her mouth as she sucked away the offending sauce.

She was rewarded by a flare of surprise in his eyes. Still watching him, still weighing his reaction, she tracked the tip of her tongue from the web of his hand to the top of his thumb. Her lips tightened, offering a promise.

Or maybe that was an invitation.

Kyle leaned forward. The fingers of his free hand closed over the quilt, pulling it gently out of her grasp. “I don’t think you’ll be needing that, sweetheart.”

The endearment kindled something deep inside her. A spark caught in her belly and wound its way up her chest, through the chambers of her heart. Wherever the wildfire passed, her body became alive. She could feel each individual muscle in her fingers, sense the give and take of every tendon and ligament as she released the blanket, as he pulled it away. The tiny hairs on her arms became charged with electricity—she felt like she was standing on the edge of a cliff as a thunderstorm brewed close above her.

Kyle eased his thumb from her lips, replacing it with his mouth, with his own driving tongue. She’d been kissed before, dozens of times. She’d even been kissed by
Kyle
before, in the parking lot, where his clever lips and his roaming hands had almost made her forget who she was and what she needed to do.

But this kiss was nothing like those had been. This kiss was a distillation of pure sex. He
stroked
her with this kiss. He raised her up and drew her forward, made her tremble for more. He raised a moan deep inside her, an expression of naked need that shocked and frightened and thrilled her more than any sound she’d ever made in her life.

She felt his kiss in her breasts, rippling through her chest to concentrate in the sudden tight buds of her nipples. She felt his kiss in the tight muscles of her legs as she stretched toward him, as raw heat blossomed between her thighs, unfolding like rose petals under a blazing summer sun.

She could never spark a similar fire in him, not like that, not with only her lips on his, her tongue against his. So she tangled her fingers in his hair. She tugged so he could feel her urgency, so he could understand a little of what he made her feel. She let her hands slip lower as she struggled with the crisp cotton of his shirt, pulling it free from his khakis.

She didn’t have time for buttons, not when she was on fire, not when his mouth was straying from her lips to light backfires along the line of her jaw, to ignite the tender spot beneath her ear. His beard scratched her bare flesh, rough, masculine, and she gulped for air to cool the conflagration inside her.

The heat curled her fingers, and she pulled, hard, ignoring the two buttons that popped off as she ripped his shirt over his head. He laughed as he yanked his arms free, as he threw the shirt onto the floor, but he caught both her wrists and held them in one hand, pinning them tight above her head. “Turn about is fair play,” he growled.

And then his free hand was gathered tight on the spaghetti straps of her cami. She heard them tear more than she felt them, delicate stitches bursting free from the force of his grasp. He pulled away long enough to rip the torn cloth over her head, to drop it onto the floor, on top of his ruined shirt. And then he rocked back onto his heels when he saw what she was wearing. Or not wearing.

Because Amanda had known there was a very real chance she’d never see Kyle again. Not after he’d lost the game. Not after she’d sent that text. That’s why she’d spread work out on the coffee table. That’s why she’d dressed in her crappiest clothes, why she’d ordered pungent Chinese food for dinner. She’d built those walls high, telling herself she didn’t care if she was alone tonight, tomorrow, for the rest of her life.

And so she hadn’t bothered with a bra. Hadn’t bothered covering herself up, locking herself in. What did it matter, if she was always going to be alone?

She folded her right arm across her chest. Her left hand fanned across the crotch of her sweatpants, as if she could magically change what was still covered, as if she could keep him from seeing the truth.

“Don’t you dare,” he rumbled, and he tugged her arm away. His eyes grew wide as he stared at her, and she could see the erection that tented his pants. She reached for his zipper, wanting to free him, wanting to make him as vulnerable as she was.

But he shook his head again, and he recaptured her right wrist. With his free hand, he caressed her breasts, laughing when she gasped at the teasing pressure. He understood the power he was building over her. He knew what she wanted, and he knew he could deny her. “Kyle,” she said, eager to show him that she understood, that she was willing to play fair.

He brushed one finger against her lips, a demand for silence. She looked at him, trusting, nodding once.

She thought she was ready for his kiss, for the feel of his lips on her breasts, for the silk of his tongue against her nipples. She hadn’t counted on his teeth, though, on the sharp shudder that convulsed through her as he nipped her soft flesh. She cried out, first in surprise, then in protest when the sweet comfort of his lips pulled away. “No,” she said. “More.”

And part of her was shocked when he obeyed. He rubbed that beard against her, rasping close and making her back arch. He tweaked one nipple between his fingers, pinching hard enough that she moaned, and then he soothed it, sucking, as he punished the other. Arrows ignited, flying straight to her core. Each flick of his fingers, each caress of his tongue drove her closer to the edge, and she bucked hard, wanting to free her hand, wanting to touch him, to give him a taste of the pleasure he was giving her.

He held her fast, though, even when he licked and sucked and nibbled a straight line down her belly. She was still covering herself with her left hand, still pressing hard against the V of her sweatpants. He wasted no time encircling her wrist and pulling her hand free. He planted a kiss against her palm, teasing her with the tip of his tongue, making her twitch until she wondered if she’d lost all possible motor control.

She barely realized he was reaching down for her ruined cami. She didn’t recognize his intent until he’d looped the fabric around her wrists, tying them together. He raised her arms above her head, raking her with his eyes, tracking the enormous, rippling shudder that cascaded from the top of her head to her toes as she realized she was absolutely powerless to hide herself.

He stripped the laces of her sweatpants with brutal efficiency before he leaned forward to tongue her belly, scraping his beard against her abs as she arched for more. His fingers hooked into the top of the sweatpants and he pulled, commanding and hard.

And she gasped as he stared at her naked flesh.

~~~

Looking down at Amanda’s naked body, stretched out lean and taut beneath him, he almost exploded in his pants. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself off the couch. As Amanda watched, her head framed by her arms, her breaths coming deeper as her hips shifted, as her back arched, he undid his belt. He fingered the button and slid down the zipper.

He thought about drawing things out, about playing another game. But he was tired of games. He was tired of waiting.

He shoved his pants over his ass, taking his boxer briefs in the same move. He toed off his shoes, hooked his socks off too. He stepped out of the tangle of his pants, but then he bent down and rescued his wallet.

Because he’d been waiting for two long weeks on the road. He’d done some planning, slipping a trio of condoms into his wallet before he drove to her apartment.

She watched with hungry eyes as he tore open a foil packet. He rolled the rubber on smoothly, wondering how it would feel if her fingers were doing the work, knowing he could find out later. He reached behind himself, grabbing one of the cushions from the couch, and he tossed it onto the floor, between the sofa and the coffee table.

Then he was half-carrying, half-sliding Amanda to the carpet, setting her ass on the cushion, raising her hips into an arching invitation. He slipped a finger between her thighs, past her folds, into her slick heat. She moaned his name and threw her head back, pushing up to meet the curve of his wrist. His cock twitched hard, like it was drawn to the scent of hot, pulsing girl.

He nestled his thumb against her clit and drew a tight circle. Her thighs clamped closed around his hand, holding him there, balancing. He waited for a moment, measuring the tension in her legs, holding perfectly still until she lowered her chin, until she met his eyes.

Then, very slowly, making sure she knew exactly what he was doing, exactly why, he stroked her again, his finger inside, his thumb pressed against the hot button that told him she was about to come. She raised her hips, every muscle of her body begging him for one more touch, one more swipe to set her free.

He eased his hand away, ignoring her mew of dismay. Before she could move, before she could change the rhythm he’d built inside her, he shifted his weight, replacing his finger with the head of his cock. He held himself there, fighting every instinct, trembling with the effort until he felt her hips move, until she opened to him, drawing in his full length.

He was on top of her, holding some of his weight on his forearms, smoothing the hair from her face as he eased all the way home. She caught her breath, and he froze, afraid that he was hurting her, wondering if he could have found the superhuman strength to wait, to carry her into whatever passed for a bedroom in this place.

But she rocked beneath him, tilting her hips to a better angle. He followed her lead, rising up, then sheathing himself back in her slick, tight heat. She set the pace, meeting him, grinding against him, sending a thousand messages with her breath, with the grip of her thighs, with her gasping moans as she rose higher and higher.

He sank into one long stroke. Another. A third, and she shuddered beneath him, a fourth, and she broke hard, clutching his cock as she collapsed into a deep, rolling surge. He drove home one more time and she chanted his name, breathing as hard as he was, begging, moaning, crying. And he came too, harder than he ever had before. He pulsed inside her, hot and heavy, wave after wave of heat making him forget the anger that had brought him here, making him forget the words he’d tried to draw out of her, making him forget everything except the steady, pounding power of the woman beneath him, the woman around him, the woman he’d waited for night after night after night.