Cocky F@#ker (Tangled Desires #3) (6 page)

He makes this sound in the back of his throat. A chuckle, but more like the sound an animal would make over its prey. His hands squeeze my ass, and then he’s lifting me up and setting me down on the counter. The metal of the sink edge is a cool line against my skin, but it barely registers as he gets in my face. “Is that why you can never say no to me, Hells? Because you don’t want me all up inside you? Because you hate it so fucking much when I kiss you?”

“Don’t you dare.” I glare at him. I shouldn’t want him, but I’m acutely aware of his hands on me, of the pulses of sensation that glide through me from his touch, arousing me until I have to squirm.

“Don’t I dare what?” He smirks, his hands finding my knees, long fingers splayed over them. He pulls them apart, shifts between my legs. “Don’t kiss you?”

He’s all heat up so close, and I can’t help but inhale his scent. It sets me on edge, my clit throbbing, as though it’s begging for him to slide those fingers up and touch it. As though that’s the only thing that will alleviate the ache he’s so intent on stirring up inside me.

“Don’t you dare try to make this something it isn’t.” I’m shaking under his steady gaze. Being so close to him is not helping me remember why I swore to never do this again.

Scraping his palm from my knee to my calf, he winds my leg around his hip. Automatically, I tighten it around him.
I want him.
One last time.

One last bite of Mace, before I start my fucker free diet. I can have that, can’t I?

Then he slips the pads of two fingers along the angle of my jaw, tilting my head as he presses his mouth to the corner of my lips, murmuring them up to my ear. “I’ve always been a bit of a daredevil.”

Lord have mercy.
I don’t know which one of us starts it. His mouth is so close to mine. Maybe it’s my hands on his face that pulls him to me, or maybe he isn’t prepared to not back up his words with actions. Either way my heart is racing when he takes my mouth, his lips slanting over mine as he thrusts his tongue into me, licking and stroking as I drag him tighter to me. There should be nothing right about this, but it feels so damn good. He sucks on my bottom lip, nips the sensitive flesh there as both hands grab my hips and he grinds his hardness into me. A thrill runs through me. A desperate neediness that can only be filled with more.

Something breaks. A glass or a bottle, as I knock it off the bench, winding my other leg around him and leaning back, while I yank up the front of his T-shirt to find the hard ridges of his abs. Glass crunches under foot when he shifts, bending over me and deepening the lock he has on my mouth.

“You better not be damaging my house, brother,” Tom calls out.

I jump, shoving at Mace as my face heats. I can’t imagine what Tom would think if he saw us like this. I don’t know how he’d handle the history here. Or the fact that I’ve never told him about anything that happened with Mace. I’ve practically lied to him our entire friendship. “Get off me, you big lug. I don’t want your family to see us like this. I don’t want them to know.”

He backs away, his brow furrowing as he adjusts his junk and surveys the broken glass before giving me one last heated glance. “Don’t worry, Hells. I know how to keep my mouth shut.”

“What the hell happened in here?” Tom asks, entering the room and flipping on the light. “And why are you perched on the counter?”

“No shoes,” I say.

“And she did such a good job of smashing the bottle, I didn’t want her to cut her feet.” Mace grumbles, keeping his back to Tom so his state of agitation won’t be made obvious.

Tom shrugs. “Broom’s in the laundry. I’m going to bed. You staying over tonight, Chelsea?”

I dart a glance at Mace, but I can’t read his face. It’s shut off to me, except for the tightness in his jaw. I don’t know whether the fact he had to lie to his brother pisses him off, or if it’s the idea of me sleeping in Tom’s bed.

Not that it matters. Because what just happened, it can’t happen again. Not as long as Mace Hadley is planning on staying in Reverence. Playing with him is like playing with fire and there is no way I’ll get away unscathed. Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me, but fool me a third time… I don’t want to know what that feels like. “No. I’m heading home as soon as I can get off of here.”

“Fair enough.” Yawning, he stretches his arms above his head and disappears into the living room.

“How about I make it real easy for you to leave?” Mace mutters under his breath, then he’s picking me up and carrying me across the kitchen to put me down away from the mess. “Wouldn’t want you to have to lie to anyone else.”

“They can’t know,” I say to his back as he walks away from me. “Besides, what good would it do? It’s not like it’s going to happen again.”

“Exactly. So go home, Chelsea. I’ll clean up your mess.”

Mace

“I can’t believe we got married last night.” I grin as I roll onto my side. Six years since the last time I saw her, and time hasn’t made a dint in the way I feel about her. Knowing she went after Rush back then, struggling to keep my feelings in check around her doesn’t matter anymore, because she fucking married me. She’s mine, and whatever was between her
and Rush is gone.

The wrinkled sheets are cool under my palm from where the covers are thrown almost to the end of the bed. The smile slides right off my face as I sit up and glance around the empty hotel room. My bag’s on the bureau, my shirt and pants a pile on the floor beside the bed. She’s not in the room, or the bathroom. In fact there’s nothing to suggest she was ever fucking here. A hot pocket of something bubbles up in my chest as I shower and dress.

Un-fucking-believable. I thought we’d finally gotten it right. Well, as close to right as a quickie wedding in Vegas can be. But it was only because I have to deploy soon. We talked about doing it properly when I’m back on home soil.

My cell buzzes, and I pick it up, answer it, find out the rest of my leave’s been cancelled.

I have to go back, and I have a missing wife to track down. Finding her doesn’t end up being difficult. She’s in her hotel room. From where I’m standing in the hall outside her door, I can hear her moving around, talking. Then a male voice, my brother’s voice.

The pattern doesn’t change. Not even with a ring and a bit of paper that says she wants to be with me. Shifting my duffel on my shoulder, I raise my hand to knock.

“It’s so good to see you again, Chels. You’re as stunning as ever. I can’t believe I was stupid enough to let you go.”

“Stop it, Rush. You don’t need to put the charm on me. You know that isn’t why I asked you to come to my room. I want to…” Her laughter has me bristling, my jaw clenching so tight my teeth clack together. The hot pocket of annoyance rapidly becomes volcanic.

My brother and my wife. That’s something I never thought I would have to deal with. But why should this time be any different? Just because she’s mine now instead of his. We were never good at keeping those boundaries. Besides both of us were drunk last night. No doubt it was all the heat of the moment, the alcohol, the insane lust that clouds my judgement each and every time with her.

My cell buzzes. Spinning on my heel, I yank it from my pocket. I’m out of time.

For the past couple days this memory has played over and over in my head while I ran. And I’ve been running a hell of a lot. Between Tom’s overcrowded house and my inability to sleep it’s the one thing that’s keeping me sane. Except now, not so much, because it gives me time to ponder the decisions I made.

I never opened the door. I didn’t say goodbye to either of them. I’d spun on my heel and stormed out of there. After all, I’d been certain of what I would find. It wasn’t like it was the first time she went running to my brother.

Only, it hurt a hell of a lot more because I thought this time what we did meant something. Or at least it had to me.

Kicking off my sneakers as I storm through my bedroom door, I go straight to the bed and crouch down beside it while I find the small wooden box I stashed there. Inside are photos from that night. The night I married her. I got them printed even after I knew there was no coming back from our fuck up.

My fuck up.

I tap the box on my thigh. After the jealousy had worn off, I got to thinking maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe it had been something else entirely. Chelsea has never been a flake. But she wouldn’t talk to me. Wouldn’t answer my emails or phone calls.

But Rush had.

He’d been more than happy to tell me I was right the first time. Yet, I still can’t shake her. Still can’t rid myself of the doubts when it comes to what she would and wouldn’t do, and I can’t rid myself of this desire to make her mine even now. It’s a ridiculous notion, one better left in a box under the bed.

I flick through it quickly. I should probably burn them. That would be the smart thing to do. Destroy the evidence and forget she ever existed. I certainly shouldn’t be kicking the hornet’s nest. Twice burned is enough, isn’t it? And I’m supposed to be starting a whole new life. One where I haven’t worked out who I am yet, or what I’m doing. One that shouldn’t be mired in the past.

Except I’m stuck in this damn town with her. Hell, in this house, because she barely ever goes home.

I don’t know whether she’s trying to get at me, parading around Tom’s house in short skirts and tank tops, but it’s making me more edgy and irritable than I already am. And hard. Rock fucking hard.

I can’t walk around a corner in this damn house without her perfume getting up my nose. Fucking exotic flowery shit that makes me insane.

I’m surprised my permanent state of arousal hasn’t deprived my brain of oxygen. I’m probably going to collapse and have to be taken to the emergency room any day now. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone dying from a permanent state of arousal, but I suppose there’s always a first time.

I need coffee and a shower. And I need to get laid, or at least a good session with my hand. I stuff the box back under the bed and drag my damp T-shirt over my head, dumping it in the hamper in the laundry on my way to the kitchen.

Coffee in hand, I wander back to my room. It’s the only one with a separate bathroom attached, and I have no idea why the hell Tom’s using one of the other rooms instead. I would think the extra privacy would be a good thing, especially if one wanted to press a soft, willing body up against the wall.

Which is exactly what springs to mind as I pass the bathroom and freeze when I see her. Her hair’s a blonde tornado like spun sugar, her eyes still puffy from sleep. She’s wearing a pink T-shirt with the slogan ‘don’t fuck with me’ on the front.

Not that I heed the warning. I’ve never been good at taking directions.

The scrap of pink cotton comes down to her hips, and she’s not wearing pajama bottoms. It makes me wonder whether she’s even wearing panties.

Of course that’s a stupid thought to have, packed in a house full of people. But that doesn’t stop me thinking it. Doesn’t stop me wanting to lift the material to see what color they are.

“Morning, Hells.” The hot liquid scalds the back of my throat when I take a sip. I’m not supposed to stare at her, and I’m definitely not supposed to consider stepping inside and kicking the door shut.

“Shit.” She whips around to glare at me. “This is becoming a habit for you isn’t it? You can’t just let yourself in here. Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”

“You left the door wide open.”

“Get out,” she orders, staring pointedly at me. “And close the door.”

She’s fucking cute in the morning. I’ve seen it before a time or two, or six. Hell, she’s practically living at Tom’s, though I know she has her own place to go to. And there was the two years before I joined the marines where she spent every weekend at our house. Back then I’d struggled to breathe around her, and after the night in the barn being around her had become the highlight of my day, just so I could make her as uncomfortable as I was.

I feel like we’re right back where we started.

Then she tucks a lock of hair back from her face and it causes her T-shirt to ride up until I can see a sliver of her panties.
Fuck
.

Red. Fucking. Panties.

If I thought she was going to be the death of me before…

I know it now.

That scrap of red lace is like waving a flag in front of a bull. A fucking horny bull who wants to ram that bit of red cloth in a big bad way.

“You have got to be kidding me.” I groan. My cock feels ready to explode, and I have half a mind to worry that might actually be possible, despite the hilarity of her underwear choice. “Every damn time.”

“What?”

The first time I saw her panties they’d been this tiny scrap of red. Scarlet on otherwise pale skin. Her spread out on the hay bales beneath me is vivid as fuck right now, though I swore to myself not ten minutes ago that I’d put her out of my head. That I’m not the kind of guy to get hung up on a girl.

But hey, apparently I’m a sucker for punishment. “What color panties were you wearing the night we got married?”

“How the heck should I know? I was drunk and it was years ago.”

“I bet they were fucking red.” I want to run my finger along the edge of those damn silky panties where the lace-edged elastic clings to her legs. I’m striding toward her before I even realize it, setting my cup down on the edge of the sink so I can do exactly that. “You know how much that gets to me, Hells.”

“Oh.” Her gaze travels down my body before she flicks it up to my face. I’m suddenly very aware of how close I am to her. And of how obvious my erection is in the thin running shorts I’m wearing, while we stand here with the door to the bathroom wide open.

Where any one of my siblings could walk past. I’m not sure I want to explain to them what I’m doing when I don’t even know myself. This would be a pretty heavy secret to drop after all these years.

“Pants,” I mumble, trying really fucking hard to fight the almost magnetic need to look down at her bare legs. To glance down and get another peek at her red panties.

“Pants?” Two little lines form between her eyebrows, her voice lilting.

“Wear clothes.” I swear to God, I’ve lost the ability to string together a coherent sentence.
You, Me, Fuck. Now.
I have to clamp my fists to my side to keep from touching her when all I can think about is grabbing her wrists, pinning her hands above her head against the tiled wall, and plunging my cock into her. “When you’re sleeping in Tommy’s bed. Wear pants.”

“It’s not…” She puts a finger to my chest, the pad of it touching me. Her gaze settles there for a second, and she bites her lip. It’s almost as though she enjoys my discomposure. When she looks back at me, her pupils are so big, I get the distinct impression she gets a thrill from her power over me. “I mean, you can’t demand…”

“Please.” I grunt. “For my sanity.”

“Oh. I…” She darts her tongue over her bottom lip. “I slept in Claire’s room. With her.”

“Good.” I barely manage to speak English. I don’t know if she understands my grunts and growls. This caveman state she’s brought me to where the desire to throw her over my shoulder, carry her across the hallway to my bed, and fuck her into tomorrow is short circuiting my brain.

It’s because I’m reactive. I can’t keep things in check the way I used to. I need to leave the bathroom. That’s what I’m thinking as I tentatively reach out to feel her silky hair between my thumb and finger. I’m going to walk out of here and let her be.

Only once I touch her it’s like I can’t let go. I slide my hand to cup the back of her neck, my fingers threaded through her hair at the nape.

“Mace?” She gulps, drawing in a breath, and I want to chase that oxygen, like it belongs to me, like she stole it from my lungs, and I have to get it back.

“Ask me,” I rumble, knowing she’s as aroused as I am right now. I bet if I slid my hand between her thighs I’d find her wet. But I don’t dare, because the door’s still open, and if I did I don’t think I’d care while I ripped those panties away and sunk into her.

“Ask you?” She shifts closer, or maybe it’s my hand in her hair that brings her flush to me.

I need her to tell me she wants this as much as I do. I need her to say the words. Because I don’t just want to fuck her brains out the way we’ve done when we could blame it on drunkenness or stupidity. It has to be as obvious to her as it is to me that there’s no coming back if we do this. I don’t think I’m prepared for her to hate me again.

And she would. I’d make sure of it. I don’t know any other way to keep her distant.

Chelsea

“Yes. Ask me.” His cheek is pressed to mine, his mouth to my ear while his fingers caress the back of my neck. I can barely think straight. “Say the word, Hells, and I swear I’ll push you up against the wall right here and make you cum on my cock. And I’ll keep doing it. Over and over. Ask me, and I’ll have you crying out my name so loud it’ll wake the entire house.”

Holy shit! I’m in trouble now.

And all I can think is he isn’t telling me to ask him to fuck me. That would be too easy. But we’ve done this. We’ve been here before. We’ve bought the ticket and seen the show. It doesn’t end much better than Romeo and Juliet, except no one dies.

“No,” I breathe, the word getting caught in my throat. “I’m not going to ask you for anything. I don’t want…”

Don’t I?

Standing here, right up against him, his huge-as-fuck erection pressing against my hip is making it hard to think straight. It’s almost impossible to remember why I don’t want this when every cell in my body appears hard-wired to do the opposite of what it should.

“I think you do. I think the words are on the tip of your tongue, begging to be said.”

“No,” I repeat, this time a little louder. It’s what I should say. What I need to say. If I repeat it enough it’ll sink in, won’t it?

For a minute he doesn’t seem to register what I’m telling him. Then his gaze goes steely, and he jerks his hand away and stalks to the door. He hesitates there, one hand gripping the white trim. “Do you know what you’re doing to me?”