Destiny's Chance (6 page)

Be careful, she told herself. You don’t want to end up with a red ass! The odds of Chance seeing her naked were slim, but she couldn’t discount the possibility. Not to mention what her doctor’s reaction would be on her follow-up medical visit. How would she explain that?
No, I wasn’t beaten. I spanked myself. Doesn’t everybody?

Feeling like Goldilocks trying out implements to find the one that was just right, she grabbed the tawse. She whacked her pink cheek. “Ooh!” Again. The tails of the tawse separated to strike in two places, imparting a sensation halfway between a
thud
and a sting. Her clit took notice with a little pulse. She snapped it against the other cheek. Nice, but she preferred the sensation of the tawse on the cheek that had already been warmed by the paddle.

She tried the flogger next, shivering at how it kissed her thigh.
Sweet
. A snap against her ass.
Oh baby
. The sensation caused her pussy to moisten, and she was considering flicking her sex with the flogger when she heard the low grinding noise of the garage door raising.

Crap! She yanked on her bottoms, tossed the implements into the chest, slammed the lid, and shoved the box into the closet. She unlocked the door, switched off the light, and jumped into bed. Ass tingling, heart hammering, she feigned sleep.

She thought she heard Zoe laugh.

Chapter Seven

Silence met him when Chance entered the kitchen where a single light burned. Talking with Roman had done little to alleviate his confusion, worsened it by highlighting the multitude of differences he’d noticed in Zoe. He opened the refrigerator and stared at the leftovers. She could cook like a dream, so why hadn’t she done it before? Why fake ignorance, incompetence?

He shut the door and downed a glass of water, then switched off the light and strode to the bedroom. Drawn blinds covered the bedroom windows, but moonlight spilled in through the rounder above to spotlight the bed and cast the room in twilight rather than darkness. Her back to him, Zoe formed a slight speed bump on
his
side. He stripped to his boxers and slid between the sheets.

Tree branches rustled against the house like whispering ghosts. Shape-shifting shadows skittered across the ceiling, assumed form as fire-breathing dragons while the woman beside him wafted an incongruous gentle melody of warmth and scent. Disturbingly pleasant. The hairs on his forearm next to her tingled. She surprised him at every turn, yet there was the oddest familiarity about the change in her—like running into someone you recognized at the last place you would expect to see him.

He inhaled. “Are you awake?” he whispered.

Only the sound of her breathing met his question. He exhaled with relief. Not disappointment. Relief.

“Yes.”

He jumped at the soft sound of her voice. On the ceiling, dragons leaped to full alert.

She rolled to face him but said nothing more.

He turned his head on the pillow to peer at her. In the dimness, bruises smudged her cheeks, but her lips looked soft and kissable. “So tell me again when you learned to cook?”

She shrugged. “It just sort of came to me.”

He appraised her, trying to glean truth. “People don’t decide one day they like to cook, and presto, they know how. It has to be learned.” Either she’d been hiding her ability all along, or something was seriously weird. “Can you play the violin?”

“No.” She creased her forehead. “Why?”

“I wonder what other dormant talents you have,” he said.

She puckered her lips and whistled the theme from a movie about prisoners of war forced to build a bridge for the enemy. “What’s that?”

“
The Bridge over the River Kwai
.”

“I recognized the tune. I meant why are you whistling?”

“I’m sharing a hidden talent you. Have you ever known me to whistle?”

Despite his conflicted emotions, he smiled. “No, I haven’t.”

Another tune, this one less jaunty, more flowing, haunting, filled the room. Familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

“What’s that one?” He flipped onto his side toward her.

“‘My Heart Will Go On.’ The theme from
Titanic
.”

“Chick flick.” He dismissed it with a snort.

“The most famous boat-disaster movie ever. Death and destruction. How can that be a chick flick?” Humor glinted in her eyes. Amusement teased the corner of her mouth into a sweet curve.

“All that sappy stuff about love continuing after death? Pure romantic dribble drabble.”

“You don’t think love continues after death?”

“No.” He spoke emphatically to shore up his belief, because he wasn’t 100 percent sure anymore. She rose on an elbow, and the sheet slipped to her waist, revealing a thin top that displayed her breasts and rosy pink nipples. She had the cutest tits. And even cuter ass that blushed so beautifully. The paddle reddened her ass quicker, but he preferred the tawse, loved coloring her ass strip by strip. Desire he’d pronounced dead flared in his belly and lower. This woman had turned him on more in the past week than she had in two months. What had happened to his resolve? She licked her lips, drawing his gaze to her mouth.

She lowered her lashes and drew a figure eight on the satin sheet with her finger. Round and round she traced the invisible shape, then blindsided him with a touch to his jaw, a slide against the ridgeline. Heat burned his skin, made his cock ache.
What the hell are you doing?
He silently swore at her and himself. He should slap her hand away, retreat to the sofa. What happened to his vow of resistance?

She smiled as she explored his chin and cheek, and despite the war raging within, he became entranced by the pleasure revealed in the curve of her lips.

“Your face is rough. Like sandpaper,” she mused.

“I haven’t shaved since yesterday morning.”

“A little beard suits you. It’s sexy.”

She strayed dangerously close to his lips, and he grabbed her hand to halt her progress, but then pressed it against his face. Instantly he regressed to age fifteen, all nerves and hormones, desperately wanting to kiss a girl but fearing rejection.

He found his voice. A thick, hoarse one. “This is a bad idea.” He tugged her toward him, and she slid across the sheets into his arms. Ignoring his bellowing common sense, he lowered his head and slanted his mouth over hers.

She parted her lips and pressed her body against him. He lost himself in the unusual intoxicating sweetness of her mouth. Their tongues danced together, a slow, tentative exploration.
Like kissing her for the first time.

He grabbed her face in his hands, she flinched, and he realized he’d hurt her. He’d forgotten the crash. “Christ. Sorry.”

She twined her legs between his and murmured against his mouth, “S’kay. Just be gentle. I’ve still got a few sore spots.”

“Here?” He brushed his lips over her bruised cheek.

She gave a breathy moan, one of pleasure this time, and nodded.

“How about here?” Chance kissed her eyelids, then trailed his mouth to the uninjured temple and down to her jaw.

“All of that. And here.” She smiled shyly, seductively, and pointed to her ear.

He tugged on the lobe with his lips, and Zoe shivered. “Where else?” he whispered.

“My neck.” She turned her head to the side.

He nuzzled her skin, satin against his lips, softer and smoother than the sheet upon which they lay, and she emitted a noise of enjoyment. The half-muffled sound decimated his resistance. Passions better left cold flashed to boiling. He wanted to take her hard and fast, but, cognizant of her injuries, forced gentleness in his touch. Shaking, he traced her collarbone with his tongue, found the indentation at the base of her throat, and licked it.

They shifted their bodies so she lay flat on her back and he loomed over her.

Zoe curled her fingers into his hair and tugged at his head, guiding him to her breasts. He nuzzled a hard tip through the thinness of her top. She arched her back and pressed her palm against his head. He drew a nipple into his mouth and sucked on it, wetting the material, and then paused to examine the perfection of the hard bud jutting through the transparent cotton. Unable to resist temptation, he moved his head back and forth to rub his lower lip over her nipple while studying her face. He wobbled as his body and a compulsion screamed,
Jump!
while experience and wisdom grappled for a hold to forestall a boneheaded mistake. Sessions like this had contributed to her still living in his condo.

“Please,” she said, her eyes dewy with entreaty, her pink lips parted by arousal. In less noble moments, he had imagined Destiny looking at him that way, and electric energy jolted through him from the base of his skull through his heart into his aching erection. This was a bad idea. So bad.

He jumped anyway.

SHE COULDN’T FIGHT anymore. Not when Chance stretched out so close, so warm. Why walk away with nothing when she could take memories with her of what might have been if fate had been less capricious?

His tongue, his mouth felt like hot, wet suede as he sucked her nipple, the shivery sensations he aroused leaping from neuron to neuron until it reached her tingling clit. She closed her eyes and, still unconvinced he would follow through with what they had started, grabbed handfuls of his hair. The finest of masculine silk poured through her fingers. She groaned. Chance growled and nipped. Warmth flooded her pussy.

She followed the curve of his head and ran her hands over his back and shoulders, kneaded the muscles bulging beneath his skin. His erection found escape through the fly of his boxers, and it pressed thick and rigid against her leg, oozing fluid. She grabbed for that bad boy but could stretch only as far as his waist. She caressed his calf with her foot, enjoying the roughness of his body hair.

Chance slipped his fingers up the leg of her pajama shorts and homed in on her aching center. He strummed her throbbing clit with his thumb and slid a digit into her.

“You’re so wet,” he murmured.

“Umm.” She hummed an agreement. Her need had drenched the crotch of her sleep shorts. She’d been ready for ages, had fantasized about him, eased her loneliness with conjured images, whispered to herself the sweet nothings she yearned to hear him utter.

He pulled off her shorts, and she kicked them away. While he yanked off his boxers, she sat up and tore off the tank bunched under her armpits.

He cupped her neck and caressed her jaw with his thumb. “You’re shaking.”

“I want you so much,” she responded and watched the desire in his gaze skyrocket. He kissed her then, his mouth plundering, and she surrendered everything she had and more, seeking fulfillment in the slide of his soft lips, the caress of his tongue, and the taste of man and a hint of ale.

He closed his hands over her breasts and captured her nipples between the web of his thumb and finger. She could reach him now, and she wrapped her hand around his erection, stroking from its base surrounded by curly dark hair to the satiny crown slickened by fluid. His cock pulsed under her touch. A spot below the cap on the underside beckoned, and when she thumbed it, he growled.

The sound resonated low in her body and unleashed another surge of wetness. As if he’d sensed her response, her needs, he pressed her against the pillows and nestled himself between her legs. A nuzzle, a graze against her clit had her gasping. A tingle of beard, a whisper of lip, and she jerked.

His beautiful, pleasure-inducing mouth hovered so close to her sex, his warm breath brushed over her. “Is this what you want, Zoe?”

“Yes,” she answered on a moan, but before she could stop herself, added, “but don’t call me Zoe.”

He riveted his attention on her face. “What
should
I call you?”

Heartache lanced her. Every moment she spent with him would be stolen from a dead woman. But, if that was the only way she could get him, she’d grab it.

Destiny rolled her head on the pillow. “I don’t feel like her right now.”

“No. You’re different.” He spread open her folds and swiped his tongue over her exposed flesh. “Wet.” Another delicate lash. “Sweet.” His gaze sought hers again. “Soft.”

Her pussy and clit ached, and she thrust her hips upward, needing more contact, more pressure. More. “Don’t torture me.”

“Baffling,” he said, and drew her clit into his mouth and sucked gently.

Destiny whimpered, her nerve endings attacked by pleasure. Without a barrier of hair, nothing came between them but pure sensation: the softness of his mouth, the delicious scrape of his unshaven jaw, and the spiraling tension. Time slid into slow motion like it had in the crash, and once more she fell end over end, only not in terror this time, but in ecstasy.

Chance eased two fingers into her pussy, curled them upward, and everything inside contracted. “Now, now!” she cried.

He scrambled to his knees. His cock jutted out, a perfect length of steel, its crown reddened and slickened. Air caught in her throat. Intensity darkened his eyes, tautened his muscles. How fierce he looked. She shuddered with need as he guided his cock into position. Her slender body resisted at first, then relaxed in surrender to the thrust of his hips. Big. So big. No give to his hardness. She gasped at the stretch, the pressure, as he filled not just her pussy, but the hidden hollow places of her soul. How had she existed without him? How would she live after her time with him ended?