Driven By Fate (11 page)

She moved about the kitchen using the same grace with which she drove her cab—efficient and yet somehow with great enjoyment. When she’d told him about cooking for her uncle and his friends, he’d pictured her slaving away like some painfully sexy version of Cinderella. He could see now that he’d been wrong. She loved this, doing for others. A piece of her heart resided in that kitchen, another in the cab. Who would claim the rest? A decent man with a blue collar and a respectable bank account who would take her out once a month on
date night
. That was her dream. What was
he
doing here?

He accepted the mug of coffee she handed him, inhaling the interlacing scent of whiskey and crushed berries, courtesy of Francesca standing so close. Rain started to beat on the roof, although he had no idea when a storm had gathered, hadn’t been aware of anything but her. They hadn’t bothered turning on a light upon entering the kitchen and now the space grew even dimmer, a product of the dark clouds outside. He had to concentrate on not reaching for her, pulling her down onto his lap.

“You want to come upstairs?” The sound of rain nearly swallowed the husky question. “I’m going to take a shower.” She ran a finger over the blood on his chest. “How did you shower with this? You smell too clean to have gone without.”

“I put my hand over it.” He demonstrated, very aware of the organ beating double-time beneath his palm. “Like this.”

“Oh.”

Porter stood, trying not to crowd her, but it was goddamn hard. His instincts were to overwhelm her senses. To trap. Make demands, not requests. Soon. “I’d…like to come upstairs.”

“You’re going to snoop through my room while I’m in the shower, aren’t you?”

“I’m going to make every attempt not to.”

A smile played around the edges of her mouth. “Liar.”

Porter watched her bottom lift and sway as they ascended the stairs. She was dressed like a bloody ragamuffin in the dirty white tank top she’d worn beneath the hockey jersey. Argyle socks with a hole in the big toe. What he wouldn’t give to see her in a dress. Immediately, he snatched the wish back. If she started wearing dresses, he’d have a wealth of other concerns on his plate, concerns that were only his for a limited time, until he left. Then he’d be across the ocean without a clue as to what she’d worn on any day or who saw her in it.

Hoping to distract himself, he focused on the pictures lining the hallway. Francesca was in most of them—younger versions of her with missing teeth, a more recent one of her leaning against a cab, arms crossed, while a man, presumably her uncle, ruffled her hair. Possessiveness tore at him just seeing it.
Mine. Don’t touch what’s mine.

He found her watching him from the top step. “I’ve never had a boy in my room before.”

“You’re not getting a sodding boy, Francesca. You’re getting a man.”

She wet her lips as he reached her, neck craning to look up at him. “Yes, I know.”

“Would you like to know my plan if you let me into your good books again?”

A momentary hesitation. “Yes.”

Triumph growled in his throat. He backed her across the small landing until her body met the wall, just beside a partially open door. Holding her gaze, he placed his palms flat on the wall above her head. “I’m going to work my lust out on your body. I’m going to bend you, spread you, and treat you like a plaything. Are we clear? I need anyone who walks in this door for the next hundred years to feel my presence. To know I was here, coming hard and deep between your legs. Inside the lady of the house.” When she drooped, he used his body to hold her up. “I had you bare-assed and bent over for me to fuck. I’ve not recovered from the sight. But I made a grave error. So you can walk around in nothing but panties all night and I won’t make a damn move. Not until you allow it. Please appreciate how hard it is for a man like me to relinquish that much power. I assure you, I’ve never done it for anyone in this lifetime.”

“Really? Not until I say…” Francesca murmured. She bowed her head and he could feel that silver gaze on his tented pants. His cock swelled further in response. “How strong is your willpower, my lord?”

“Weak as hell where you’re concerned, but the alternative of losing you is worse.”

Surprise gave way to the mischievous look that entered her eye. “You know, you’ve just given me a green light to make you suffer. I might never get this chance again.”

“I’ve been suffering since you walked into my room at Serve.”

She shook her head and a lock of dark hair got caught on her mouth. “But we’ve…
you know
. Twice.”

“And yet.”

A beat passed wherein she seemed to take his measure. “Well. I can’t let this chance go uncelebrated.” Giving him a seductive look, she peeled her tank top over her head, letting it drop on the ground. Jesus, her nipples were hard points, surrounded by golden skin. Perky, sweet. His. “I’ll be in the shower. Make yourself comfortable.”

His jaw clenched as she ducked beneath his arm and sauntered toward the bathroom. “I don’t like knowing you weren’t wearing a bra around all those boys, Francesca.”

She paused on the threshold to the bathroom. “Exactly. Just boys.”

Porter considered following her, watching her shower while he stroked his edge off. But no. He’d let her play this game. It seemed to make her happy. Perhaps it would even justify her forgiving him. And God above knew one thing for certain. For every second of torture she inflicted on him, he would give it back tenfold—in a far more pleasurable manner.

Furthermore, no one ever said he couldn’t speed up the process.

He unbuttoned his shirt and stripped it off. Correctly guessing which door led to Francesca’s bedroom, he went to wait for her with a smile on his face.

Chapter Thirteen

Frankie wrapped a towel around her body and left the bathroom, only to stop short when she saw Porter’s dress shirt hanging on the doorknob of her bedroom. She should have known his handing over the reins was too good to be true. Before she even pushed the door open, she somehow sensed she’d find him shirtless and sprawled on her twin bed. And yup…there he lay in all his sexy, sex panther glory. Oh lord. His hands were propped beneath his head, flexing the grapefruit-sized biceps in his arms, highlighting the ridges of his stomach, the impossible-to-ignore bulge in his pants.

“A twin bed, Francesca?” He propped himself up on one elbow and grinned, like some kind of Playgirl centerfold. “You’re an adult.”

The way he said
ah
-dult shouldn’t have made him hotter, but it did. Still, this was
her
show. She hadn’t taken a razor to every inch of her body only to give in before the steam even cleared in the bathroom. Although she suspected that’s exactly what he wanted. So if that was how he wanted to play it, she’d break out the big guns.

She turned her back on him to root through her dresser drawer, spying the short, white nightgown immediately. “It’s a tight squeeze, but you seem to fit just fine,” she purred. And let the towel drop. The bed creaked behind her. She cast a look over her shoulder to find him sitting up, hands digging into the edge of the bed. A single word from her and he would pounce. She wanted that. Needed it. But she wouldn’t call off the stalemate just yet for two reasons. One, he deserved to suffer a little. Two, she wanted to take this opportunity to learn more about him. This mysterious Brit who’d charged into her life and commandeered it.

Feeling his gaze warm every inch of her skin, she drew the thin nightgown over her still-damp body and turned, memorizing his look of appreciation, his desire for the body beneath. She’d purchased the garment one afternoon while taking a lunch break next door to a Victoria’s Secret. It had remained stuffed in the back of her drawer for months until one night when she’d needed to feel feminine. Sexy. Even if it was just for herself.

“You make me ache.”

Her nipples beaded in response to his abrasive tone. “The ache is mutual.”

He crooked his finger at her with one hand, gripped his erection with the other. “Come over here. Let me fill you right up. I’ll even let you rock nice and slow the first time.”

Warmth gathered between her legs. “What about the second time?”

“Ah, I think you know.” He unbuttoned his pants and drew down the zipper. “Don’t worry about that now, though. Come see how easy I’ll let you ride it. Dangle those legs on either side of me, give them room to shake as much as they want.” A growl rippled from his throat. “You’ll wail and complain in my ear.
Please, my lord. Please. More.
So I’ll make you bounce a little, maybe press down on your ass so I can hit your clit just right.
Mmmm
. Give you what that body needs. Don’t you want that?”

Frankie’s entire being was engulfed in flames. Her pulse had grown erratic, her breathing choppy. She could feel slick moisture coating her most sensitive flesh. If she weren’t full of the stubbornness that ran in her family, she would be across the room and impaled on his lap in seconds. But she
did
have the gene, and it kept her out of reach as she circled the bed. He’d taken away her pride in that room at Serve. This is how she would get it back.

A thunderclap illuminated the dim bedroom, making his expression dangerous. Then the light receded and he’d gone back to normal. If normal meant wickedly aroused.
Focus, girl.
This was her chance to find out more about him, his past, without the imminent threat of him pouncing and overwhelming her.

“So now you know how I came by the scars on my knees.” She trailed a single finger over the bottom rail of her bed. “How did you get the ones on your chest?”

“Shrapnel. Flying debris.” His jaw flexed, gaze focused on her finger. “I can’t tell you the particulars, but suffice it to say I was on a security job. The man I’d been charged to protect had become a target. The accomplice planted the bomb with the intent to take him out. It didn’t.”

His precisely delivered explanation made something hard stick in her throat. How close had he come to being a victim? Why was she so scared? It was over. Done. For now. “Will you be in those situations again when you leave New York?”

He searched her eyes. “It’s likely, yes.”

“Don’t be such an optimist,” she joked, even though she felt like shouting, or bashing him with a pillow. What if he didn’t get so lucky next time? And why did it matter so much to her? She’d never see him again once this ended or he left, whichever came first. “It’s too bad antique dealing isn’t exciting enough for you. You’re not half bad at it.”

His lips twitched. “You know this from spending exactly one day in my office?”

She lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “I might have taken a peek at the files while you were pretending to ignore me.”

“Picked up on that, did you?” His voice was dry. Apparently realizing his attempt at seducing her into bed had failed for now, he let out his trademark long-suffering sigh. “I don’t hate the antique business, but it’s a bloody boring affair. Men getting their knickers twisted over blasted armoires and serving trays. Most of the time they end up stuffing their acquisition into a dark room and locking the door until they want to sell it again.”

“In other words, at least being blown up is
exciting
.” She heard the sarcasm in her tone and shut it down. “Also, I think that’s the longest I’ve ever heard you talk without saying something filthy.”

“Come closer.” His gaze heated, scorching her skin. “Let me remedy that.”

Just a little longer
. “So you don’t mind the business, it’s the people that ruin it?”

“Usually. They’re very different from your customers.”

“You know this from spending exactly one day in my cab?” she said, returning his earlier words in a teasing British accent.

He fought a grin and won. “Not everyone is so lucky to be passionate about their job. Not like you.” His expression grew thoughtful, but lost none of its intensity. “Now that you have your business plan, what’s the next step?”

She ran her palms down the front of the nightgown, pausing when his eyes darkened. “Um. Friday afternoon, I have my final presentation in the Business Management program. After that, I was planning on pitching the idea to my uncle and his friends. Making us all equal partners.” An image of her uncle hunched over the kitchen table swam through her mind. “But I’m not sure now is the right time.”

“Sure it is.” His eyebrows drew together as he sat forward. “Has something changed?”

Thunder boomed outside her window, shaking the glass pane. “Yes.” Not for the first time, she marveled over her propensity to be honest with him. “I just found out my uncle hasn’t been working. The doctor says he’s dealing with pretty severe Carpal Tunnel Syndrome.” She swallowed. “Most of the start-up capital I had saved is going toward the mortgage and bills.”

“Francesca.” The warning in his voice made her shiver. “You will tell me what you need.”

“Oh no. Nuh-uh.” She crossed her arms over her middle. “You’re already paying me a ridiculous amount to work for you. I’m not taking donations on top of it.”

God, he was even handsome while looking insulted. “You’ll take money from your uncle’s friends, but not me?”

“They would be coming on as investors. There’s a difference.”

“So make me a goddamn investor.” He reclined just enough to yank the wallet from his pocket. “How much will it cost me to own a percentage of Frankie’s Fleet?”

Every cell in her screeched to a halt. “What did you call it?” she whispered. “Frankie’s—”

“Fleet.” He suddenly refused to look at her, riffling through his wallet instead. “That’s what I’ve been calling it in my head. As you well know, I prefer Francesca, but Francesca’s Fleet doesn’t have the same ring.”

A laugh bubbled from her throat before she could stop it. Her hands slapped over her mouth anyway, pressing, unable to think of any other way to contain the joy. It didn’t work, though. The delight of finally having a name—a
perfect
name—for her dream was too much to withstand. Without giving herself time to think, she planted a knee on the end of the bed. And launched herself right at Porter.

She only caught a glimpse of his surprised look before he caught her against his chest, holding her close. They went crashing backward onto the pillows where she wasted no time planting kisses all over his face. “It’s perfect. Perfect. I have notebooks full of names and none were right.”
Kiss, kiss, kiss.
“Thank you.
Thank
you.”

He leaned into every touch of her mouth, but frowned as he did so. “This is highly irregular, Francesca.”

“Just go with it, monocle man.”

The smooth planes of his muscle, his hot skin, felt like a forbidden luxury beneath her. How had this mysterious, commanding, criminally sexual male ended up in her tiny twin bed? She felt rough hands trail down her back, over her bottom, to separate her thighs. Position them on either side of his waist. When his arousal found sanctuary between her thighs, he tilted his head back on an uneven groan. “Just so we’re clear…is this your green light?”

“Mmm.” She rocked her hips, felt his chest vibrate beneath her. “Maybe.”

He blasted her with a dark look. “Is this what you would have done—
before me
—if you’d brought a boy to this room? You’d have tortured him, is that right?”

Frankie smiled against his mouth. “This isn’t torture. Not intentional, anyway. We’re just making out.”

“I do
not
make out, Francesca.”

Feeling brave, despite the threat in his tone, she sat up and squeezed her breasts through the thin material of the nightgown. His erection pushed up between her legs and she could only obey the irresistible impulse to drag herself up and down the thick ridge. “Feels so
good
.”

The chords in his neck stood out, his hands grasped at the hem of her nightgown, pulling it taut over her ready body. “Jesus
Christ
. This is more than I can stand.”

She planted her hands on either side of his head, placed a gentle kiss on his mouth. “I’m yours, my lord. How can I please you tonight?”

…

Porter’s will had already been roaring under the surface, but with her words of permission, it tore through his skin and dragged him under. He flipped Francesca onto her stomach, wrenched the nightgown over her hips and cracked his palm against her backside. Then again.
Again
. It eased only a small amount of pressure in his chest, his abdomen, his head, though. There was more here. It wasn’t enough to punish—he needed to claim. Take this rising tide inside him and release it into her. Force her to meet him somewhere in the middle, take some of the weight she’d inflicted him with. Before he could connect his hand with her reddening bottom a fourth time, he stopped himself. Was he punishing her for making him feel? If so, was it wrong? Was
anything
between them wrong?

No. He’d shown her his worst and she was still there.
Still here.

The freedom of that realization smoked in his veins like an inferno. His will sewed his skin back together stronger than before, like armor. Armor only she knew how to breach. He wanted to take her further, make her irrevocably his. Never hurt her. Never hurt her again. These feelings attacking from all sides wouldn’t prevent him from staying attuned to her. He made that vow to himself, even as his body screamed for relief. Satisfaction.

He wrapped her hair in a tight fist, tilting her head back. “Get on your knees in that virginal nightgown. I’m about to make a mockery of it.”

“Yes, my lord,” she breathed, eyes glazed as they looked back at him.

As she slipped off the edge of the bed and knelt, Porter fisted his cock, growling at the aching heaviness in his balls. He held his breath, removing his full length from the constriction of his pants. The pulsing in his fist only increased at her wide-eyed eagerness. She wet her lips over and over, hands clenching the white garment where it covered her knees.

“This is the state you’ve teased me into, Francesca.” He took hold of her chin, drew her close until her mouth was an inch away from the plump head of his cock. “Maybe I should stroke off while you watch from your knees, not allowed to touch. Show you what happens to girls in white nightgowns who fuck their man through his clothes. I’m so hard and full that I’m leaking, you beautiful brat.”

“Please.” Her tongue licked out, lapped at the source of his misery. “I need you in my mouth so bad. I think about it all the time.”

That single touch, her imploring tone, caused the live grenade in his stomach to explode. He guided himself to her mouth and slid into devastating warmth. Her moan sent pinpricks of pleasure dancing along the underside of his cock. He knew evidence of his desperation leaked from the tip, had no way to hold it all back, but she drew on him hungrily. Leaning back on the bed, he could only watch through a bank of lust as she slicked every inch of his erection with her tongue, before inching her lips past the head. Ah fuck, Francesca kneeling in an innocent nightgown, damp hair spread over her shoulders, was almost enough to finish him.