Seth (Damage Control #3) (13 page)

She’s leaving. I know it. I see it. Of course she is.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say, and I don’t think I can even walk to the bed, the last of my energy zapped. I walk around the sofa and sink in it, plonk my keys and wallet on the scratched coffee table. Maybe I’ll sleep here tonight. Or try to, at least. “You should go back to your friends. Your boyfriend must be looking for you.”

“Nah, I doubt that.”

I look up, narrow my eyes. “Didn’t you leave him at the party?”

“No, he went off to meet his friends.”

“And he didn’t invite you along?”

“He did. I didn’t want to join him.”

She’s still standing at the open door, as if undecided what to do.

“Is everything okay between you two?”

Yeah, I can’t stop myself from asking. It’s like scratching at scabs, opening the wound. Letting the blood flow.

Strangely, my question seems to make up her mind, and she steps all the way inside. Closing the door with a soft click, she approaches me, her steps small, her hips swaying lightly. I watch her, hypnotized, breath caught, as she makes her way to me and sits down beside me.

“Mind if I ask you something?” she whispers.

I lick my dry lips. “Anything.”

Jesus, Seffers.

“It’s only a question.” Her small hands twist in her lap and she bites her lip. “I just don’t know who else to ask.”

I swallow, my throat closing up. “Shoot. Aim for the heart. It’s quicker that way.”

She sends me a quick smile and relaxes against the cushions, her hands smoothing out on her legs. She’s wearing a dress again, old-fashioned and classy like last time. I don’t think many chicks could pull this look off and not look ridiculous.

In her black heels and that flared skirt framing her long legs, the cleavage dipping just enough to show me the pale swell of her tits, she looks hot. Sexy as all hell.

Fuck.
Curling my hands into fists, I rest them casually on top of my crotch and hope she won’t notice how hard I am for her.

She hasn’t asked anything yet. Her gaze flicks to the door and back.

I reach over, take her hand. “You can ask me whatever you want. I won’t laugh. I promise.”

She nods jerkily and squeezes my fingers. “Thank you. Do you…” She struggles with it. “If things were different,” she starts again, “between us, if we weren’t just friends… would you have kissed me if I asked you to?”

My mind blanks out at the thought of kissing her, running my tongue over those soft lips, thrusting my tongue into that hot mouth as I touch her all over, as I make her moan in pleasure.

Then I realize what she’s really saying, why she’s here and not with her boyfriend. Why she looks sad.

“Oh God, I’m sorry,” she blurts before I fully connect the dots, pulls her hand free and gets up. “This is so stupid. I should never have asked you that. I should be going.”

“Whoa, wait!” I stand up so fast my knee buckles before I straighten, but I manage to grab her wrist and pull her back down with me. She cries out but I cushion her fall, and we’re back where we were two seconds ago.

Only not quite.

“Bastard hasn’t kissed you? Why the fuck not?”

“He’s not…” She scrambles off me, curls up at the other end of the sofa. She looks tiny like that—a porcelain doll, fragile and beautiful. “Fred is a good guy. He’s trying to protect me.”

“From what?”

“My own inexperience. Wants to take it slow.”

“I’d have kissed you,” I say. “Fuck slow. I’d have kissed you fast and hard.”

Her eyes are fixed on me, wide. I love it when she blushes, and the color rising to her cheeks right now is deep. “You would?”

“Fuck yeah.”

I’m so hard it hurts, and she’s asking me if I’d kiss her? I’d eat up her mouth, then move down to her tits, her belly, her pussy. I’d kiss her everywhere, and then I’d fuck her—slow and then hard. So hard she forgot about the asshole who’s dating her.

“I’m a terrible kisser,” she whispers.

The hell?
“Says who?”

She shakes her head and a dark curl escapes the hair-tie, stark and shiny like bronze against the white of her cheek. “I just never dated much, you know? Dance took up all of my time. I only went out with a guy in France, but we rarely kissed.”

Hot jealousy flares inside my head at the thought of anyone but me kissing her—the mysterious guy in France who convinced her she doesn’t know how to kiss, the asshole boyfriend here who won’t kiss her.

“Fuck them,” I mutter. “I bet you’re an amazing kisser. Don’t let any guy make you feel you’re not worth it, or too fragile to handle.”

She’s still looking at me all wide-eyed and shit, and I scrub a hand over my face.

Fuck this.
What am I doing—keeping her from going, talking about her kissing other guys? Next I’ll offer a shoulder to cry on and watch chick movies with her. Help her fix her relationship with another man, when I want her for myself.

“Listen, I’m gonna hit the shower and then the sack. I’m beat.” And pissed at myself, and hanging onto my sanity by a thread, but who the fuck cares about that, right? Hanging onto self-control with all I have.

“Okay.” Her voice is small. She doesn’t move, though. I expected her to grab the chance to go. “Do you need help with anything?”

“Nah, I’m good. Thanks.” God, she’s sweet. She shouldn’t. Can’t take her kindness. It reminds me of all I’ve ever wished for and never had. “Unless you wanna stay and watch crappy TV with me, maybe you should go and…” I wave a hand as I push myself upright, this time slow and careful, making sure my knee holds. “Do something more fun.”

“Okay,” she says again, turning her face away, and Christ, is she about to cry? Did I upset her again? I seem to be doing this a lot lately.

“Manon…”
Dammit.
I look around for my walking stick, then remember I left it at Damage, lost somewhere. Like my brain. “What did I say?”

“Nothing.” She doesn’t look at me. “I’ll show myself out.”

What the fuck.
I honestly don’t get chicks sometimes. Not that I’ve had much experience with them anyway—except for fucking quick and dirty, but that hardly counts as interaction. The girls of the Brotherhood are nice, but I don’t see them all so often.

And even if I did, this… thing between me and Manon beats me. Are we buddies now? Should we shoot pool together and have beers? What is it about her that draws my gaze and tangles up my fucking thoughts? And let’s not talk about my constant hard-on when she’s near.

Man, trying to convince myself I can do this, stop wanting her, stop needing her, is an uphill battle, and I’m not sure I can win.

So I nod, turn around and leave the room.

Manon

The moment he’s out of the room, I bury my face in my hands. Stupid to feel so down because Fred wouldn’t kiss me, but it has been a sucky week. I’ve a right to feel low, right? I feel… confused. Sad.

Torn.

I don’t want to leave. Hard to deny my heart beats faster every time I’m near Seth.

Why do I like how strong he is, so much stronger than Fred? I shouldn’t be comparing them. Shouldn’t be thinking that Fred’s shoulders suddenly seem too narrow, his jaw too slender, that he seems too soft compared to the toughness radiating off Seth.

I shouldn’t wonder how Seth kisses, if sweet and slow, or hard and demanding. If he’d have kissed me, pushed me against the wall and held me there, pressed his body to mine if he’d been the one with me at the party.

Doesn’t matter. He wasn’t.

He’s not the one I want. I’m not picturing him in the shower, naked and—

No, I’m not.

Clenching my hands, I get up. I want Fred. I like the fact he’s slender and sweet, that I’m not afraid of him overpowering me, taking me against my will. That he’s so sensitive and careful. The confusion will clear when I’m out of here, far from Seth.

Can’t see my purse. I turn in a circle and spot it on the floor under the low table. I squat down to grab it and notice a crumbled piece of paper. I lift it, straighten it out on the table for Seth to find later.

It’s a photo, and the sight of it stops me as I prepare to stand up and go. The ink has faded to brown and yellow. It’s old and spent a long time folded, the creases so deep they’re about to tear open.

It’s the photo of two women and two boys. The women look like sisters, light-skinned and fair, and the boys look like brothers—dark hair and dark, exotic eyes. I’m pretty sure I know who they are. I smooth my fingertip over a small, smiling face, over familiar broad cheekbones and thick-lashed eyes.

A mother he’d thought dead for—how long? I wonder. How long was she missing? And what happened to him while she was gone? It’s hard to smooth out the wrinkles in the paper. The anger that made him crumble up something he’d obviously kept for a long time, a kind of talisman, a memory, makes my eyes sting.

Before I know it, I’m on my feet and looking for him. Can’t hear the shower running yet. I step into a tiny hallway. The bathroom door is open, and I halt before he sees me, my breath hitching.

Whoa.

He’s standing at the sink, a hand on his chest between his hard pecs, head bowed, dark hair hiding his eyes. But God, his back… Broad and muscular, covered in intricate ink—snakes, feathers, ladders, claws, demons—and matching ink on his chest, reflected in the mirror, spreading down his pecs, stretching over his padded shoulders.

A snake, mouth open, fangs dripping. I know this tattoo. It’s the photo I saw hanging inside Damage Control.

He’s so frigging hot my body ignites, my blood burns, thumping heavily in the base of my throat, deep inside my belly, between my legs.

Jesus.
This can’t be happening. I should go.

He lifts his head, and our gazes meet in the mirror. I’m caught, unable to move, helplessly looking on as his eyes darken to black. His hand, still pressed against his chest, curls into a tight fist. His mouth is beautiful, wide and full, his jaw dark with stubble. I want to touch it, run my fingers against it, let it scrape my skin.

He turns around before I run and this close up, with his chest bared, his ink revealed, I’m rapidly forgetting my reasons for needing to go. His beauty hits me full-force—extraordinary, fierce, striking.

Crap, crap, crap.

“You should go, Manon,” he whispers, and I swallow hard, hurt.

“Okay.”

“You should go now, before I decide to teach you how to kiss. How a boyfriend should treat you.”

His words go through me like lightning. Suddenly I’m hot all over.

Not sure I can speak, I lift my hands, place them on his bare skin. His flesh is warm, hot and smooth, his muscles firm, his heart beating fast under my palms. His musk rises around me, and he puts his hands on either side of me, trapping me against the wall.

Oh God.
The contact is scorching—just the press of his muscled body to mine, even though I am fully dressed, and he isn’t touching any part of me. His hands are flat on the wall, his mouth so close his breath feathers over mine, warm, smelling of mint. His lashes are lowered, his gaze intent.

He doesn’t move or speak. He’s made his move, though I’m not sure what it means.

He’s waiting for me to make mine.

I lick my lips, and his eyes zero in on my mouth. He exhales, his chest rising and falling under my hands. The muscles in his taut abdomen contract deliciously.

“I want…” My voice cracks, and I start again. “I want you to show me. Teach me how to kiss.”

A shadow passes over his handsome face, and his dark brows draw together over his eyes. His slightly crooked nose and a whitish scar on his jaw give him a rakish air, dangerous and wild—but his mouth looks soft.

I hope what I’m asking for is clear, despite the fuzziness in my head and the ache of need in my body. I’m doing this so I can convince Fred I’m not some inexperienced chick, that I have been kissed and know my way about a man’s mouth and body.

And God, what a body.

“Oh, I will,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “I will teach you. Are you ready?”

I think I am, and I start to nod—when he grips my chin and crushes his mouth to mine.

Boy I was wrong. Never felt anything like it, I think, dazed, as he parts my lips with his tongue and thrusts inside my mouth, a delicious friction. He tastes of mint and something dark and rich like a rare brandy, driving me drunk and dizzy.

I slide my hands up his hard pecs, and he groans in my mouth, pressing up against me, his grip on my chin so tight it hurts. His chest molds to mine, crushing my breasts on his harsh planes, and something long and thick digs into my hip.

No time to process all this, though, because he moves again, changing the angle of the kiss, delving deeper, his hand slipping round to the back of my head, his strong body shifting so that his thigh is now between my legs—pressing, making me see stars.

Feels so good alarms go off inside my head.

What am I doing?
I push on his chest—to no effect. It’s like pushing on a brick wall.

Something does happen, though. He draws back, breaking the kiss, breathing hard. “You okay?”

He licks his lips, and God help me, that’s so sexy I can’t help myself. My turn to kiss him, and he makes a small, startled sound before he surrenders to it, keeping still as I explore his mouth with my tongue, licking into it, mimicking what he did to me a moment ago.

The sensation of his lips, his tongue, his stubble scratching my face, all that strength in his body, kept in check as he lets me have my way with him, it’s burning me alive. Can’t remember ever needing… needing release so much. I’m teetering on a brink, my pussy clenching, the pressure rising, sparks shooting up my belly.

Oh God, so this is what it’s really like, I think, before he moans in my mouth, trembling, his thigh presses harder between my legs, and I come undone. I try to break the kiss, but he keeps our mouths fused, swallowing my cries as pleasure tears through my body, shattering me.

He finally breaks the kiss and stares down at me, panting, a flush on his cheeks. He’s diamond hard where he’s pressed to me, the heat of his erection leaking through his jeans and my dress to mark my skin.