The Redeemer (8 page)

His mind was stunned by her words and the realisation that he was actually touching her naked breasts. It had taken him several seconds to realise that somehow she’d got naked. His head told him to ignore her demands but his jerking cock urged him on. He tentatively began to roll and pinch her nipples gently but she grasped his hands and tried to put pressure on his fingers to squeeze them harder. Much harder. He was reluctant; he didn’t want to hurt her. Little did he know that’s exactly what she desired.

Suddenly she gave a throaty laugh. ‘I know what you’re doing . . . you’re deliberately teasing me. You’re going to try to make me beg you to unleash your magic and make me come over and over and harder and harder. You should know better than that. And think of your cock . . . how much does it want to be inside me? I’ll bet it’s like a rod of iron by now . . . throbbing with the need to fuck me and feel me climaxing around it . . . don’t bother to deny it.’

Dean paused; she was so bold and it wasn’t something he was altogether comfortable with. Before he could do anything, she reached out and thrust her hand inside his boxers, grasping his cock firmly. He moaned into her pussy, making her laugh again. He knew she was mocking him but that deep, seductive sound almost drove him wild. And he was a man. And men don’t like their sexual prowess to be mocked. Indignation bristled up inside him.

He pushed her off, gasping for breath as he sat up and reached out for her in the darkness. He managed to grasp her around her waist and pulled her up on to all fours. He then knelt behind her, tugged down his boxers and thrust his rigid cock into her. Despite her wetness, he felt resistance. She was so tight. So warm. So fucking incredible.

She squealed and protested against his dry cock being driven into her so forcefully, but he got the distinct impression that she actually loved it. In fact, when she immediately began to thrust back her arse to meet him, he knew that he was finally getting something right.

Able to relax at last, Dean began to pound into her. He’d give her a thorough, hard fucking; the fucking of her life. He could feel Isla clamping down hard on his cock and he began to feel his balls tightening. He breathed deeply and tried to think of anything other than the fact that he was fucking the one woman he’d been longing to bed for months. He thought of the drinks order he needed to place the following day . . . that didn’t work. He thought of his narrow escape with Xander earlier and how Isla could be in danger, but the sensation of Isla’s wet pussy squeezing down on his determined cock dominated his mind. In sheer desperation, he pictured his mother and how weak she was after a recent operation and how he’d winced when he’d seen her ugly, jagged scar. He summoned the image of it into his mind in all its garish glory.

But no, it seemed that nothing was going to stop his balls from releasing. He panicked, suddenly realising that he didn’t know about Isla’s birth control arrangements, pulled out and spurted semen all over her back. He felt her tense under his hands, heard her mutter something unintelligible but from the tone, Dean knew it wasn’t complimentary. She flopped on to her front, leaving him kneeling there as his hypersensitive cock began to soften.

‘Fucking useless,’ she muttered into the mattress. Then her muffled voice sounded like it said, ‘Couldn’t satisfy . . . woman . . . life depended on it.’

Her face is in the mattress and she’s completely pissed. And she’s not been herself all night. Even if that’s what she said, it’s because she’s bladdered. She’s probably lost all feeling in her pussy. She can barely function. Yeah, she’s talking complete bollocks.

He refused to acknowledge the little voice in his head that told him she might not be.

He stayed there for a couple of minutes, unsure of how to proceed but then he heard her begin to snore softly so he tiptoed into the living area and flicked on the light.

He located a box of tissues and grabbed a few before creeping back into the bedroom where he gently cleaned Isla up. A quick visit to the bathroom followed and then he slid silently into bed next to her and, when she didn’t stir, pulled the duvet over them. He lay awake for ages, discombobulated by how he’d come only moments before, yet he felt none of the usual euphoria or sleepiness that followed release. The more he thought about it, the more he felt like an imposter. An imposter who’d taken advantage of an inebriated female. Yes, he’d desired her for months and yes, he’d now fucked her but, with some irritation, he began to wish he hadn’t.

He didn’t even have the satisfaction of feeling that he’d performed well. Isla had been wild with need and very vocal about it but all the signs were that he’d disappointed and frustrated her. He hadn’t felt or heard her come. He didn’t like to admit it, but he wasn’t sure that Isla knew who she’d had sex with. It had been pitch dark, he hadn’t spoken at all and she hadn’t called out his or any other name. Those muffled words skirted around the edge of his conscious mind.

Increasingly, Dean felt that he should creep out of the suite and go home. There was a real chance that, when she awoke, things could go downhill fast. At best, there would be embarrassment. At worst . . . well, that didn’t bear thinking about. She was his boss and this was bound to put a strain on their working relationship. He hoped fervently that he hadn’t just erased any chance of something more than a professional relationship with her.

The cowardly optimist in him wanted to go home and hope that she either didn’t remember anything, or if she did, she wouldn’t know her partner’s identity. But the gentlemanly pessimist in him felt shameful for even considering that option and he knew that if she remembered anything, it would be very disrespectful to have left in the middle of the night. He decided to play safe and find a compromise. He slid out of bed, dressed and then crashed on the sofa in the living room. If she remembered, he would be around and would face up to any consequences. If she didn’t, he could give the impression that he’d carried her up to bed and then done the gentlemanly thing and slept on the sofa. He wouldn’t lie about it; he’d just omit certain details. Then he’d deal with his self-righteous conscience quietly.

But those muffled words would not stay out of his mind. No matter how much he told himself that he’d misheard her or that she was so drunk that she didn’t know what she was saying, they kept creeping back in. It was several hours later before he finally managed to sleep.

The sound of a door closing forcefully in the hallway outside stirred Isla into consciousness.

Argh. Oh fuck.

Before she even attempted to open her eyes, she knew she had a splitting headache. And, from the fact that her mouth felt like it was lined with velvet, she knew it was a headache born of alcohol consumption. She attempted to turn over to squint at the alarm clock on her bedside table but any effort to move sent shooting pains through her head.

What day is it? Please let it be the weekend. It must be the weekend; I wouldn’t be this stupid on a school night. Oh hell, I need to pee.
But I can’t move. Oh bladder please help me out . . . I don’t want to piss myself.

She reached out to the side and found the edge of the mattress before sliding herself gingerly towards it.

Must. Open. Eyes. This is going to fucking hurt! Please don’t hurt . . . I promise I’ll never drink alcohol again.

Frowning, she forced one eye open a millimetre.

Ouch. Ooh that’s actually not too bad.

Forcing it open a little more so that she could actually focus her vision in the dim light made her mind whirl.

Where the fuck am I?

Reflexively, both eyes sprang open.

Argh! Holy fuck. Why do I do this to myself? Why?

Her eyes clamped shut although the pain in her head was caused by the rapid eye-opening and not the dim light seeping around the heavy curtains. As the pain receded, her brain began to filter what her eyes had seen.

I’m in a room at the hotel. A superior room or a junior suite . . . what the fuck am I doing here? Oh God, tell me it’s not a work day . . . please, don’t let it be a work day. Fuck. I wonder what time it is . . . please don’t let housekeeping find me here. I’ve got to get up. I hate my life. I fucking hate alcohol.

Tentatively, she opened one eye slightly. Then, finding it was bearable, she slowly turned her head to the side to look at the alarm clock. It hurt but it wasn’t too bad. Opening her eye fully, she read the screen. 9:30.

Nine-thirty!

Pain shot through her head again as she panicked, forcing her to squeeze her eye shut. When it subsided, she tried to remember what she’d done the night before to result in her sleeping at the hotel and why she’d been drinking wine. She knew from the banging in her head and the nauseous feeling in her stomach that wine was responsible. Then she remembered.

Or at least she partially remembered.

Xander . . . he’s married. Oh God, I got pissed because Jamie told me he’s married. Way to go, Isla.

She lay and tried to recall the events of the day before. The daytime events all came flooding back, as did most of the evening’s. The last thing she could remember was drinking wine in the bar with Dean after Jamie had brought her belongings from her flat.

Christ, Isla. Shouldn’t you have learned this lesson by now? Wine doesn’t like you. Wine gets you pissed way too easily and gives you the most minging hangovers. Wine is definitely not your friend. In fact, wine is your nemesis.

She groaned aloud when she remembered that the day before had been a Monday.

Of course it’s a work day; what else would it be? It’s obviously way too much to ask for Jamie to inform me that Xander’s married on a Friday. Well, it’s your own fault; you didn’t have to seek solace at the bottom of a wine glass. And it’s no use lying here bemoaning something that’s of your own making. It’s time to get your big arse out of bed and into the shower. You’ve got work to do.

It took ten minutes for her to be able to force herself out of bed and twice she was convinced she was going to vomit but eventually she shuffled into the en suite. She cursed vehemently when she turned on the halogen lights and thought she was going to die when the jets of water in the shower struck her head like mini-torpedoes. She couldn’t force herself to wash her hair properly; a rinse under the sadistic showerhead would have to do. Her head was way too sore to cope with a good shampooing.

She wrapped a towel around her and another one gingerly around her head then made her way back to the bed. She perched on the edge and attempted to dab the worst of the wetness from her hair; there was no way she could face using a hairdryer. With every movement, the drumbeat in her head strengthened her resolve to never drink again.

Looking around for her hairbrush, she wondered where she’d put her belongings. She remembered taking her suitcase up to the master suite so where was everything?

This isn’t the master suite.

What the . . .?

This is a junior suite.

But why . . . oh God, I really, really hope I’m never stupid enough to drink wine ever again. I’ve slept in the wrong suite and now I don’t have my things.

Confuckinggratulations, Isla. This is a new level of drunken stupidity. Now I’ll have to explain to Bobbi why this room needs servicing. Oh and what’s the betting that I bump into her or one of her team when I’m sneaking down the hallway in my towel? The way today’s going . . . I may as well get back into bed and call in sick.

She looked longingly at the mussed up duvet and the plump pillows, still warm from her body.

Ooh bed. How tempting you are on such a shitty day. But there’d be nobody to run the hotel. Sorry bed, I’ll have to give that a miss. Although if this day gets any worse, I’ll be right back. Oh God, I must have been sooooo pissed last night. I can’t remember a thing. Thank fuck I woke up alone. The day could have started off much worse.

She gave an involuntary shiver.

Thank heaven for small mercies as Mum would say. Come on woman, get your arse into gear.

Realising that she’d begun to feel a bit better – just a miniscule amount – she decided not to take the risk of tiptoeing the short distance along the hallway. Leaving the curtains closed, she found her bra and dress on the floor but couldn’t find her knickers. She hunted everywhere until she remembered that she hadn’t worn any. When she’d dressed the day before, she’d been blissfully unaware that Xander was married and had decided to go commando in the hope that he might pop into the hotel at some point.

Shaking her head at her naivety, she remembered that he’d been staking out the hotel. And that she’d employed security guards to keep him out.

I wonder if he’s still there . . . I’ll have a look . . .

She parted the curtains slightly but the sliver of light made her head spin.

Maybe later. Or I’ll summon Jones for a progress report . . . once I’m feeling human. After a coffee . . . I need coffee.

Heading through to the living area, she flicked on a wall light and went straight to the cupboard that housed the coffee and such like, giving thanks to Xander for his advice on fitting instant hot water taps on that floor. No noisy kettle and no wait time. As she stirred her coffee (containing three emergency sugar lumps) she paused.

What’s that? It sounds like someone snoring.

She froze. The hairs on the back of her neck raised.

It is. That is definitely someone storing.

It’ll be next door. Bloody hell, these walls are thin. It sounds like it’s someone’s right here in this room.

Picking up her cup, she turned and promptly dropped the cup, sending scalding coffee flying everywhere.

There’s someone on the sofa. It’s a man! Oh my God.

The sleeping figure was facing away from her, not affording her a view of his face but she could tell from the clothing that it was male. His soft snores indicated that he was fast asleep. Knowing that she should be heading towards the door for her own safety, she tiptoed a little closer. There was something familiar about him.

Oh God. Please don’t tell me that I did something stupid with Jamie. I remember him saying he missed me . . .

Her stomach churned at the thought, making her want to retch. She blew out a long breath to fight it.

That’s not Jamie. The hair colour’s wrong . . .

Oh my God, it’s Dean. Oh thank fuck for that.

She relaxed and smiled fondly down upon his sleeping form.

Oh bless him. He probably had to escort me to my room at stupid o’clock this morning and then crashed on the sofa. That’ll teach him to let me have wine. No, that’s not fair. This is all my fault, not his. I probably didn’t give him any choice – he can hardly argue with his boss, can he?

I hope he managed to sleep okay.

Oh my God. When I woke up, I was naked! Oh I hope I didn’t embarrass him by stripping off in front of him. He’s such a sensitive creature, he’d be mortified.

Should I wake him? He doesn’t start his shift for a couple of hours yet but he might have things to do. But he looks so peaceful. I’ll leave him for now and if he doesn’t surface in an hour or so, I’ll wake him then. Yeah, that’s probably the most sensible option.

She made another coffee and tiptoed out of the suite. The hallway was empty.

Finally. Something goes right today.

It was only when the door clicked shut behind her that she realised that she didn’t have her handbag. Or her master room key.

Fuck it! Now what do I do? Do I knock on the door and wake Dean up? No, that’s unfair. I’ll go down to reception and ask Belinda for a room key. I can swear her to secrecy.

Waiting for the lift, she heard the sound of vacuuming coming from the room opposite. She knocked on the door, heard the vacuum cleaner go quiet and then the door was opened by a bemused looking Dina whose eyes kept flitting to her head.

Following a brief and frankly untruthful tale about locking herself out of her own room, Isla managed to procure Dina’s key. She let herself into the suite and selected a severe looking black trouser suit from the wardrobe. When she caught sight of herself in the mirror, she suddenly knew why Dina had been unable to stop looking at her head. She’d forgotten that she’d not washed it in the shower and that she hadn’t brushed it. Now it was a semi-dry replica of a bird’s nest.

Reaching for her hairbrush, Isla began to wish that she’d succumbed to the temptation of getting back into bed. The state she was in, the hotel would probably benefit from it. God knew she was in no fit state to work. Her hair took some detangling and she couldn’t bear to even tug on it gently. So, when she’d finished, it still looked a mess and she had a sore scalp and the headache from hell. She looked longingly at the bed. Should she?

Before she had a chance to weaken she heard a disembodied voice coming from the dining area. She eventually ascertained that it was coming from the walkie-talkie device that Jones had given her the day before that she’d left on the window sill. It was his voice that she’d heard. She picked it up.

‘Hello. Jones?’

‘Oh thank fuck for that. I mean, excuse my French. Miss Hamilton, are you safe?’

‘No, I think I’m dying. If anyone asks, I wish to be cremated and I’d like everyone at my funeral to dress in circus costumes.’

There was a pause.

‘Miss Hamilton, I take it you’re joking. Just tell me where you are please.’

‘I’m in my room.’

‘But I checked that. Twice. So did Smith.’

‘I . . . um . . . I slept in a different room last night.’

‘Ah, did you sleep with Mr Rogers?’

‘No I did not. He slept on the sofa, I’ll have you know.’

Another pause.

‘I meant did you sleep in the same room. I’m simply attempting to ascertain that Mr Rogers is safely accounted for this morning. We were about to mount a full-scale search involving the authorities.’

Isla’s jaw dropped. ‘What?’

A somewhat irritated Jones’ voice continued, ‘The last time either of you were seen by our team or anyone else for that matter, was when he carried you into the lift. When you didn’t arrive at the office at your usual time, I tried to contact you using all agreed methods. Then I visited the suite but there was no reply when I knocked – even when I half-battered the door down. The receptionist let me in. Then I requested Mr Rogers’ contact details but when we called his mobile, there was no reply. So we sent an accomplice to visit his home address. He wasn’t there and we were informed that he’d not returned from work, yet he always did. The last time he’d been seen, Xander Rhodes was threatening to kill him. Since Mr Rhodes was no longer waiting outside – he left in the early hours – and neither of you could be found, it raised a serious concern for your safety.

‘I wanted to search every room in the hotel but the receptionist said I couldn’t do that because of the residents’ privacy and that I’d need permission from you or the police. She also refused to allow me to bring a sniffer dog into the building in an attempt to locate you. Given that you were missing and my brief is to protect you, I was about to call one of my contacts at the Met and get permission. My team mates were confident that you’d not left the building but there was always a remote possibility that Mr Rhodes—’

‘Whoa! Back up. We’re both safe. I can vouch for both of us. Xander threatened to kill Dean? When was this?’

‘A little after twenty three hundred hours. Mr Rhodes had attempted to make contact with you through the windows of the bar. He was apprehended but when Mr Rogers appeared in the lobby holding you in his arms, Mr Rhodes managed to free himself and get inside the building. By that time, Mr Rogers had managed to get you into the lift so Mr Rhodes took the stairs. The security detail gave chase and apprehended him before he located either of you. They removed him from the premises. Under the circumstances, it was felt that the use of some force was warranted. Not maximum force; you’d forbidden that but let’s just say that Mr Rhodes probably has a few aches and pains this morning.’