Vanquish (9 page)

Eventually, he returned the book, out of order, and rose with his back to her. “How long have you been shut in, Amber?”

“You need to leave.” Her voice was so strangled it sounded like she'd lost the ability to breathe.

He shifted to face her, his expression relaxed, his tone more so. “Are you medicated?” An inventory of her medicine cabinet was on his list of to-dos. He needed a better understanding of the disorders.

“Leave right this minute, and I won't call the cops.” She clutched her knuckles and raised her chin, the sinews in her neck pressing against delicate skin.

Was she telling him to leave because he'd discovered her phobia? A smile crooked one corner of his mouth. “Go ahead. Call in the pigs.” He waved a hand at the door. “If you don't mind them tracking the outside world all over your nice floors.” The self-help text had said,
The individual might feel embarrassed.
“Maybe they won't jump to conclusions about someone with a mental disorder going ape-shit on her house-guest.”

A noise squeaked in her throat, and her eyes darted from him, to the front door, and back again. Then they lowered, as did her chin. “What do you want from me?”

Ah, fuck, he was screwed. The only thing missing from her response was
Master
. He drew a deep breath through his nose and tried to calm the
fuck-her-take-her-break-her
rap against his ribs.

“I'm going to finish my drink” —he raised the glass, his voice soft and casual— “while we wait for your projects to dry. Then I'll drop them in the mailbox when I leave. Isn't that why you invited me in?”

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her hands twitching at her sides. So damned beautiful, all dolled up with nowhere to go. “Yes.” She swallowed. “Of course.”

He leaned against the bookshelf and hooked a thumb in his pocket. “A shallow bastard might've bolted after discovering your disorder, blabbering some excuse as he ran far, far away.” He watched her sharp inhale and suppressed the satisfaction tugging at his lips. “So you have issues. Don't we all?” Fucking understatement.

“I don't want to talk about this.” Even as she said it, her eyes fell on the coffee table, and a tremor overtook her body. She charged toward the source of her horror, sucking air as she realigned the coasters with trembling fingers.

He hid his grin behind the lip of his raised glass.

A gasp followed, and she tackled the pillow on the couch, straightening and fluffing with asthmatic breaths. Then she stood, brushed down the hem of her dress, and leveled a hard stare in his direction. “Stop fucking with my things.”

He stared right back, but what he really wanted to do was yank up that dress and sink his teeth into her twisted panties. With the casual swipe of a hand, he shifted the swollen head of his cock.

She didn't seem to notice, her eyes too busy shooting fire at his face. “And no more personal questions.”

For a little thing, she sure had a big voice when she was angry. It was really quite cute, and he suddenly wanted to know if she was ticklish. What a fucked up thought, and probably not the time to explore it. She appeared to be seconds from self-destructing.

Her heels echoed through the room as she paced, seething through her teeth and wiping fingers beneath her dry eyes. Then she stopped and glanced at the clocks, at the door, back to the clocks. Was she weighing her options?
Go to the mailbox herself? Or let him stay to do it for her?

When her eyes landed on him, they had cooled by several degrees. “No more snooping. Don't touch my stuff. Don't even look at it.”

Terrible choice, little girl
. He tipped her a crooked smile, made of sugar and shit. “Right on.”

She nodded, her bottom lip caught between polished white teeth. “Then the offer to stay four hours stands. Follow me.” With that, she turned and clickety-clacked down the hall.

He watched her ass until it disappeared within her unlit bedroom. For all his smugness in manipulating her, he knew better than to pursue this. She had some serious dysfunction—perhaps worse than his—and he'd only scratched the surface. He glanced at the front door. He should be the shallow bastard and leave, but the challenge invigorated him. God help him, but he wanted to lose his mind with this crazy woman.

He threw back the remainder of the mixto and set it on the coffee table. Flicking a coaster to the floor, he strolled down the hall, a hand in his pocket and dark dreams in his head.

At the doorway of her bedroom, he took in her most personal space. A dim lamp now glowing on the nightstand, a single blacked-out window, a small TV that should've been thrown out two decades ago. And a stunning woman sitting on the edge of the bed.

She watched him from beneath her lashes, her slender legs dangling off the side, the toes of her shoes flexed above the carpet. Not a single footprint indented the threads between her and the door. Had she hurdled the ten-foot distance? Impossible. How did she erase her tracks so fast?

Her silence pushed against him, scattering into the hallway and pulsing with the faint rasp of her inhales. She sat motionless, eyes lowering, as if held by an innate need to please. As if waiting for her Master to speak.

A warm current ran the length of his body, prickling his skin. Subservient Amber did
not
help his obsessive thoughts. His cock ached, but the greedy bastard didn't run things. He wouldn't take her impulsively. Not without planning. Maybe not ever.

He pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room, subtly scuffing his heels to smudge the vacuumed stripes in his path.

She glared at his tracks, and her jaw clenched. Yeah, her OCD harbored some affection for clean lines.

He paused before her, brushing his knees against hers and coaxing an exhale from her sweet lips. A discreet scan of the room revealed the same rigid order as the rest of the house. But what the fuck was the bizarre display in the corner?

A glass aquarium sat on a stand, brimming with twisted bits of filigree metalwork, broken bronze statues, and beveled gems—some attached to strips of metal, others loose and chipped.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Are those—?”

“
Those
are nothing,” she snapped, meeting his gaze.

Either she designed metal art, or she'd unleashed a pissed-off hammer on a trophy collection. Her locked jaw suggested the latter. Strange she hadn't covered it the way she'd concealed the self-help books, but he let it go for now.

“Why are we here?” He nodded at the bed.

“Why not?”

Because phobic girls didn't invite strangers where they slept. He gave her a human smile. “It wasn't a personal question.” But he hoped it would incite a personal answer.

“Right.” She looked at the bed and smoothed the white quilt beside her hip. “This is part of the offer.”

His head jerked back. What the—

“Sex in exchange for dropping off my shipments.” Her tone was unshakably and incautiously determined. She'd done this before.

The cold splash of realization doused his brain. And his libido. Christ, why hadn't he seen this coming? Of course, her mental condition would force her to depend on people. People with hard dicks weeping to accept her non-cash payments. People like Zachary Fucking Kaufman.

Goddammit, her offer stung. He wasn't some delivery bitch boy, earning pussy for a walk to the mailbox. He was there for his own purpose, not hers, and he'd damned well fuck her on his terms. “No.”

Her face fell. “Oh. I thought—”

“I was so hard-up I had to run errands to get my dick wet?” His tone was harsh, though his anger had nothing to do with being hard-up.

Hell, eight years ago,
he
had been the whore, exchanging blowjobs for crack. No doubt, he would've been bent under some rutting drug-dealer at that very moment if Mr. E hadn't returned for him. Twenty-five years late, and still, he'd been overjoyed to meet long lost Dad.

A vein pulsed, hot and angry, on his forehead. Well, didn't that memory darken his mood? He should thank the good people of Austin for promoting Mr. E to police chief. The new position had come with too much scrutiny for a figurehead who trafficked slaves on the side. Mr. E had needed a front man to run the operation and remembered he had a twenty-five-year-old bastard son. A son, as it turned out, who had no qualms about profiting from sexual services.

Unless those services involved Amber and dipshit deliverymen. A beautiful woman should never sell herself so cheaply. She deserved better than Zachary Kaufman, and she definitely deserved better than what
he
had planned for her.

Fuck it. This irrational jealousy, or whatever it was, pissed him the hell off. He wanted to wash his hands of her. More than that, he wanted to brand her with a hundred possessive welts.

She fussed with her hair, hands shaking, and eyelids heavy with shame. “Can we just forget I said...that?”

Seriously? He squeezed his fingers into a fist, fighting the impulse to swing and knock her on her ass. He didn't want to scare her too badly. Not yet. Nor did he want to let this Zachary shit go. “Do you fuck all your house-guests?”

“That's a personal question.” Her stubborn chin and hard eyes only fueled his need to punch her.

He leaned over her, hands on the bed beside her hips, and pushed his face into hers. “Your offer to fuck bowled straight through personal and landed smack between your legs. Might as well spread 'em and air it all out.”

“Oh my God.” Her chest rose, brushing his, but she didn't lean away, didn't look away. “Can you please step back?”

His lips were so close to hers he could taste the toothpaste on her breath. “Answer the question.”

“No. I mean, yes.” Her voice was angry and rushed, her dilated pupils resolutely locked on his. “I like sex, okay? I thought the attraction was mutual.”

A burst of lust ignited through his cock. He grabbed her hand and pressed it against his erection, grinding his hips. Nothing said
I'm attracted to you
like a thrusting boner.

But the tentative squeeze of her fingers sent his head spinning. With her mouth so close and wet from her breaths, he took her lips. It wasn't a gentle touch-and-tease kiss, either. He went for it, dominating her mouth, spreading it open with his jaw, and angling her head with a fist in her hair. His tongue chased hers, lashing and taking.

She didn't fight back, so he unsheathed his teeth, catching and slicing her lips. His pulse raced, and his lungs pumped. Jesus, he couldn't reach any deeper, and she met him stroke for stroke, bite for bloody bite.

Her taste was insufferably sweet, much like the fingers stroking his cock. Which reminded him of his position on her offer.

He released her, and the room stumbled to a dizzying standstill. They shared a suspended look, panting in unison. He stepped back and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “The answer is still ‘No’.”

She slapped a palm over her mouth, eyes closed and forehead pinched. Then she shot from the bed and ran out of the room, leaving a trail of messy footprints in her wake.

He scratched his jaw. Huh. Apparently, OCD-ness came second to Oh-God-he-rejected-me-ness.

Perhaps he should've assured her of her attractiveness with words.

Maybe he should wear a tutu and over-pluck his eyebrows while he was at it.

He crossed the room to the aquarium and dug out a cracked statue of a bronze woman missing her head. The marred scratches across the base were vicious, but the engraving was still legible.

Fitness Model World Championship

1st Place

Amber Rosenfeld

His mouth fell open, though he shouldn't have been surprised. Her body rocked some killer biceps, thighs, and calves, and God knew what lay beneath that dress. It was a rare thing to find a woman with a ten body paired with a ten face, but this fitness model was a hundred from head to toe. So when he pulled out a wad of sashes printed with
Miss Tri County, Miss Heart of the USA, and Miss Texas
, it wasn't shock that caught his breath. It was a very strong feeling of wonder, reverence, and something akin to fear.

There must've been fifty demolished tiaras and trophies in that tank. Why would she destroy something she'd worked so hard to earn? Or had someone else hurt them? Hurt her? The notion sent blood roaring through his ears, leaving him shaken, edgy, and, worst of all, heartsick.

The sudden urge to flee shuffled him back a step. He needed to shed these feelings, this room,
her
. The last time he involved his emotions, he got a blade across his face and a bullet in his shoulder. Hard to forget those lessons.

He dropped the sashes in the aquarium and strode toward the hall, not stopping until he heard muffled sniffles through the bathroom door. He braced an arm on the wall beside it.

Could he be the kind of guy who apologized? How about the guy who walked her mail down the driveway?

He pulled a toothpick from its holder in his pocket and stared at the white cotton of his socked feet. The heavy thump of his heart felt way too foreboding.

Thump noted and rejected. He slid the pick between his lips. Her sniveling didn't affect him. Nope. He backed away from the bathroom door, pretending he didn't feel the thump growing harder and faster with each step.

He wasn't her guy, and he sure as fuck didn't need more scars.

At the front door, he slipped on his sneakers and shifted the hood over his head.

He most definitely wasn't Zachary Kaufman, and the fuckwad would be back in three days to honor his Tuesday/Friday tradition.

Could her shipments wait until then? Would she attempt to walk them out that night? What if she had a seizure on the way?

He pressed his gloved fingers against his eyes. Not his goddamned problem. He opened the door and gripped it, fighting not to close it and return to her. Instead, he stepped beneath the somberness of a sleepy sky and slammed the door behind him with enough rattle to reach the bathroom.