Wicked Intentions

16

I shiver, thrilled by the sound of that, and he laughs at me again. My eagerness pleases him. His smile is devilish. We both know he’s got me exactly where he wants me.

For now.

I say, “Okay. But hurry up.”

He puts a finger over my lips and proceeds to ignore my demand.

He starts at the sensitive spot just below my earlobe, investigating it with his lips, gently stroking the skin with the tip of his tongue. Then he moves his mouth slowly down my neck, pressing soft kisses every half inch, cradling my head in his hands as his lips go to work on me.

My eyes drift shut. This is heaven. I have to remember this. I have to sear this memory into my mind so I can take it out and admire it later on.

I make a small sound of desperation. He quietly shushes me. His hands glide to my shoulders. His fingers toy with the straps of my dress.

He rests his cheek on my chest for a moment, listening to the clamor of my heart. It’s terribly intimate. I know my heartbeat sounds like gunfire. My cheeks burning, I turn my face to the cushion and clench my hands to fists.

“No hiding,” he whispers, lifting his head. “There’s no hiding from me now, Angel. It’s too late for that.”

I don’t open my eyes or indicate I’ve heard him. When his hand slides around my throat and gently squeezes, my lids snap open. My entire body tenses.

Instantly, he releases his grip on my throat. His eyes search mine.

“Don’t restrain me,” I say, my voice shaking. “I can’t stand that.”

A furrow appears between his eyebrows. He considers me in silence, then says gently, “Thank you for tellin’ me. Do you want to stop?”

A spike of pain pierces my heart.

Passion, I can handle. Though it’s unexpected, it’s welcome. This gentleness, though, this tender attention to my emotional state… What the hell is this? I’m not familiar with this from a man. I have no idea what to do with it. It’s terrifying.

Finally, I say, “No. Just don’t hold me down.”

I’m rewarded with a string of the sweetest kisses all over my chest, just above where my heart is frantically beating. His voice both soft and rough, Ryan says, “Anything you don’t like, just tell me, sweetheart. I only wanna make you feel good.”

I’m dreaming. This can’t be happening. Obviously, I took a bad fall somewhere and am lying in a hospital bed in a medically induced coma.

This man is a mercenary. He was trained by his government to hunt, maim, and kill. His paranoia is such that he carries a concealed weapon even on vacation and rigs his hotel room with spy gear like something out of a Bond movie. He obviously knows I’m not being truthful about a lot of things, yet he’s handling me like a fragile piece of expensive china. Like a treasure.

Like a gift.

Desperate to get my pulse under control, I exhale raggedly. Against my skin, Ryan makes a husky coo of support. He knows I’m struggling. If he keeps this up, I’ll crack wide open.

He presses kiss after kiss to my chest, shoulders, and neck. His hair tickles my cheek. He’s heavy and hot on top of me, but I like the way he feels. I like the way he smells, clean male and soft musk. I like the way he tastes, and the way he tastes me.

I like everything about him.

Mierde! What the hell is wrong with me?

“Open your eyes,” he commands.

I look at him. He stares back at me with piercing intensity, like nothing else exists in the world except us. Enunciating every syllable, he says, “You can trust me. You have my word.”

The promise hangs there between us, dangerous as a lit stick of dynamite.

I want him to take it back. Promises are even more dangerous than explosives.

I say, “That’s not going to happen.”

But I’ve forgotten something crucial about him. Challenges—the more difficult, the better—are exactly what make him tick.

He says, “Maybe not tonight.” Then he smiles. It carries a promise, too.

Before I can snarl and shove him off, he buries his face in my cleavage and nips one of my n*****s with his teeth.

“Ow!” I slap him on the shoulder.

Chuckling, he strokes the stinging n****e with his tongue, looking up at me from under his lashes like he’s daring me to stop him. I consider it until he pinches my other n****e, making me gasp.

“You like that,” he whispers, intently watching my face. “What about this?”

He firmly pinches both n*****s at the same time. A hot pulse of pleasure throbs between my legs. An involuntary moan breaks from my lips. It’s followed by the dark, satisfied sound of his laugh.

“Less teeth, more tongue and fingers,” he says. “Got it.”

“Ryan—”

“Hush.”

I glare at him. He’s too focused on my breasts to appreciate my withering look. When he abruptly rises to his knees and tears off his shirt, I’m distracted, too.

His body is sculpture. Muscles ripple and flex with every movement. I think the temperature in the room has just shot up twenty degrees.

He lowers himself back into the cradle of my spread thighs. My hands automatically start to paw him, filthy addict that I am. He’s so hard. Everywhere. Except his skin, which is inexplicably petal soft. It’s like being embraced by a steel column covered in velvet.

He gets between my legs with some kind of Ninja move that’s so fast, it’s a blur. Then he shifts to slow-mo again. He nuzzles me right there, breathing me in with an audible sigh.