Ruthless Pride Read online

  Sadness coiled around her heart and squeezed hard. She should be outraged on his mother’s behalf—even angry with her for settling. For not demanding more for herself, for her children. But... Hadn’t she been Eve at one time? Hadn’t she loved a man so completely she’d been willing to ignore her instincts, look the other way, almost ignore her ethics? The only difference between her and Joshua’s mother was she finally walked away and refused to lose her independence to another man again.

  Another of those serrated barks of laughter echoed in the room, and Joshua raked a hand through his hair, disheveling the thick blond strands.

  “God, why in the hell am I telling you this?” he snarled, turning away from her and stalking across the floor to the window.

  The “of all people” didn’t need to be said. It bounced off the glass walls, deafening in its silence.

  She tried not to flinch. Tried not to allow the hurt to filter through. Tried...and failed.

  “I’m not your enemy,” she said to his wide back.

  His shoulders tensed, but he didn’t face her. “And I’m sorry if I implied that you were like your father. I didn’t intend to.” How to explain it’d just shocked her that such a virile, intense man who oozed power and sexuality had been intimate with only six women in four years? Hell, that didn’t even average out to two a year. But given his history, the depths of which she hadn’t known until this moment, she understood.

  Sighing, she traced his steps and paused beside him, staring out over the beautiful view of Falling Brook at night. Houses, large and small, sprinkled among the trees and interconnecting map of streets, glittering like fairy lights. From this height, the town appeared almost magical. Serene. Made it seem as if they were hundreds of miles away instead of just several floors up.

  “What do you see when you look out there?” she asked softly.

  Tension and a cauldron of emotion continued to emanate from him, but when he replied, it was just as quietly. “A reminder.”

  “Of what?” It required everything in her not to glance at him, but to keep her gaze trained on the vista stretched out before them.

  “Of why I do this.” Do what? What’s this? The questions bombarded her mind, but she forcibly held her tongue. And her patience was rewarded. “Why I continue to run a company I didn’t ask for in the first place. Live this life that was my father’s and not my own. For the last fifteen years, I’ve given it and Black Crescent everything—my dedication, my time, my loyalty, my goddamn soul. And in return? In return, I have a shade of a mother who I am powerless to help. My brothers don’t speak to me because they hate who I’ve become a reflection of. My father is still MIA, and I have no idea whether he is dead or alive. And no matter how hard I work, how many hours I put in, how much money I bring in to repay those robbed and devastated by my father, it’s never enough. I’ll always be looked at with suspicion, judged for having the same blood in my veins as a criminal.”

  Her palms itched to touch him. To slide between him and the glass, smooth her hands up his hard chest and strong neck to cup his jaw between them. To, in some way, assume the pain that he wouldn’t allow himself to show. But she caught herself, nonetheless. The sheer magnetism of this man dominated any room he stood in. Yet... How could anyone, after spending time with him, not see the emotions that roiled beneath that austere surface like water just under a boil?

  “There’s this gaping hole in my life,” he continued in that gravel-and-midnight-silk voice. “And it doesn’t matter what I do, I can’t fill it. I don’t know how to fill it.” He shook his head, and he scoffed. “And the funniest, most pathetic part? When you first told me I might have a daughter, a part of me was thrilled. Because it meant that my life hadn’t been a waste. That I had a purpose other than rebuilding the legacy my father nearly destroyed. That I would be more than Vernon Lowell’s son. I would be someone’s father.”

  “You’re not your father,” she contradicted him, taken aback at her own vehemence. Even more so at the knell of truth that bloomed in her chest...deeper. Somewhere between the meeting where he agreed to take her help and finding that list of names, she came to believe him about not knowing he had a child out there. Or even if the child from the DNA report was his. She released a trembling breath, spreading her hand over her suddenly tumbling stomach. “You’re not Vernon,” she repeated, stronger, firmer.

  And maybe he heard the belief in her voice. Because he finally looked at her, his green-and-gold eyes burning down into her. Straight through her.

  “You’re sure about that?” he ground out. But before she could answer, he turned fully toward her, his palm flattening on the glass above her head. “You were the one who accused me of denying my illegitimate child’s existence. Of carrying on and not caring that I had fathered a baby and left it out there somewhere for her and her mother to cope on their own.”

  Yes, she had. Regret eddied inside her, and she briefly closed her eyes against the oily, slick slide of it. Her article had dragged the scandal out of the past, buffed it up and placed it out all shiny and new for people to feast on again. She had a direct hand in him standing here, surrounded by a darkness that seemed ravenous and ready to swallow him whole.

  Her fault. So at least, she owed him the truth. Her truth. Even if he could give two shits about it.

  “It’s true,” she murmured, tipping her head back and meeting his piercing gaze. “I did believe that. But that was before I knew you—”

  “You don’t know me,” he growled.

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” she objected, shifting into his space. Surprise flared in his eyes, flecks of gold brightening. But then his lids lowered, gaze becoming hooded and hiding his thoughts. His reaction. But it didn’t stop her from claiming another inch. If she took a deep breath, her breasts would brush the wide, solid wall of his chest. The tips of her shoes nudged his, and his scent, so earthy, so virile, so delicious, enveloped her, and she battled the pull of it. For now. “You might be several things—ruthless, proud, arrogant, rude and at times so cold I’m afraid you’ll leave burn marks on my skin—but you aren’t a deadbeat father. You would never force a child to suffer what you have. Much less one who belonged to you.”

  He didn’t move; his chest didn’t even rise and fall on ragged breaths. Like hers did.

  “So you’re wrong,” she said, surrendering to her earlier need and reaching for him. His hand shot out, quick as a snake, and encircled her wrist, his grip firm but not bruising. The dominance of his hold throbbed low in her belly. Her heart thudded against her sternum, but not in fear. Excitement. Need. They both streamed through her, one a sizzling current, the other fierce and liquid hot.

  Testing him—pushing him—she lifted her other hand, cupping his face and half expecting him to evade her. But he didn’t. He remained still, rigid. Yet, he let her hand mold to the blade of his jaw and the hollow of his cheek. The bristle of his five o’clock shadow abraded her skin, and she logged it as another sensory memory to hoard and savor.

  “I know you better than anyone else. More than the people who only see what you permit them to. More than the brothers who left you to fix what was so broken. More than the women you’ve allowed to touch your body.” She traced the curve of his bottom lip with her fingertips. “Does that scare you, Josh?”

  She deliberately used the shortened version of his name, increasing the charged intimacy snapping between them like a loose live wire.

  With a low rumble, he cuffed her other hand, trapping it against his mouth. His teeth sank into the fleshy heel of her palm, and her groan rolled out of her, unbidden and unrestrained. The flick of his tongue against the same flesh, as if soothing it of the tiny sting, drew another moan from her, this one softer...hungrier.

  “No, you don’t scare me, Sophie,” he said, nipping again at her. “Because that would mean you had the power to hurt me. And I don’t trust you enough to give you that po
wer.” Tugging on her wrist, he eliminated the negligent amount of space separating them, and she shivered as her breasts crushed his chest, her thighs pressed against his. His erection nestled against her belly. Whatever air remained in her lungs evaporated into vapor at the evidence of his arousal. For her. All for her. “But I want you. As much of a goddamn idiot it makes me, I want to fuck you until your voice is raw from screaming my name. Until you come around me, squeezing me so hard that my dick is bruised. Until my body aches from giving both of us what we need.”

  Oh. God. Each erotic word stuck her like tiny blows, her sex clenching over and over. Begging for the carnal image he drew. Pleading to be filled, taken, branded. She trembled, harder this time, thankful for the hard body and grips on her hands that held her up.

  But doubts and threads of fear wound their way through the fiercely pounding desire. If she were smart, if she’d truly learned from the past, she would halt this...this thing with Joshua before it went any further. At the very least, she could be in danger of losing her job for a serious conflict of interest if anyone found out about this. But not even her career trumped the very real terror of being that woman she’d been with Laurence. Her love for him had turned her into someone she hadn’t known, dependent on his approval, his affection, his attention. She’d almost lost everything over him—her career, her future, herself.

  She wasn’t in love with Joshua, though. The lust turning her into this clawing, biting sexual creature demanding to be satisfied was unprecedented, but that was physical. Chemical. Not emotional.

  As long as she kept her fickle, hardheaded heart out of this, she could give her body what it craved and protect herself.

  “One night,” she said, almost wincing at the note of desperation in her voice. And how he, again, went still, that multihued stare boring into her. But neither made her rescind the condition. “One night,” she repeated. “No strings. No expectations. Just two people beating back their demons together.”

  God, why had she said that last part? It revealed too much.

  And Joshua didn’t ignore it. Releasing her wrists, he cupped the nape of her neck with one hand and cradled her hip with the other. Holding her. Steadying her. And because it would be only for the night, she allowed herself to lean into his strength. To depend on it.

  “You have demons, Sophie?” he murmured, his gaze roaming her face as if already searching out the answer for himself rather than trust her to give an honest answer to him.

  Smart man.

  “Don’t we all?” she countered, and it would’ve been flippant if not for the rasp betraying the power of hers.

  “I’ll exorcise them,” he growled, pulling her impossibly closer. “We’ll exorcise them together.”

  His mouth crushed hers.

  On a whimper, she willingly, eagerly parted her lips for the sweet and wild invasion of his tongue. Impatiently twisted hers around his, dueling, parrying, meeting him thrust for thrust, stroke for stroke. With her hands free, she fisted the lapels of his tuxedo jacket, not caring that she was wrinkling the clothes that no doubt had cost thousands. Nothing mattered except the taste of him, the power of him, the raw passion he whipped to a frenzy in her.

  Greedy for more, she rose to her tiptoes, the stilettos she still wore aiding in the endeavor. She opened wider for him, silently demanding he take more, give her more. The hand on her nape shifted upward, tunneling through her hair, twisting, tugging. Tiny pinpricks danced across her scalp, and every one of them echoed in a path down her spine, settling in the small of her back. Restless, she slid her hands up his chest, over his shoulders and into his shorter hair. Clutching the strands, she held him to her, drowning in this kiss that should be either illegalized or memorialized.

  Joshua tore his mouth from hers, trailing a scorching path over her chin and down her throat, licking and sucking. She slicked the tip of her tongue over her kiss-swollen lips, savoring the flavor of him on her. Teeth scraped over her collarbone, and she tipped her head to the side, granting him easier access. Her lashes fluttered, lowering, and she basked in each gloriously wicked sensation.

  And yet, it wasn’t enough.

  An urgent need to touch bare skin—his bare skin—riding her, she released him to dive her hands beneath his tuxedo jacket and shove it over his shoulders and down his arms. He straightened, staring down at her from beneath a hooded gaze, letting her strip him. Unable to meet it, she dipped her head, focusing on loosening the buttons down the front of his dress shirt. And as she revealed inch after inch of taut golden skin, all traces of awkwardness vanished. She sighed, fingers slightly shaking, anticipation soaring through her. When she pushed the last button through its corresponding hole, she placed her palms on his corrugated abs, her sigh transforming into a dark, low moan at first contact of skin to skin.

  Jesus, did the man harbor a furnace in his big body? Heat simmered underneath her hands, skating up her arms, over her chest and tightening her nipples beneath her dress before flowing farther south to culminate between her wet, trembling thighs. She squeezed them together and shuddered as it only increased the aching emptiness. The desperate need.

  “You’re so beautiful,” she breathed, stroking up his chest and under the open sides of the shirt, slowly peeling it, too, from his body so it tumbled to the floor with his jacket. “Like a work of art.”

  She stiffened as soon as the words tumbled from her lips and jerked her gaze from his magnificent form to his face. But if her slip caused him any pain, he didn’t show it. Or maybe, in this place where they were baring the bodies and just a little bit of themselves, the thought of his former passion didn’t bother him.

  Or maybe she was assigning more importance, more intimacy to this night of sex than it warranted.

  Regardless, he deserved to be admired. To be worshipped. Smooth, tight skin stretched across wide shoulders and chest and down over a flat, ridged stomach. Brown hair dusted across his pecs and narrowed to a silken line that bisected the ladder of abs. Twin grooves lined both hips, disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants. Heeding the call and invitation of that delineated arrow, she followed the lines with her fingertips, dipping beneath the band...

  “Slow down,” Joshua ordered in a sharp voice that carried a bit of a snap. He emphasized the command by grabbing her wrists and, turning her with his body, pressed her back against the window. Transferring both of her wrists to one hand, he lifted her arms above her head, caging them against the cool glass, as well. It didn’t stop her from twisting in his grip, arching toward him. Rolling her hips over the prominent thickness tenting the front of his slacks. “Dammit, Sophie,” he growled.

  Then, with a jerk that left her breathless, he yanked down her dress, exposing her breasts to the air, his glittering gaze and, oh God, his mouth.

  She cried out, her knees close to collapsing as he sucked so hard on her, the pull of it resonated high and deep in her sex. Could she orgasm just from this? Before Joshua, she would’ve scoffed at the idea of it, but with his tongue curling around her nipple, flicking it, drawing on it—she was a convert. Especially with her feminine flesh spasming, her hips bucking, seeking to grind that same flesh over him...

  “Josh,” she pleaded, tugging against his hold. “Please. Let me touch you.” Yes, she was begging. And didn’t care.

  He loosened his grip, and she immediately took advantage, clutching his shoulders, digging her nails into the dense muscle. His grunt of pleasure fueled her on, and she raked a path down his back, then surrendered to the need to just...hold him.

  Wrapping an arm around his shoulders and the other around his head, she embraced him, savoring the heat of him, the power of him even as he continued to sensually torment her flesh. Tipping her head back against the glass, she released another cry when he switched breasts, treating it to the same attention as its twin. Big, clever fingers plucked at and pinched the damp tip his lips didn’t surround. He was d
riving her crazy. And damn if she wasn’t enjoying the trip.

  “No, don’t stop.” The plea escaped her along with a whimper when he dragged his mouth from her breasts down her stomach. She burrowed her fingers through his hair, cradling his head, attempting to pull him back.

  “Not done, sweetheart,” he murmured, straightening to swing her up in his arms. Once more rendering her lungs incapable of taking in air with both the show of strength and the softly spoken endearment.

  They didn’t go far. Just across the room to the dark freestanding fireplace. He lowered her back to the floor and, in seconds, had her side zipper down, the dress gone, and leaving her clothed in a skimpy black thong and silver heels. Her toes curled inside her shoes. For several long, charged moments, he stared down at her, his eyes more brown than green. Lust burned in them, throwing more kindling on the same fire razing her to the ground.

  “Why do you hide this gorgeous body under those clothes,” he ground out, his fingers flexing next to his thighs. “But if I’d known those conservative shirts covered these perfect breasts and lovely nipples... Or had a clue those knee-length skirts slid over these sweet little curves—” he slid a hand over her hip “—and legs created for squeezing a man’s hips tight... Or how pretty and wet you would be—” he cupped her, and she swallowed a small scream at the possessive touch “—I would’ve had you up on my desk the first day you walked into my office, pretty much telling me to go screw myself. Did you know I wanted you then, Sophie? That I was picturing you laid out on top of my files and spreadsheets, your thighs wide, letting me pound inside you until everyone on the other side of that door knew that I was taking you, owning every scream and cry? Owning you?”