Killer Curves Page 12

  Damn. He’d hoped to enter the house undetected.

  “What’s going on?” her father demanded, striding toward them.

  “Sloane? Is everything okay?” Matthew asked.

  Sloane’s body trembled against Ciaran. He’d wrapped her in one of the heavy, white towels on the spa bench, but her bared shoulders, arms, and wet hair soaked his T-shirt. Not to mention shock was probably kicking in like a motherfucker. He had to get her upstairs and dried out. Had to make her feel safe. But first he had to get her past her father and Matthew.

  She lifted her head from his shoulder, and offered her father a shaky smile. Warmth and admiration for her streamed through him.

  “Nothing, Dad, Uncle Matt,” she rasped. “I’m fine. I caught a cramp and panicked a little. Ciaran is just being a little overprotective.” Her pale pallor and tremulous voice lent credence to her story.

  “Overprotective, romantic. To-may-to, to-mah-to,” Ciaran drawled even as he tightened his arms around her. “I’m going to get Sloane upstairs. So pretend we didn’t interrupt,” he added with a pointed glance toward the half-eaten thick sandwiches on the island that the two men had obviously been sneaking and eating before Ciaran and Sloane had barged in the kitchen.

  The concern slowly eased from John and Matthew’s faces.

  “If you’re sure,” John said, sinking back onto the stool. Chagrin entered his expression. “And what you saw here stays between us.”

  Dragging up a rough chuckle, Ciaran nodded and escaped the room, forging a quick path to Sloane’s bedroom.

  Thirty minutes later, he replaced the screen in front of the fireplace, the low dancing and swaying flames emitting a mild warmth that toasted his skin. Under normal circumstances, lighting a fire in late August would seem absurd. But under normal circumstances, a woman wouldn’t be sitting on the rug, wrapped in a blanket after being attacked and almost drowning in a Jacuzzi.

  Balanced on the balls of his feet, arms braced on his thighs, he glanced over his shoulder to Sloane. Her dark, damp hair hung over her shoulder, the normally straight strands wavy and loosely curled. She appeared so young with the white comforter draped over her shoulders and drawn-up legs, her bare, painted toes peeking out from under the edge.

  Young and vulnerable. And scared.

  It was the “scared” that alternately ate him up and had him impatient to go on the hunt, locate the bastard who’d dared touch her, and break the hands that had held her underwater.

  He should’ve been there. No one should’ve been able to come near her, much less grab her, terrify her, hurt her. Her eyes, usually so vibrant like the emeralds her mother wore on her fingers, were dull with residual fear. He detested seeing that fear.

  For a moment another pair of eyes wavered in front of him. Brown instead of green, but containing the same horror…before they went blank with death.

  He inhaled a deep breath, returning his attention to the crackling fire and away from the guilt that gnawed a hole in his gut. She didn’t have to confirm it, but it’d been the kiss that had propelled her from the safety of his protection as soon as his back had been turned.

  Fuck. His fingers curled tight until two fists hung between his thighs. He’d known better. From the beginning his number one rule had been keep his hands off. That when the choice came between her life or his dick—there wasn’t a choice. Failure wasn’t an option. And yet, all it had taken was seeing her asshole of an ex cornering her and that annoying, inconvenient possessive streak had reared its irrational head. Once Phillip walked away, that should’ve been it. But no, the overprotectiveness had only morphed into something darker, something almost primal. This need to claim her, brand her as his own surged in him, and he’d surrendered to the impulse.

  He could still taste her.

  And even now, realizing what a colossal mistake he’d made, he hungered for more.

  “Can you tell me what happened?” He didn’t glance at her again, but kept his gaze riveted on the bob and weave of the flames.

  “I came downstairs while you were in the shower…” She relayed the narration in a halting voice, and it required every ounce of ragged control he possessed not to go to her and stroke her hair, smooth his thumbs over the trembling mouth. Replace that blanket with his body.

  Fury thickened his blood so it permeated every cell, every organ, so he breathed it as she recounted how someone grabbed her and shoved her under. How she struggled but couldn’t get free. How she believed she was going to die.

  Silence hung in the room like a shroud, the only sound the pop and snap of the flames.

  “If the switch for the LED and halogen lights are located in the pool house, then there had to be two people behind this. From your account, you were attacked seconds after the lights were cut. There’s no way this person could’ve been in two places at once.” The house stood at the far end of the enormous pool, only the fucking Flash could’ve made it that distance in moments.

  “I honestly thought I was safe here,” Sloane murmured, drawing his gaze. He rose to his feet, thrusting his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. Stalking across the room, he paused at the arched set of windows and stared out into the darkness. If he’d emerged from the shower even a minute later, or had waited to go searching for her, she wouldn’t be sitting there on the floor but floating face-up in the Jacuzzi.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to dispel the image that was entirely too crystal clear in his head.

  “Tell me again,” he ordered, his tone quiet. She didn’t argue or question his request, but complied. And as she spoke, the visual of it materialized on the back of his eyelids like a silent movie. When she finished, he turned to her. “When you scratched him, did you notice if he wore a watch, if there were cuffs around his wrists?”

  “No watch, and no, no shirt cuffs either.” Even with the distance between them, he could spy the hope lighting her eyes. “Do you think we’ll be able to find someone with scratches on their hands and arms?”

  “It’s a long shot with the guests and the staff, but if it takes me until we leave, I plan to search every man here.” He would, dammit. And heaven help the bastard when he found him.

  Getting too personal.

  Like the fucking kiss wasn’t?

  Well, shit, now he was arguing with himself.

  Shaking his head, he frowned. “Sloane, from now on I’m by your side wherever you go. You don’t move unless I’m with you. This won’t happen again.” Not on his watch. His hands weren’t big enough to be stained by more blood.

  Her mouth firmed as if she wanted to argue with him. After a long moment, she nodded. “I don’t want my parents, Chelsea, or Matt to know about this. I don’t want them to worry.” Squeezing the bridge of her nose, she said, “Especially Matt. He’s already lost his son, I can’t add to his burden right now.”

  They damn well should worry. Their loved one was in trouble. If his mother or sister’s lives were in danger, he would hate being left in the dark. But the security specialist charged with guarding her life, unfortunately, agreed.

  “Fine. But only because I don’t know who to trust,” he said.

  Disbelief slackened her features. “You can’t possibly believe they have anything to do with this,” she snapped. “What about Drake Morriston? He makes more sense than my family. Are you even looking into him?”

  “We’re pursuing all angles, Sloane. And no, I don’t believe your family is behind this. But I don’t know if anyone they’re associated with is. Your parents or Chelsea could inadvertently pass on information and not realize they were assisting whoever is stalking you.”

  The incredulous outrage ebbed from her face. “That makes sense.” She sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m just”—she lowered the blanket a fraction and rubbed her shoulder, wincing—“I’m just tired.”

  The flinch snagged his notice. Before he could warn himself to keep his damn distance, he was already stalking across the room toward her. He knelt
behind her and gently brushed her hands aside. Folding the edge of the comforter down, he exposed her shoulders and the upper portion of her back.

  God. Damn.

  Bruises. Just forming under her pale honeyed skin, but there. Under the base of her neck like a loose chain and marring the front of her shoulders. By tomorrow, and especially in a couple days, the marks would darken to a mottled purple, black, and blue. A constant reminder to her that someone wanted her life. A constant reminder to him that he’d almost let them have it.

  With the utmost care, he trailed his fingers along the discolored skin below her neck. So fucking soft. How sick did it make him that even with her sitting there in front of him, vulnerable, the evidence of her ordeal marring her body, and probably more than a little bit in shock, he could think about how silky and beautiful her skin was? The bruises seemed sinful on her skin, blasphemous.

  He brushed the contusions on her shoulders, and she flinched slightly, her breath hitching.

  “Hurts?” he murmured.

  “Yes…no.”

  Her chest rose and fell below his fingertips. Quick pants burst past her lips, the harsh, rapid breathing echoing in the quiet room. He smothered a groan and shifted his hands to her upper arms, gripping them over the blanket. Sloane wasn’t terrified—at least not only terrified. Desire, lust, need. Sloane was turned on by his gentle strokes.

  Jesus Christ. He’d meant to soothe, not arouse. To calm, not stir. To comfort, not awaken. Move, his haloed conscience ordered. Get across the room. Take another cold shower. Anything but remain sitting there, inhaling her sex-and-moonlight scent, cataloging each shallow breath that was a wicked solicitation to take and satisfy the hunger in both of them. He leaned forward, burying his nose in her still-damp hair. His fingers flexed on her arms, careful not to hurt her, but unable to release her. But the longer he sat there, the more frayed his resistance and resolve became. All the reasons—valid reasons—for not touching her, for keeping a professional distance steadily seemed less important than kissing her pain away, than tasting her lips and skin and reassuring himself he’d made it on time.

  He eased a hand up her arm, over her shoulder, and into her heavy, dark hair. Curling his fingers, he grasped the strands in a firm but gentle grip. She tensed and he paused, waiting for the demand to let her go. But it didn’t come. Instead, she exhaled a small gust of air and relaxed into his hold.

  Damn. His flesh swelled, hardened, the zipper of his jeans doing its damnedest to stencil itself onto his flesh. Did she understand what the small sign of surrender did to him? Not only was it as erotic as fuck, but it signaled trust. She trusted him with her vulnerable femininity, her pleasure…trusted him to not hurt her. To protect her. After the events of this night, God, he needed that. He craved it.

  Tugging on the mass of waves and curls, he tipped her head back. Long black lashes hid her eyes from him. But the flush coloring her cheekbones, the parting of her pouty, sensual lips revealed what he couldn’t glimpse from her gaze. Still, he needed to see. Needed to confirm that the lust riding rough-shod through him tormented her as well.

  “Look at me. Let me see those pretty eyes.” For just a moment she hesitated, but in the next instance, she lifted her lashes, and…hell yeah. Right there. Desire clouded the bright green, and his gut clenched, his hand flexing in her hair and tugging on her scalp. With a gasp, she arched into the hold, loosening her clasp on the comforter and flattening her palms to the floor on either side of her hips. The cover fell around her, and damn if she didn’t look like sex on a platter.

  “Goddamn, Sloane,” he growled, scanning her breasts, thrust up under her top in silent offering and down past her stomach to the area between her thighs. Loose pants of the softest material covered her hips and drawn-up legs. But the shimmering silk undoubtedly couldn’t compare to the wet velvet of her pussy. The starving hunger inside him demanded he find out.

  Settling behind her, he bracketed her legs with his, pressed his chest to her elegant spine, wedged his dick against the small of her back. And groaned. A perfect fit. Too fucking perfect.

  He lowered his head. And took. Angling her head farther back, he thrust his tongue between her lips, sweeping in, tangling, and sucking. Consuming.

  Christ, she tasted just as good as the first time. Better. Like earlier, this kiss wasn’t tender or hesitant. No, it was wild, carnal, ravenous. This could’ve been their hundredth kiss instead of second. He dove into her, and she met him in the erotic duel, meeting him stroke for stroke, lick for lick, greedy moan for greedy moan. And when he lifted his head for air, she followed him with a needy whimper. Shit. He crushed his mouth to hers again. Breathing was way overrated.

  Unfolding his fingers from around her upper arm, he splayed them wide over her stomach. Her muscles contracted under his palm, the tell-tale flinch telling him without words how he affected her. Pride, fierce and heady, and a sense of power barreled through him like a tidal wave. This gorgeous woman—this duchess—ached for his touch, panted into his mouth, begging for what he could give her.

  He slid his hand up her torso until he cupped the delicious weight of her breast. Twin moans echoed in the room, drenched with pleasure. She ripped her mouth from his, bowed into his hand, her head pressing into his shoulder.

  For a second, he closed his eyes, savoring in the warm, firm flesh in his hand. But fuck that. He had to see what his fingers gloried in. Even though a top composed of the same silk as her pants covered her breasts, the taut bud of her nipple poked through the material, an erotic invitation he couldn’t turn down. He swept his thumb over the tip, and she cried out, her arms lifting and encircling his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair. The tiny stings against his scalp only fired the molten need in his veins, pooling in his cock.

  “Beautiful,” he praised, lust roughening his voice like gravel. He pinched the rigid peak, tugged, and tweaked, over and over, testing her, determining what she liked and what made her hips circle in a slow grind. Oh, hell yeah. The duchess seemed to crave a little bit of bite with her pleasure. A slightly hard pinch and she whimpered, those sweet thighs parting wider, her ass almost leaving the floor. He lowered his other hand to the neglected breast, shaping the flesh before treating the nipple to the same caresses as its twin.

  “Ciaran,” she breathed, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, and he licked the curve, tasting her low, serrated groan. Her lack of inhibition floored him…delighted him. She was already a beautiful woman, but passion stamped on those regal features transcended her to something indescribable. Something he couldn’t walk away from right now even if doing so was the smart, professional option. Now that he’d seen arousal straining her features, darkening her eyes, quivering through her body, he couldn’t stop until he witnessed her coming apart. Until he observed what she looked like with ecstasy stamped on her face.

  He abandoned one breast and retraced his path down her torso and belly. The band of her sleep pants barred his way, but he slipped beneath, not stopping until he slid through slippery, plump folds.

  “Fuck, you’re wet.” The low, hoarse words were barely legible even to his own ears. Had another woman gotten this hot and drenched for him before? If so, he couldn’t remember. Hell, with his fingers burrowing through her slick folds, he could barely remember his own damn name. He lifted two fingers, glistening with her moisture, to his mouth. Sucked them clean. His moan rumbled up out of him, long and low. He’d savored her mouth, but the sweet, sultry essence of her… Christ, he could feast on her all night and still want more.

  Drawing his fingers from between his lips, he glanced down and caught her staring at him. Lips still swollen and damp from his kisses, she couldn’t hide her arousal. Still, a tiny frown creased her brow as if she wanted to ask him…

  “Delicious.” He answered her unspoken question, then captured her mouth in a hot, quick kiss, sharing her flavor with her. “Addictive.”

  He slipped his hand back underneath her pants, cupping her, grinding the heel of hi
s palm against her clit. The humid heat of her bathed his hand, and with a keening cry, her thighs widened, granting him more access to her sex. He gritted his teeth, fighting the almost animalistic urge to lay her down on the nest of blankets and thrust his tongue into the clenching entrance his fingers teased.

  Still plucking and rolling one taut nipple with one hand, he eased one finger of the other inside her and swore at the perfect tightness. Tiny, feminine muscles fluttered and rippled around him. Too easily he could imagine the same muscles milking his dick. Pulling at him, urging him to bury himself deeper and harder…

  “Wider,” he ordered, this time not waiting for her to comply but lowering his other hand and pressing it against her inner thigh. Once she was spread for him, he thrust another finger inside her core and strummed her clit with his thumb. A wild cry burst past her lips as she clung to him, her hips writhing and pitching under his hands.

  He maintained a hard, steady pace. A thrust. A tight circle over her clit. Thrust. Circle. Thrust. Circle. Moisture coated his fingers, so the only sounds in the room were her constant stream of mewling pleas and the wet suction of her flesh receiving and releasing his fingers. She shook like a wind-tossed leaf in his arms, but he was ruthless as he pushed her toward orgasm. He had to see it. Had to have it. Had to cause it.

  “Ciaran.” His name cracked on a wail, and his only reply was to give her another finger inside her, stretching her. “Oh God, please.” Nails bit into his scalp. Hot flesh squeezed him until he wondered if he would carry bruises the next day.

  Another stroke. Another firm massage of her clit. Her sleek walls clamped down on him.

  And she broke.

  Shuddering, twisting, screaming. She came for him so hard her body mimicked a seizure with the sharp jerks and undulations. Clenching his jaw, he continued to thrust past spasming flesh. Continued to rub that convulsing bundle of nerves at the top of her folds, determined to grant her every ounce of the orgasm she deserved, and he was honored to give her.