#2 Dangerous Games (10 page)

A shiver of debilitating arousal shot through her at the dominant forcefulness. She shuddered in his grip as his tongue forged past her lips and sent fire rushing through her body. The heat of his touch, his kiss, seared her, tore through her senses, and enveloped her in a need so intense she didn't know if she would survive it.

She wrapped her legs around his lean hips as they ground against her, moving her body in counterpoint to his, the friction against her clit sending impulses of pleasure so intense throughout her body that she knew climax was only seconds away.

His lips devoured hers, slanting against them as his tongue fed from her. Morganna met his kiss with a greater demand of her own. Years of aching, unslaked arousal were like an animal clawing at her womb.

She needed him, helplessly, desperately.

"You make me crazy," he groaned as his lips tore from hers, his hands moving against her as his body held her firmly in place against the wall.

His hands pushed beneath her sleep top, jerking it above her breasts as his palms covered them, drawing an incoherent cry from her lips as she writhed against him, determined to find release before he changed his mind. Again.

"I love your breasts. They get so tight and hard for my touch, your nipples flushing that pretty ruby red."

His head lowered as the fierce throb of lust in his voice sent tremors quaking through her.

When his lips surrounded one hard point, Morganna saw stars. He wasn't gentle, but she didn't want gentle. She didn't need gentle. She needed this, his teeth gripping the hard point, nipping at it erotically before his lips surrounded it, his cheeks drawing on her with a friction that slammed pulse points of pleasure through her vagina. She needed to come. She needed just a moment of release, just one driving orgasm from his touch, and she could go on, because she was smart enough, intuitive enough, to know Clint would never give in this easily.

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HE WAS DROWNING IN HER. What was it about Morganna that destroyed his self-control, that tore through his determination to be patient, to be calm with her? What made her so different from any other woman?

Whatever it was, it went to his head faster than the strongest liquor. It made him crave the taste of her, the feel of her. Her hands tearing at the collar of his shirt so her sharp little teeth could rake across the column of his neck, her hot hands pulling the material of his shirt to give her better access.

Driving lust bit into his balls as his cock surged with an edge of hunger so keen, so violent, it sent shock waves racing through his mind, further eroding his control.

He released the swollen tip of her breast to ease back, holding her in place with his hips as he jerked his shirt from his pants, her hands moving for the buttons.

"Just a few more minutes," she whispered desperately, panting for air as her stormy eyes met his. "Just a few more minutes, Clint. Please. Please don't stop yet."

The need he saw in her reflection destroyed him. Had a woman ever stared back at him with such stark hunger, with such desperation? Her face was flushed with it, her lips swollen, her expression tight with her race to orgasm as she ground the hot mound of her sex against the ridge of his cock. He should stop now. He knew he should stop now. As her hand tore at the buttons of his shirt, some releasing, some popping free, and the edges spread to her inquisitive little hands, he knew he should stop.

Instead, his lips were lowering to hers, taking them fiercely as her nails bit into his muscles, raking across them with fiery heat.

He couldn't leave her aching, but he couldn't take her. His hands clenched on her hips as his lips and tongue tasted hers, and he fell deeper into the intoxicating sensations he found only with her.

He ground himself tighter between her thighs, feeling the moist heat echoing against his erection. God, he needed her. He needed inside her, driving deep and hard into the wet, hot depths of her pussy. Just once, the animal lust howled inside him. Just one time. But he knew one time would never be enough.

"Come here." He tore his lips from hers, snarling with the demand he could feel rising between them.

He loosened her thighs, forcing her to lower her legs to the floor despite her whimper, and went to his knees before her.

He was met with the sight of that silky bare skin between the top and her pajama bottoms. Her shallow belly button, glistening with the gold of her belly ring. He pressed his cheek against the heated flesh, then turned his head until his lips were opening on it. Soft, sweet Morganna. He licked at her, blowing his breath over the damp flesh as she shivered in his grip.

His tongue laved the soft skin; his hands clenched in the elastic band of the bottoms and slowly pulled them down her thighs. He had to taste her. How many times had he dreamed of it? Of feeling the hot syrup of her desire against his tongue as she unraveled in his hold?

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Her bare mound glistened with her juices as he forced her legs apart, his fingers spreading the soft folds for his mouth.

"I have a bed," she cried out, even as her hips arched to him. "Oh God, Clint, I won't be able to stand up."

"I'll hold you up," he muttered, moving a hand between her thighs as his tongue arrowed in on the ripe flesh awaiting him.

Her keening cry filled his senses as the soft, sweet taste of her exploded against his tongue and the tight, hot grip of her sex began to surround his questing fingers. She was a wet, silken vise around the two fingers he began to work inside her, drenching them with the heated slide of her juices. Beneath his tongue, her clit swelled in anticipation, and her hips writhed against his touch.

"Come for me, baby," he whispered, dying to feel her convulse around his fingers, to taste the pleasure he could hear echoing in her cries. "I want to feel you come for me."

His lips moved over her clit, catching it in the gentle suction of his mouth as his tongue began to flicker over her. His fingers moved inside her, stretching her, filling her completely, before bending and finding the sensitive spot inside, just behind her clit.

The pads of his fingers rubbed gently as he increased the friction on her clit. She was close. So close her hands were tangled in his hair, pulling at it as her body began to tighten.

She was going to come. Morganna fought to breathe as the pleasure overwhelmed her, stole her sense of self, and merged her with Clint. Whatever the hell he was doing with his fingers was destroying her.

They didn't just stretch her, didn't just fill her with pulses of fiery sensation. But he was rubbing against something, making her clit pulse in warning, swell, and demand relief.

She fought against his hold, desperate to feel his fingers pumping inside her, but the arm wrapped around her hips held her carefully in place. She wasn't moving, but she was getting ready to fly. She could feel it building, tightening in her womb, in the ecstatic pulses pounding in her clitoris.

She arched tighter to him, feeling the pressure from his mouth increase, feeling the sizzle of impending orgasm rush along her spine. So close. Her fingers dug into his hair as he suckled at her clit, harder, faster, his tongue massaging her with fast, rapid strokes until she splintered.

Her own screams echoed in her head as the orgasm slammed through her, rocking through her system, jerking her with hard, brutal spasms as her sex convulsed around his fingers and tightened almost painfully before releasing again, jerking the strength from her legs and leaving her helpless in his grip.

Stars exploded through her head as space and time warped around her. Clint was wringing every last ounce of pleasure from her helpless body and stealing her breath, her reality, with his touch.

When she finally slumped against the wall, he began to release her. Slowly. His head lifted from her
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oversensitive flesh as his fingers eased slowly from her vagina, pulling back as the muscles protested with a last, violent spasm that sent shudders slamming through her.

His hands were gentle as he pulled her pajamas back into place, sat her in the chair he had vacated earlier, and pulled her top over her naked breasts.

It was over. She could see it in the tight lines of his face, the raging, unquenched lust in his eyes. He wouldn't go any further, despite his own need. And his need raged. She could see it. Feel it.

"It won't go away," she whispered tearfully as he squatted in front of her. "It will only get worse now, Clint."

His fingertips touched her cheek as a grimace contorted his face.

"Stay out of the clubs," he ordered hoarsely. "Stay away from me, Morganna. For both our sakes."

He leaned forward, kissed her lips with such tenderness she felt the first tear fall from her eyes as he stood to his feet.

"Don't make me do something we'll both regret. If you do nothing else to save yourself, baby, do that."

Morganna kept her head down, hid her tears, and fought the anger rising hot and deep inside her. Her fists clenched against the need to scream, to rail, to beg. And she swore she would never do that. She was a fighter, but she wouldn't fight for pity.

She stayed silent until the door closed behind him, until she heard the truck start up in the back driveway with a powerful throb.

Then the tears fell. And she swore she would never cry for him again. Just as she had the last time.

HE WAS DOWN, BUT SHE wasn't beaten. Morganna dressed carefully for the night, beginning late in the afternoon to prepare to make her own stand. She couldn't have Clint and she knew it now, but she would die and go to hell before she obeyed him. She had a job to do, and she was determined to finish it.

She wasn't officially off this assignment until her commander gave the order. She had begun working with Joe Merino's team first as a watcher. That was something Morganna had always been good at. She knew how to watch, how to pay attention to body language and pinpoint the women who were acting out of character.

She was well-known in the club scene, so she wasn't a suspected agent. Despite the arrest last week, her cover was still solid. No one knew who had witnessed the three men drugging that woman. And
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despite the attempted hit the night before, Morganna wasn't convinced her cover was blown. And if it was, then it could work more in the team's favor than against it.

But until she was told differently, she was still an agent here, and her job was still to show up and watch the action playing out.

Drugs worked differently from person to person, as did alcohol. She had been a part of the club scene since she was twenty-one, five years ago. Boredom, disinterest in a permanent relationship with anyone but Clint, and her own curiosity about people in general had drawn her to the pseudo-bondage atmosphere she found at these particular clubs.

They weren't true bondage clubs. At least not the upstairs portions. She had never been invited into the lower rooms.

She remembered the hue and cry, though, when Drage Masters opened his first club seven years ago.

It had been raided monthly when it first opened, the owner arrested just as often, but the club had never lost its license.

The Roundtable catered to alternative lifestyles and was as far removed from the honky-tonks and bars as one could get. It drew in the Goth crowd, the techno, and the extreme sensualists.

And that was the reason the drug was being tested here, the DEA believed. Here the easy camaraderie and familiarity of the honky-tonks weren't present. The crowd could change from night to night, from club to club, with only a few of the regulars remaining at any given hour.

Morganna stared around the interior of the Roundtable now, and she knew why Masters clubs had survived the outcry. The governor's son was a regular there, as were several city and state officials. The private rooms in the back afforded them a certain anonymity in their sexual excesses. If the bar area was raided, for some reason, the police never bothered with the back rooms. And never, at any time, had the basement portion of the club been invaded.

Not that one of the clubs had been raided in years. The influx of differing lifestyles and cultures into Atlanta, and the metropolis atmosphere, had eased the controversy over them. There were more extreme bondage clubs in the area, but Drage's ability to provide a club for the more extreme as well as those wanting to play along the periphery had drawn in all types.

Now the three clubs, Diva's, the Roundtable, and Merlin's, could be some of the most popular clubs in the state.

She moved through the Saturday night crowd slowly, feeling the hard pulse of the music thrumming around her as her gaze probed the crowd.

The slow, sensual beat of Gavin Froome's "Plane Jane" met her, but Morganna knew the house mix could swing just as quickly into, the Cure, Depeche Mode, or any of the hard Goth, techno, or tribal beats.

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It raged from current to classic at the drop of a hat and filled her blood with the need to dance. She loved dancing, moving, feeling her body come alive to the music. As did most of the other women and a few of the men who moved between the three clubs like a wave, the faces changing through the night as the club-hopping thrill took them over, though there were regular all-nighters specific to each club.

And there were new faces nightly. Plenty of them. Women dipping their toes into the open sexuality afforded them. Men playing at being Doms, finding a vicarious thrill in the openness of the women they found there.

Alcohol flowed like water, and drugs were the dirty little under-the-table side benefit. There was no evidence that the owner supplied the drugs or condoned them. Bouncers made a habit of throwing out the less secretive dealers and users, but for the most part, drugs were easy to come by.