Bound Guardian Angel (29 page)

His room had a private bathroom, so he
hopped in the shower, quickly lathered up and rinsed, driven by his
growling stomach to hurry the hell up and get back downstairs. A
few minutes later, he changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a
clean T-shirt then left his room and started down the hall toward
the stairs.

As he passed Cordray’s closed bedroom door,
he slowed and inhaled. Her citrusy, midnight scent wafted into the
hall.

God, if only he could bottle that shit, he
could rub it all over his skin and get high on it anytime he needed
a pick-me-up. Closing his eyes, he took several deep breaths. What
was it about Cordray’s scent that was so intoxicating? It wasn’t
like she smelled any different than other females, and
yet . . . she did. Hundreds of women carried the
sweet but citrus scent of oranges, but with Cordray, it was darker,
lustier, more exciting.

He felt himself drift toward her door, and
when he opened his eyes again, his hand was on the
doorknob . . . and he was turning it. A force deep
within him compelled him onward. He needed to get closer to her
scent. To wrap it around him. To bathe in it. To revel in the way
it washed through his senses and absorbed into skin.

As the latch released, warmth blossomed
inside his chest, and tingles shimmied through his fingers.

He had no idea what this feeling was, but he
liked it.

Once he’d opened the door, he stared
transfixed at the tattooed female in the center of the bed,
surrounded by a sea of red satin.

Cordray lay on her side, facing the door.
Her black hair with its multihued blue streak covered half her face
and spilled over the pillow.

Of course she would sleep on a blood-red
bed. She probably fantasized that her sheets were her victims’
blood. After all, this was Cordray.

Lovely . . .
breathtaking . . . exhilarating Cordray.

In sleep, she looked as peaceful as a
napping kitten, her prickly armor shed, leaving only tranquility.
All that serenity enveloped Trace like a cozy blanket made of
rabbit’s fur. Soft and warm. Magnetic.

As if in a trance, he crossed the space
between the door and the bed and knelt beside her. He placed his
forearm on the mattress and rested his chin on it as he gingerly
reached out with his other hand and caressed just the tips of her
hair with his fingers.

Her hair was cool and felt like strands of
silk.

Quiet calm wrapped around him. And something
else. Something primal and urgent that ran starkly opposite from
the calm energy taming his beast. Something that awakened his blood
in such a pleasant, exciting way.

Her chest rose and fell evenly as she
breathed. Then she shifted and murmured as if talking in her
sleep.

Her lips parted, and a breathy moan that
sounded almost sexual broke the stillness.

Whatever she was dreaming about, it sounded
good.

She twisted and rolled so that she was
partially on her back.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered sleepily,
followed instantly by another moan. “Yesss.” The word trailed off
on a drowsy sigh.

Her breathing deepened and intensified as
subtle waves of hormonal heat pulsed from her body.

Trace’s cock stiffened, and he lifted his
head off his arm, staring. Just staring.

In that moment, she was the sexiest thing
he’d ever seen, and he wanted more. Needed more. Would die if he
didn’t get more.

Before he could stop himself, his mind
penetrated hers, snapping in an instant to the image of him on top
of her. She was dreaming about him. Him! And he was fucking her.
Hard. And she liked it. She wanted it.

And then he was in his dream self, buried
inside her.

For the love of God, this was more than just
a wet dream. This was like an out of body experience, where his
soul and hers had met up for a little nocturnal emissioning with
one another.

Her scent invaded his senses. Her arms
gripped him to her. Her legs locked his hammering hips in
place.

“More, please more!”

And he wanted to give her more. He wanted to
expend himself and fall into her body forever. God, she felt good.
Hot, wet, tight.

She came again, digging her nails into the
back of his shoulders as pleasure shredded her vocal chords.

Then shit got crazy.

As in crazy hot, crazy good, and crazy holy
fuck!

Her fingers clawed at his bare back, her
cries coming hard and fast as she fell into delirious spasms
beneath his body, coming again and again, unable to stop. Cordray
was a nympho. A wired-up bundle of unleashed orgasms he wanted to
keep tapping into.

He thrust into her, shoving her legs apart
with his knees, grabbing her arms and holding them against the bed,
demanding with his clenching thrusts that she give him more. That
she give him all of her. He would bleed every ounce of pleasure
from her body. He would own her, possess her, claim her! She
belonged to him!

As she blew apart yet again, his own climax
crested, sweeping him away on a lava flow of molten delirium.

God, he’d never come so hard. So long. With
such incredible intensity. He closed his eyes to savor the
explosion happening between his legs and hers. Jesus, she was good.
No.
They
were. They were good
together
. He was fire,
and she was gasoline, and as she came again, another orgasm
rocketed through his scrotum.

This was what he’d spent his whole life
looking for. The one female who could put the smack down on his
beast and keep it chained like she was a dragon tamer and it was a
pussycat. A female who could arouse him in a way that no other
female—or male—ever had.

Just . . . wham, bam, and
holy-hell-oh-my-God-and-hallelujah thank you ma’am!

Cordray was the shit in bed!

He could get used to dreams like this. Fuck
yeah.

Then the mood shifted. The atmosphere
changed and it no longer felt like a dream.

“What the . . .?” Cordray’s
sexed-up, sleep-infused voice reached him as if from a cave. “What
the fuck?”

He peeled his eyes open. Something was way
off here. She was awake. And under him. He had climbed on top of
her.

Oh. Shit.

On a stick.

Her eyes opened wide, and she stared up at
him like he was the Grim Reaper come to claim her soul.

His hips were between her thighs.

He was rocking himself against her, and she
was doing the same to him.

And his cock was throbbing in his jeans.

And, oh fuck, he’d come. He’d fucking come
for real, not just in her dream.

Jesus, this was bad.

Oil-spill-in-the-Gulf bad.

He stared down at her, his mind blank.

She stared up at him, mouth open, breathing
hard. Then her stare turned into a glare. Then into invisible
poisonous daggers.

“What the
hell
are you
doing
?”
She shoved him off and jumped out of the bed, brushing her hands
over her body as if she were covered in spiders. “How dare you! I
can’t believe . . .” Her expression morphed into one
of fear. “Oh my God, did we . . .? Did
you . . .?” She stared in horror at the bed then
looked down at her body as if to ensure she was still wearing
clothes. Then her gaze hardened as it met his. “You’d better hope
we didn’t actually fuck”—she gestured toward the bed—“or I’ll rip
off your dick, asshole!”

Shock and awe sent shivers down his spine.
“We’re both still dressed, for God’s sake. How could we fuck when
we’re both dressed?” He scampered off the bed and toward the door,
bile rising in his throat. What had he done? How could he have
enjoyed
that
? With her? Cordray? Satan’s mistress? He must
have lost his mind.

“Get out. Out!” She pointed at the door.
“You’re supposed to be working, not in here molesting me.”

“Molesting you? Are you kidding? Don’t
fucking flatter yourself. You’re not my type.”

Her mouth fell open. “And yet you were on
top of me, dry humping me in my own bed.”

“Believe me, honey, there was nothing
dry
about it.” The words flew from his mouth before he could
stop them, and he instantly regretted it. The last thing he wanted
was for her to know he’d gotten off. Way off. Because the thick and
sticky mess in his Calvin Kleins was one of the biggest loads he’d
ever shot, if not the biggest. Damn shit had to be seeping down his
thighs.

She gasped. “I should throw you back in
Bain’s dungeon for that.”

He blew out a derisive breath. “For what?
Coming without a license?”

If looks could kill, he wouldn’t just be
dead. He’d already be worm shit. “No, for—”

“Besides, I didn’t hear you complaining,” he
said defensively before she could get out another word. “You were
getting off as much as I was, sweetheart. Or do you always come a
dozen times when you dream about me?”

Her eyes flew wide. “This is your fault. You
made me think I was dreaming, when actually you planted that
scenario—”

Trace frowned and held up his hand. “Hold
up, Maleficent.
You
were dreaming about
me
. I didn’t
plant
anything
in your head. I simply looked inside—big
fucking mistake, by the way—and there I was. Surprise, surprise. So
if anyone should be crying foul, it should be me.”

“Whatever. If that’s the way it really
happened, the last I heard, dreaming of having sex with someone
isn’t a crime. But you
were
physically on top of me when I
woke up.” She slapped her palm on her chest then shivered as if
recalling the way she’d come undone beneath him.

He made sure to stay across the room from
her, even though every bone in his body, including the one still
straining for more between his legs, wanted nothing more than for
him to storm her, toss her on the bed, and bury himself inside her
for real for a week.

“We didn’t have sex! Jesus!” He swiped his
palm over his scalp. “Get over yourself.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and
practically cowered away from him.

God, he wasn’t that bad, was he? Surely, she
could think of someone worse to fuck than him. Even though,
technically, they hadn’t fucked. After all, dreaming about fucking
wasn’t the same as actually fucking.

But, man, it had sure felt real.

After a few long, tense moments passed, she
seemed to calm from a rapid boil to a simmer. “Okay, okay. Fine.
Whatever. Let’s just . . . this never happened,
okay?”

Like hell it never happened! His dick was
still letting him know that, yes, it had happened. And that it
should happen again. Sooner rather than later. Christ! His dick was
in heaven. Wow. That had been unbelievably hot!

But he nodded, anyway. “Whatever you say,
chief.” He slashed his hand horizontally through the air like he
was karate chopping a slab of plywood and wiping the proverbial
slate clean. “Never happened.” It was better to pretend than to
acknowledge that major fireworks had gone off inside his balls and
that they wanted an encore. “I’m heading down to eat lunch, and
then I’m going to bed.” Right after he changed his clothes
again.

At this rate, he’d go through every piece of
clothing he’d brought with him in less than twenty-four hours.

In his room, he shut the door and plopped
his ass onto the edge of the bed and lowered his head into his
hands. For the first time in five minutes, he was able to take a
deep enough breath to fill his lungs.

Jesus, that female was something. A sexy,
infuriating, scorching, aggravating, remarkable, offensive,
blood-pumping-in-a-good-and-bad-way something.

Chapter 16

Cordray sank onto her bed and collapsed forward, her
palm pressed to her forehead.

Her body still hummed from the orgasms Trace
had given her, both in her dream and in real life. What they’d done
had been incredible. Mind-numbing, body-blasting incredible. But as
the seconds ticked by now that he was gone, her sense of touch
gradually faded, leaving her in an unfeeling void again.

How would she survive three months with him?
She’d barely survived the first twelve hours. All she wanted to do
was march down the hall, throw open the door to his bedroom, throw
him on the bed, and demand that he fuck her until she saw stars,
passed out, or both.

Taking a deep breath, she folded herself
back into her sheets and clutched a pillow to the front of her
body. Maybe if she closed her eyes and fantasized hard enough, she
could pretend the pillow was Trace. Except she still wouldn’t be
able to feel anything. If the pillow really were Trace, she’d be in
sensory overload.

Waking up to find him on top of her, pouring
warmth and pleasure into her body, had both thrilled and terrified
her. His weight had felt so right pressing down on her, and yet
inexplicably horrifying.

For thirty minutes, she fought to go back to
sleep. Just when she thought she wouldn’t be able to, she finally
drifted off.

Four hours later, with the smell of fried
chicken and homemade dinner rolls drifting up from the kitchen, she
awoke.

Thankfully, she’d had no more dreams about
Trace, sexual or otherwise.

After taking a quick shower, she slipped
into black pencil pants that laced from her outer thighs to the
insides of her knees and cinched snugly around her ankles. A
jacquard skull pattern stretched up the front of her thighs. Over
her black-lace bra, she pulled on a black, short-sleeved top
decorated with the image of a giant white skull covered in
rhinestones.

As she brushed her hair and pulled it into a
ponytail, her mind drifted back to what had happened with Trace.
She would have to face him tonight. He would be at dinner, and she
would have to look at him. Would he see in her face how much she’d
enjoyed what he’d done to her?

She flipped off the bathroom light and
returned to her bedroom, where she sat on the edge of the bed and
pulled on her boots.