Caught for Christmas (7 page)

And I realize it isn’t about whether I can trust in him. I already know he’s good. My knight in shining armor. The question is whether I’m worthy of him, whether I deserve this—and I know the answer to that too. I’ve been nothing but a thief and a liar my whole life, from the moment I came out of the womb. Worthless.

I
wake to
a soft sound in the pitch-black. It takes me a minute to realize where I am. Not on my narrow bed with my thin, old sheets—but in West’s bed, a wide, plush mattress topped with butter-soft sheets. It smells faintly of him, spice and skin. I wish he were here with me, but I know without reaching for the other side of the bed that he’s not.

The soft sound draws my attention to the window, where rain has begun to fall. It’s still too warm to snow, but the glass, when I press my palm against it, feels like ice.

There’s no alarm clock cutting through the dark. I gave up carrying my phone around when I could no longer afford prepaid minutes. I don’t know what time it is. The darkness and the rain make it feel like we’re locked in an eternal night, even though it must be morning soon.

Most of the loft is a wide-open space. Only a few rooms are walled off—this bedroom, the bathroom, and the kitchen. I find West on the same couch that he comforted me on, the afghan have covering his jean-clad legs, his chest bare.

One arm is flung above his head, the other dropped over the side to the floor.

He looks comfortable and secure, the opposite of how I feel in these clothes I used to betray him. They’re comfortable enough for sleeping, but they’re a reminder of how I broke us apart.

His tattoos are barely visible in the darkness, only shadows whispering over his skin. I’d seen hints of them before, peeking out from his T-shirts, and I can’t see much more now. I trace one dark line down his bicep, but he doesn’t stir.

What would he do if he woke up? Would he send me back to bed? Or maybe I would have gotten enough rest for his conscious. He could send me away then.

I have no illusions that we’re going to last. That anything could happen between us now.

There’s an intimacy between us after what happened last night. After he put his mouth on me and protected me. That intimacy will fade under the cold glare of a winter morning, but it’s still here.

And I want to return the favor.

I let my finger keep going, over the ridges of his abs, down to the bulge in his jeans. Morning wood. He didn’t let me touch him last night. That damned sense of honor strikes again. It can’t stop me now. I’m not tied up, and more importantly, I’ve already proven I don’t deserve any honorable treatment.

His cock swells beneath the zipper as I stroke him, but his arms and face don’t move. He’s feeling the pleasure, but he isn’t waking up. I prefer it that way, because he can’t judge me while he’s sleeping. He can only feel what I give him.

The denim is stretched taut now, so tight it’s hard to pull the zipper down without hurting him. His cock springs free, heavy and hard in my hands, warming me.

This answers the boxers-or-briefs question. Neither.

My thumb brushes over the tip, finding a well of salty liquid. I smooth the precum over the head of his cock, and his hips push up in unconscious response.

I kneel beside the couch, fisting him.

I don’t imagine that I have some special talent in this area. I’m only eighteen, which doesn’t leave a lot of room for experience, despite the fact that I started early—not every con goes smoothly, after all. Or someone needs a little extra incentive to provide a security code or guard schedule. My innocence was bartered early and often. Because we had to. Necessity. The same excuses Maisie had last night, but I’m done believing her. Even if it means I have to be alone.

I’m not alone now. For now I have West. I have his harsh breathing and his tense body. I have his cock that feels like molten steel against my palm.

Leaning forward, I taste him—a sharp, salty flavor that I know I’ll never forget.

A low groan comes from his chest, more of a rumble than a moan, but he still doesn’t stir. I might be in his dreams right now, a girlfriend from his past or some fantasy creation. Or I might be any one of the girls he’s brought home for the night. There must have been many.

It’s not really me he’s feeling, but I’m feeling him. The silky softness at the crown of his cock, the velvet thin skin that covers his shaft. The tight black hair that brushes against my hand every time my fist presses down.

His rough sounds fill the air around me, a symphony of sex and man.

He’s close to coming. I can tell by the way his thighs are trembling, by the hard bunch of his abs. His whole body is canted on the edge of climax.

That’s when I realize his arms are no longer flung carelessly over his head or over the side of the couch. They’re held tight by his body, hands curled into fists.
He’s holding himself back.

He’s awake.

I pause, my lips sliding over the ridge of him as I look up. His eyes are still closed, his face taut—he looks like he’s in pain. When I stop moving, his eyes fly open. They’re black in the darkness, but I can read the hunger in them. The need.

“Bianca,” he says hoarsely.

There’s desperation in that word. Affection too.

No surprise. He knew it was me all along. He might have been awake the whole time. When will I learn that I can’t catch him off guard? I’ve conned a hundred men out of their money, in lots of different ways. I always knew that one would eventually catch me, hurt me, break me.

West has done those things, but not like I thought it would be. He doesn’t hurt me.

No, he’s infinitely gentle as he runs the side of his finger along my temple and trails a lock of my hair. He’s shaking with need, but he doesn’t force my head or thrust up into me. He pushes the strands between his thumb and forefinger. “So fucking soft,” he mutters.

I lean forward to finish what I started, but he stops me. “What’s wrong?”

He swallows audibly. “I need to come, baby. I need you so bad.”

But when I press forward again, his hands hold me back.

“Not like that,” he murmurs.

Then I’m twisting, falling, lying flat on my back where he used to be, his leftover heat rising up to meet me while his body bears me down.

I
expect him
to push inside of me, to start fucking me and take what he deserves. I don’t have much of anything to offer him. Only my body.

He helps himself to my body but not how I expect. Instead he kisses his way over my breasts and down my stomach. They’re mere brushes of his lips that tease more than they pleasure. Then he bends his head between my legs, and I can’t help but spread them wider. I don’t deserve what he’s going to do to me, but I crave it.

“You don’t…” I manage to gasp out. “You don’t have to.”

He groans, dark eyes meeting mine. His voice is pure gravel. “You think I’m doing this just for you? You think I haven’t fucking dreamed about this every night since I first saw you dance?”

He seems to be waiting for answer. “I…don’t know?”

“I’ve been dreaming of how you’ll taste. And after having you, I’m fucking addicted. Even down in that basement, I couldn’t wait to have you again. Somewhere warm and soft, where I know you’ll be comfortable for a long, long time.”

“Oh.” I feel faint, just thinking about how long he might be planning on licking me. What happened in that basement is already the longest I’ve ever imagined a man’s mouth on me—and it drove me insane with pleasure. What could he do to me with all the time in the world?

He doesn’t seem to want to discuss it anymore.

No, he clearly intends to show me.

He doesn’t start off soft like he did before. Not testing or tasting. He plunges his tongue into my slit as fiercely as I thought he’d do with his cock—as if he’s dying to feel my heat, my softness. He gathers up all my juices on his tongue, and then he forces me to make more.

I reach back and hold on to the sofa as if it can anchor me, but the force of his will is too strong. One lick on my clit, then two. When he presses his lips around my clit and sucks, I push off the couch and climax in long, draining pulses that leave me sated.

He’s not done with me.

His mouth never leaves my flesh. He drinks my orgasm down, then immediately starts pushing me toward another one.

“No,” I gasp. “Too much.” I’m too sensitive, feeling too much pleasure. Who would have known it could feel like pain? I’ve never had anyone give me enough to find out.

Large hands press my legs down, and he feasts on me.

I’m trembling and crying out by the time I come again, bucking against him, fucking his mouth.

My body collapses on the couch, still shaking from the aftershocks. And he doesn’t let up. I look down and see the wicked glint in his eyes. He loves tasting me, loves making me come so hard my muscles turn to jelly. Over and over again. This is why I needed to be somewhere warm—because I’m shivering when I’m not in the middle of climax. This is why I needed to be somewhere soft. I sink into the cushions and let them carry me away, pleasure like waves lapping at my skin.

I can’t keep track of how many times he makes me come. At some point I think they aren’t even separate times, but one long stretch of bliss. I feel incandescent, glowing from the inside, the heat from my climaxes visible through my skin.

His hands press down on the inside of my thighs, tighter as he fights for control, and I know he’ll leave bruises. He’s hurting me, and he’s hurting himself. It’s part of the game he plays with us, taking us both higher.

Just when I think I can’t take any more—that he can’t take any more—he kneels between my legs.

With one hand he notches his cock against my slick entrance. With his other hand, he grabs my hip, steadying me. Only then do I realize my hips are moving on their own, fucking the air—I’m that far gone to this, to sex. To him.

He presses inside me. When he’s all the way inside, he groans. It sounds like agony. “No condom.”

“Don’t stop.” I’m not even sure I’ve formed the words correctly. I may have just made an urgent sound, a desperate sound, but he seems to understand.

His eyes are almost pitch-black with need. “Are you sure?”

I squeeze him with my inner muscles, and that’s all the answer he needs. He starts fucking me hard, rocking the whole couch with each thrust. The force of his thrusts push me up the sofa until I’m tipping over the side. I let my head and shoulders hang over the edge, reveling in the pure savagery.

Then I feel his hard chest meet my breasts. His hand cups the back of my head, and he’s holding me up, holding me to him while he kisses me. It’s a tender kiss, a sharp contrast to the way his body slams into mine.

He fucks me until I sob his name and come around him. I milk his orgasms right out of him because he follows right behind, his rough groan like music—a haunting tune I know I’ll think of later, when he’s gone.

When he pulls out, he looks down, and I do too. My sex is flushed pink and swollen with the pounding he’s given me. His cock is dark, almost purple at the tip, and shiny from his come.

His come. He came inside me.
No condom.

His gaze acknowledges the loss, but he doesn’t look worried. He looks satisfied, almost smug. “You’re mine now.”

H
e lets me
wash up, a short reprieve. I clean myself with water and soap, but they do nothing to diminish the feel of him coming inside me, the insistent jet of come that marks me as his. It was a primitive feeling—skin to skin, the hot wash of come.

I feel claimed even though I don’t believe in things like that.

I search through his drawers and find a large pair of cotton workout shorts and a white T-shirt that hangs off one shoulder. They’re too big for me, but I don’t mind. They’re like armor, and I need all the protection I can get. I’m too exposed right now, too vulnerable in every way that matters—at least I can pretend that my body is still my own.

When I come back into the living space, he’s on the phone in the kitchen.

He paces, vibrating with tension. “We need to find him before he—”

There’s a pause.

“I can’t take that risk,” West says, practically growling. “I don’t even want to leave her alone until they’re gone.”

Another pause.

Then a sigh. “Yeah, I got it. Thank you. I mean it.”

It must be Blue on the other end of the line. I can tell by the familiar way West speaks, full of trust and friendship. I linger in the living room, knowing I shouldn’t be listening. It’s like the laughter I heard at the baby shower—alluring but not for me.

He hangs up and notices me. His expression flashes blank fast enough that I know exactly who he was talking about with Blue.
Me.

“You’re looking for Jeb?” I ask.

He doesn’t flinch, but his expression is wary. He comes closer. “We need to make sure they’re not going to target the Grand anymore.”

“It’s okay.” It’s only natural they would be looking for Jeb. I’m surprised he let Maisie leave at all. Maybe some old-world chivalry thing. But Maisie is just as guilty as Jeb—and I’m as guilty as them both. “I understand.”

“You do?”

“You have to do your job and protect the Grand.” And I’m not going to fight him or evade him. Not anymore. He can fuck me until he’s ready to turn me over to Ivan. Or maybe he’ll let me go. I don’t even care anymore. They’re both the same. They both mean losing him.

“That’s right.” His voice is cautious.

“And you want to make sure we leave the city,” I continue, my voice cracking. “That’s only fair, considering what we tried to do.”

His expression darkens. “You’re not leaving, Bianca. Not when I just got you here.”

I bite my lip. “I don’t understand. Why would you want to keep me after what I did?”

The obvious answer is my body, but I don’t fool myself. There’s an entire club full of beautiful girls at the Grand—girls who never tried to steal. He’s sexy and kind. He would have no trouble finding a girl to sleep with him. There’s no reason why he should want me.