Going Down (7 page)

And she was woman. Hungry woman.

Growling, she kicked at the inside of his right leg, forcing him to increase his stance. That done, she reached for his cock. Her intention had been to see how much of it fit within the palm of her hand, but before she could do more than spread her fingers over the long thick mound, he clamped his hand around her wrist. “Not going to happen, Saree. These aren't your shots to call.”

“Afraid I'm going to hurt you?”

“Not in this lifetime.”

Before she could come up with a reply, he forced her hand up and around to her back. Accustomed to such handling, she relaxed and held back the hint of panic that tried to invade her thoughts. Being in a strong man's grip always triggered her libido, and although she sometimes worried that said libido would get in the way of the instinct for survival, the thought barely touched her before she shoved it away.

This was foreplay, fun.

“What's up, big boy, you trying to duplicate what you see on your computer? Bring any handcuffs with you?”

“You love living on the edge, don't you?”

Spinning her around toward him, he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the rear of the boat. Although she ordered herself not to, she rested the side of her head against his chest and drank in his scent. He smelled of the sea and more, of male and arousal, of promise.

When he deposited her in what she now knew was called the fighting chair, she sank back in it and stared up at him. The seat had been designed for someone much larger than her and built to withstand a battle with a fish weighing more than the man or woman who'd hooked it. The chair and Reeve surrounded her, cradling and protecting and diminishing her. She was in Reeve's world, a world of strength and battle.

Running her fingers over the wooden arms, she again studied the man who seemed an integral part of his surroundings. She had no doubt that if she so much as made a move to escape, he'd force her back down, but she didn't want to leave.

Feeling small and feminine instead of the businesswoman she'd worked so hard to become, she extended a hand toward him. “What do you want?”

“You. Willingly.”

“You have it. You must know that.”

“I don't know anything about you, Saree.” The look he gave her was beyond confusion, almost as if he was lost. “You're not what I expected.”

“In what way?” Why wasn't he taking her hand?

“You're more complex.”

“And you're not?”

“No. I'm not.” He ran his fingers between hers, spreading hers and infusing them with his strength and warmth. “What you went through with your parents was incredible. I never expected…”

“You thought I was some oversexed simple-minded bimbo? Instead I turned out to be a real human being?”

“Something like that.”

Understanding he didn't want to reveal more than he already had, she contented herself with studying the contrast between his dark, competent fingers and her small, pale ones. Tonight she wasn't playing a role. Nothing was expected of her—except honesty. And although he wasn't giving her the same in return, she'd take what little he granted her.

Not sure what she had in mind, she brought their intertwined hands up to her mouth and planted a series of feathery kisses on his fingertips. The chair was on a riser above the deck floor. As a consequence, she and Reeve were nearly eye to eye. Just the same, she couldn't shake the impact of his larger and stronger body.

Damn it, she was more accustomed to the male form than the majority of women. Certainly she'd had more experience exploring the naked male and should have a familiar if not jaded reaction and response to muscle and bone, but he was far from what she was accustomed to. No experienced dom or rigger, he nevertheless exuded an undeniable alpha air.

Was that it, he was alpha wolf and she his potential mate?

Silently laughing off the absurd notion, she sucked on his fingertips. As she did, she studied him, pleased to note that his self-control was in jeopardy. With a wink as warning, she straightened a leg and slid it between his. He remained in place, prompting her to lift her leg until her shin bone found his crotch.

“A warning,” he hissed. “Unless you're ready to face the consequences, don't.”

“I'm not teasing. Did you think I was?”

“I'm just telling you how it is.”

Smiling, she started rubbing her leg against him. “This is my answer.”

Although she could have sworn he was about to say something, only silence greeted her declaration. Grabbing her leg at the thigh, he pushed up, forcing her to bend her knee. At the same time, he backed away, causing her to lose contact with him. But instead of releasing her, he continued bending her knee until he'd anchored her foot on the edge of the chair. Holding her in place with a single hand, he flipped off her sandal. That done, he rolled her leg to the outside.

Far from fighting, she slid forward a little in wordless invitation. And although her vision blurred, she kept her eyes open as he ran a hand under her shorts. His rough finger pads on the inside of her thigh made her shiver. “You're tickling—”

“That's not tickling, Saree. If you want me to demonstrate—”

“No.” Sucking in sea air, she willed herself to relax. But although she managed to leave her leg in place, she couldn't do anything about the way her nails dug into the chair arms. “I don't want…”

Inch by inch, movement by movement, his assault on her thigh continued. Although there was no doubt of his destination, she focused on the journey as he slid toward her core. The sleek skin on her inner leg was so damn sensitive, fragile almost in contrast to other parts of her body. Adding to the unsettling and sensual sensation was the knowledge that she couldn't easily break free. Oh, she could bury her nails in his flesh if fight came to fight, but what if he managed to shake off the pain while—while what?

There he was, his forefinger sliding along her panties, teasing, not asking permission to enter that private zone but demanding. Why hadn't she worn slacks?

But if she had, that would have only delayed the end result. The culmination she wanted.

On a sigh, she slid even closer so now much of her weight rested on her tailbone. Off balance, she accepted that getting away from him would be even harder now. His covered hand retreated, but only momentarily. And when he came at her again, he wasted no time working his fingers under the elastic. Her panties, bare inches of fragile fabric, nevertheless hindered his movement. Her opening remained sacred, virginal, cheated.

If he too felt cheated, he gave no indication as he leaned toward her again. At the same time, a fingertip pressed down on her labia, reaching, stretching, finding moisture. Breathing rapidly, she pushed even farther forward. Her head now rested on the back of the chair, causing her to stare at the stars.

There was just the two of them, them and the night—and hunger.

“Reeve, please.”

“Please what?”

Only vaguely aware that she'd spoken, she rolled her head to the side but still couldn't make out his features. She was limp and useless, a toy for him to play with, sex offered.

“Stand up.”

“What?”

Not waiting for her to pull herself together, he withdrew his hand but only so he could grip her upper arms and haul her to her feet. She had to spread her legs to keep from losing her balance. “Take off your shorts,” he ordered.

Just like that? Forget foreplay?

She was gathering her thoughts so she could tell him he was jumping the gun and she wasn't that easy when he hooked his fingers around her shorts' waistband and flipped the button loose. Afraid he might tear something, she slapped his hands away and handled the unzipping herself. Only then did she acknowledge a certain truth; she wasn't any more interested in foreplay than he was.

Glaring at him for taking her so far so fast, she nevertheless worked both the shorts and panties to her hips. Then, seeing herself from a distance, she stopped. “Why are we doing this?”

“Because we need to.”

Ah, of course. That made all the sense in the world. She might have told him she was grateful for his wisdom if he hadn't distracted her by again taking hold of her shorts and tugging down, taking the panties at the same time. He stopped when the garments were around her knees, his head up, eyes digging into her. “What?” she demanded.

“This.”

With that, he planted a hand over her belly and pushed, forcing her back onto the chair. She landed with a slap of skin against waterproof material. Instead of telling him he was taking a hell of a lot for granted, she let the chair surround and support her. Watching him, she splayed her legs as much as her clothes allowed.
Now what?
She challenged with her eyes.

This,
he answered. Hands out, he planted one foot on the riser. Instead of reaching for her heat, he pulled up on her top so it was now bunched just below her breasts and ran his knuckles over her belly. Trying not to squirm, she again dug her nails into the chair arms. If one or more nails broke, so be it. Despite her efforts to the contrary, her lids slid over her eyes and locked her in the darkness of her mind. She couldn't say she trusted him; how could she when things had happened so fast between them? But need powerful enough to make her think of chain and rope spun around her. For these moments she wanted only one thing—him, his body speaking to hers.

You're making me crazy,
she thought to tell him as his finger pads traced the outline of her ribs. This was private, man and woman testing each other's boundaries.

Only, she acknowledged when he dipped a thumb into her navel, he was doing the testing while she sat there like some dumb beast. A dumb, turned-on beast.

Breathing through her open mouth, she wallowed in the feel of his flesh on her skin. He seemed to be everywhere at once and yet not. Yes, he touched her from the base of her bra to just above her mons, but although she sighed and offered it to him, he didn't touch her sex. Cruel, damn him, cruel!

But maybe not. Maybe this was the foreplay they'd proclaimed they wanted nothing to do with.

Unexpected laughter nearly broke free at the thought. In her professional experience, foreplay consisted of being brought to the brink of a climax via a vibrator or expert hands. The riggers and doms almost never bothered touching anything except the maximum in erogenous zones unless it was to whip her there.

Remembered stings to her entire body opened her eyes. She stared at him.

“What?” he asked as he dropped his hands to his sides.

She couldn't keep her eyes off his fingers, couldn't kill the longing to feel them everywhere. “Nothing.”

“Regrets? Maybe you don't want this.”

“You know the answer to that.” She reached for him only to have him pull away. “What's wrong? What the hell is this about?”

Instead of reminding her of the heated moisture between her legs and her puckered nipples pressing against her bra, he shook his head. “Anyone ever call you a witch?”

“A bitch, yes, but if they used the
w
word, I don't remember.”

“You are, you know.”

Before she could begin to prepare, he'd covered her wrists with his capable hands, sealing them to the armrests. The familiar sensation of being restrained worked its enduring mood over her. In her world, restraint went hand in hand with sex. As long as he kept her like this, he could do whatever he wanted to her. Experience led her to believe he'd insist on sex, but his desires might be more complex than that.

Complex, yes, she decided as he held her not just with his hands but his dark gaze. She wasn't going to ask him what he was thinking; she wasn't! But if she didn't, maybe she'd never know what lived beneath the surface.

“I didn't want this,” he muttered. His voice was so low that the breeze might have stolen it, leaving her with something that hadn't come from his lips.

When he continued to stare at her, any thoughts that she wasn't going to react melted. Surrounded by desire, she straightened and leaned toward him. He rocked away. Then, settling himself back in place and lifting her top over her breasts, he studied her as she strained to rub her body against his. It wasn't going to happen, damn it. His arms were so long, and she couldn't maintain this position.

“You win!” Glaring, she sank back into the chair. “Does that make you happy, knowing I've declared you the winner?”

“This isn't about being happy.”

“Then what is it?”

“I don't know. That's the hell of it, I don't know.”

He was speaking in riddles—to a woman he'd imprisoned in a fishing chair, a woman with her shorts and panties around her knees and her top above her breasts. “Maybe,” she whispered, “I can help. If you'd just tell me what you're thinking—”

“You're complex. I didn't want you complex.”