Hit Me (The Bailey Boys #2) (7 page)

It was a trick that worked on almost any straight man. Married or single, she could make him look, make him respond, make him say and do things he would almost certainly regret. It had got her into many risky situations, and out of many more.

The epitome of this thrill for her was with a man like Hristo Markov, or Lee Bailey. Not that they were the same – indeed, they were very different in most ways.

But both were hard men. Fighters. Villains who lived outside the normal rules of society. The kind of men other guys avoided, would avert their gaze from and stare at the floor when eye contact was made.

And she, Imelda Maria Sanchez, could make even a man like that go weak at the knees with a glance, make his belly flip when she met his look, make him give that little-boy look when he was anything but a small, weak child.

It was a talent. A skill she had developed. A trick.

And now, she stood in the entrance to this somewhat brash English bar, met Lee Bailey’s look and held it, and watched his expression transform from surprise, through recognition, to undeniable, base need.

She should feel guilty for allowing herself to manipulate him so.

She should feel bad that she was laying it on so thick, here to have him, to use and manipulate him.

But the strongest feeling she felt was confusion – that underlying all this was the knowledge that he did the same thing to her. That his look reached into
her
belly and made it flip, that one of the reasons she lingered so long in the doorway was that she didn’t trust her knees to take her weight if she tried to move.

She shouldn’t be feeling this way.

She hadn’t come here for this.

She certainly hadn’t come here to
fall
.

§

The place was busy, no free tables, only a few spaces at the bar.

One of the spaces was a spare barstool by Lee.

Imelda went across and he stood. He seemed awkward, nervous. As if he didn’t know what to do. Hug her? Kiss her? Shake her by the hand – that would be so very English!

She stepped up to him, put a hand on each of his arms and leaned into his space. Her thighs pressed against his, her breasts squashed against his hard chest. She breathed him in: the beer he’d been drinking, an aftershave that was mostly citrus and spice, and that underlying scent that was him – the essence of
him
she so longed to taste on his skin.

She pressed her lips against his cheek. Brief softness against the scratch of his stubble. Pulled away, stepped back.

Briefly, she hugged herself. Couldn’t help it – as if a wave of something had passed over her, a physical and emotional thing she didn’t understand.

“Hey,” she said softly.

“Hey.”

A blonde girl loitered nearby behind the bar, studying the pair of them closely. Hair cropped short, tattoos peeping out of her cropped top. The brother’s girl: Jess.

Imelda smiled at her, sensing hostility, protectiveness.

Dean shrugged at the girl, raised his eyebrows, waggled his head.

After a pause, Jess allowed her shoulders to drop a little, some of the tension to slip away.

A whole conversation between the three of them, with no words.

Jess turned away, Lee indicated the vacant stool, and the two of them sat.

“Can I get you a drink?” said Jess, over her shoulder.

“One of those would be good, thank you,” Imelda said, pointing at Lee’s Estrella.

They waited while Jess poured the beer into a glass and then, finally, Lee put a hand on Imelda’s forearm and said, “You okay? I saw the other night. Markov. He looked pissed with you.”

Imelda shook her head briefly, dismissively.

“Did he touch you?”

She smiled, and shook her head again. “He does not touch me.”

“I didn’t mean... I meant...”

Lee didn’t give the impression of a man who normally struggled for words, and indeed the two of them had spoken endlessly the other night. She couldn’t help but play on his awkwardness now, though: a double meaning here, a look there. Anything to give her the upper hand – that old survival thing.

His hand was still on her forearm, and now she placed her free hand on it.

“It’s okay,” she said. “Nothing happened. He is a bully. He thinks he still owns me, is all. Thinks I must always be at his...” She shrugged.

“Beck and call.”

“That.”

Lee nodded, looking thoughtful. “You want me to talk to him?”

She knew what that meant, and quickly shook her head. “I am handling it, yes?” She reached for the beer, took a long sip.

“How did you find me here?”

“I ask around.” Hastily, she added, “Discreetly. You told me your brother and his girl have a bar. Fearless, he told me the place is here in San Pedro. He say if you’re not around Puerto Libre then this is where you will probably be.”

“So why did you come find me?”

She met his look then. Met it with one of her own, the kind that makes a man’s knees go weak and his belly twist and his heart race like it’s trying to break free.

“I came because how could I not? I came because I had to.”

And this time when she stepped forward from the stool, moved into his personal space so that their legs pressed, her breasts squashed against him and her lips found him it was his mouth that they found. An abrupt pressure, her soft lips against his firmer, thinner ones. A slight parting, the tip of her tongue against his lips.

And then pulling away.

“I came here because of you.”

§

He had a room on the next floor.

A dark door to one side of the bar opened into a small lobby, two other doors off it, a narrow stairway leading up.

There was no light in the lobby when the door swung shut again. All a murky darkness where little detail could be resolved. Cramped spaces, so that elbows and hips and shoulders banged against walls as Lee turned to Imelda, looped his arms around her ribcage, hands to either side of the small of her back, sliding down, cupping her ass, lifting her from the ground so that her legs – thanks to that long slit in her skirt – had to lift, and wrap themselves around his waist as he pressed her back against the wall.

The abrupt transition was intense, heady.

From the gabbling noise of the bar, the animated faces and voices, the light and movement, to the swinging of that door as it closed, the descent into darkness, where Lee’s pale face seemed like a ghost and the space seemed suddenly so small and compact.

The sudden physicality. The brute strength of him, the way he lifted her from the ground so easily.

The way his arms enfolded her in an embrace that was both tender and unrelenting, an embrace that would never be prized open.

The hunger of his kiss, nothing like the brief, polite kisses they’d exchanged in the bar. The bruising press of his lips, the tongue pressing into her mouth, the clash of teeth as he possessed her with that kiss.

His chest was hard against her breasts. His hips like rock where her legs wrapped around him.

And the pressure in between... The hardness of his body – the belt and buttons, the thick seams of his jeans, the hardness they contained... All pressing against her. All bringing to mind that kiss in the street, the way their bodies had fitted then and how all these feelings had found their focus, transformed into something else; how just a twist of the hips adjusting the pressure of the contact had been all it took.

She pulled away from his kiss, tipped her head back, was panting raggedly, wildly.

He sensed the change in her, the pulling back from the edge.

He drew his head away as if trying to peer at her in the gloom.

His hands on her ass, taking her weight, eased her away from him, lowered her.

She found the floor with her feet, thought she might keep sliding down that wall in a heap and tried to convince herself that was a balance thing on those narrow heels and not that her knees had gone so weak they could not bear her weight.

He reached for her, took her hand. Turned towards the stairs and took a step up.

She had to follow in his wake, led by that iron grip on her hand.

At the top, he turned left, pushed at a door and led her inside.

It was a small room. Space for a double bed, a cabinet, a sports bag on the floor. A small window looked over the street.

He released her hand, moved deeper into the room, leaving her by the door.

Light flicked on, a bedside lamp, and she saw him more clearly now, standing there like a caged animal, held back only by a thread of self-restraint.

Slowly, Imelda reached for her blouse, found the first button that was fastened, twisted it so that it slid through the opening and the top pulled open a fraction more. She let her hand stay there, resting softly on her breasts.

His eyes were fixed on that hand.

He rocked back on his heels. Forward.

That thread of self-restraint was not going to last.

Imelda knew how to strip for a man. Like so many things, it was always in the eyes.

She waited until Lee’s gaze flicked up and then she met that look, held it, gave a slight, almost imperceptible, shake of her head. Now it was no longer self-restraint that held him in check, it was that look.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Even as she moved her hand down over the curve of a breast, found the next button, slipped long fingers inside. Turned fingers and thumb so she could ease the button free.

Still, his eyes were locked on hers, and he could only see all this through peripheral vision. See her hand slide inside her blouse, take the weight of one full breast.

She swept her thumb downward, finding the hard stub of her erect nipple through the fabric of her bra. Her mouth parted a little in involuntary response, and Lee’s eyes widened, his jaw twitched, and still she held his look.

Another button.

Another, until only two remained.

Finally, her blouse hung loose. With a roll of the shoulders, she let it drop partway; when she pulled at the sleeves it came free, fell to the floor.

Her bra was pale, white with a filigree of silver lace. The cups held her breasts beautifully poised, pushed slightly up and together to make the most of their size.

Her panties matched, a tiny thong with a panel of that white and silver lace at the front. All still hidden from that hungry gaze.

She reached down, pressed the flat of one hand against her sex through her skirt. Rolled her hips.

Still holding his look.

Her other hand moved to the side of her waist, found the button, the hook, the short zipper, and a moment later the skirt slid languidly down the length of her legs until she stood before him in just bra and that tiny, matching thong.

He made as if to move, as if he believed he had the strength to break her hold on him.

A slight shake of the head again was all it took, and he remained standing there, jaw tense, eyes fixed on hers, fists opening and closing. The muscles and veins on his bare arms stood out with the tension. She needed to see the rest of that ripped body, see the tautness in the muscles of his chest, his abdomen...

There was so much that was strange about this situation, about this thing between them. But one of the very strangest was that this man who stood before her about to burst, this man who had lifted her from the ground and kissed her, who had made her come harder than she could remember before... until now he had not seen her like this. Had not seen her breasts uncovered, seen her bare ass, her pussy. Had not tasted the sweet juices of her sex. Had not touched her
there
.

“You made me come,” she said now. “That time in the street when you kissed me. When I clung to you because otherwise I would fall. When I tried to disguise it. Just your touch... your body against mine... you made me come.”

And, slowly, she moved around the room, around him.

His head turned to follow the sinuous movements of her walk.

“Did you come?” she continued. “Later? Did you touch yourself?”

She saw the answer in his eyes. Imagined those powerful hands closed around his shaft. Had it been hard and fast, or had he drawn it out with long, slow strokes? When he loved himself was it sensitive and with finesse, or was it a brutal thing?

And when he loved
her
...

“
¡Hazme el amor!
” she said, from just behind his ear. “Make love to me, Lee Bailey. Fuck me.”

§

His arm snaked out, looped easily around her waist.

So easy. Such physical control. Such strength.

For a moment he held her like that, just one arm. The spread of his hand covered the small of her back, his forearm slotted into the inner curve of her waist, between ribs and hip.

She felt the heat of his skin. The contrast between taut, smooth skin and the tight, sinuous muscles beneath.

It was Lee’s turn to hold her with a look. Eyes locked on hers. Intense.

If, up until now he had been hers and she had been reeling him in, now she was his.

Undeniably, meltingly his.

She was acutely aware of the butterfly-flutter of her heart, of the tightness in her abdomen, of the sudden wet heat between her legs.

She was ready for him, so ready for him.

He drew her in, one hand still on her back while the other moved to her hip, slid round to cup her ass. Hard hand on smooth, sensitive skin.

She gasped as that hand tightened, exploring the firmness of the flesh, the movement. Pulling the thong up tight against her sex.

She molded herself against his body, savoring the strength – like a storm, like the sea, his was a fundamental strength, an irresistible force.

He dipped his head, kissed the hollow between neck and shoulder, dragging teeth and stubble against her.

Every inch of her body felt sensitized, every feeling heightened.

She reached for his white shirt, pulled it free of his jeans, started to fumble with the buttons but he just stepped back, seized it and pulled it up over his head.

His chest was so broad! The muscles seemed to stack up in layers, an impression only heightened by the tattoos – wild, primal designs in dark ink that moved and distorted as those muscles slid against one another.