Living in Secret: Living In..., Book 3 (14 page)

“Keep still,” he breathed in her ear. “Don’t fucking move.”

But she wanted to move. She wanted to keep pushing. So she began to turn around. He cursed and shoved her back against the wall, and this time he took her hands and pinned them above her head again. Victoria pulled against him, the movement prompting another of the knickknacks in the shelves nearby to fall. And perversely it gave her pleasure to see it break.

In fact, she wouldn’t mind if everything in this pristine, sterile fucking room broke. If the couches were ripped, stuffing strewn everywhere. The electronics pulled from the wall and smashed on the floor. The stupid black-and-white art pictures thrown over chairs, the canvases ripped.

Because she didn’t want white and pristine and sterile. She didn’t want calm. Not anymore.

Connor growled again as she pulled against his hold, plastering her to the wall with his body. “Beautiful little bitch.” His breath was against her neck. “You want me to fuck you hard? Be my filthy slut?”

She struggled to get a breath, her heartbeat so loud it was like a plane taking off. “You can try. But I’m not sure you’re man enough for me.”

He laughed, a low, savage sound that wound her excitement even tighter. “You think you can play with me, don’t you, dirty girl? Well, we’ll see who’s in charge when I’m buried balls deep in your cunt.” His fingers tightened around her wrists. “Legs apart. Now.”

The dirty talk was insanely hot, his hard grip even hotter. “Make me.”

He obliged, kicking her legs apart. “That was easy. But then you don’t really want to make this difficult for me, do you? Not when you’re so fucking greedy for me.”

She was shivering now, feeling sharp movements behind her. Then came the rip of foil and he must have torn the condom packet open with his teeth because his grip on her wrists didn’t falter. She couldn’t help herself, shoving back against him, thrilled when he cursed viciously and shoved back, her cheek pressed hard to the wall.

And then his cock was pushing inside her in a deep, hard thrust.

“Oh…God….” The words were sharp, desperate. “Connor…”

He didn’t pause and he didn’t hold back, driving into her, each thrust shoving her against the wall. “You want more and harder, you have to tell me. Give me the words, Victoria.” His hips flexed, his voice rougher, darker. “And you’d better make it fucking dirty otherwise you won’t get what you want.”

She closed her eyes, feeling the slide of his cock, the stretch of her sex around him, the weight of his body pinning her. She was surrounded by heat and power, the sheer force of his fury. It was like being in the middle of a hurricane and she loved every second.

“Fuck me,” she whispered. “Fuck me harder.”

“Where shall I fuck you, Victoria? Where do you want my cock?”

“I want it in…my pussy.”

He reached her with his free hand, jerking on her blouse and pulling it open. “I said make it dirty.”

She didn’t like to swear and she most especially didn’t like the word he wanted from her. But it was so erotic hearing him say it to her and she wanted to give it back. Especially when his hand roughly pushed her bra up and took her breast in his palm. “I want…” He squeezed her, pinched her nipple. “I want your cock in my c-cunt.”

“Louder.” He thrust again. “I didn’t hear you.”

She lost patience. “Shut up and fuck me, you prick!” She shoved back against him again. “Harder. I want it harder!”

And he did. Hard and deep, and with each thrust she was sure she could feel the walls tremble. Or maybe that was just her. Maybe that was just the orgasm beginning to build like lava underneath a volcano. Heavy and hot and unstoppable.

More things fell off the shelf but neither of them noticed.

There was nothing but panting and sweat and raw, animal lust.

He drove himself inside her and she could feel herself begin to break apart, cracking like the vase. Cool and calm Victoria Blake, shattering. Leaving someone else in her place.

Connor’s dirty girl.

Then the hand on her breast dropped between her legs, pinching her clit, and she came fast and she came hard, sobbing against the wall as he found his own release, his hoarse cry loud in her ear.

For a long time she didn’t move and neither did he, his breathing fast and hot against her neck. He’d let go of her wrists and it was only his arm sliding around her waist that kept her upright.

The high of the orgasm began to fade, leaving her feeling raw and bruised and strangely frightened for reasons she didn’t understand.

Then his mouth moved against her neck, a soft brush of his lips so at odds with the roughness of the sex they’d just had, that she didn’t know quite what to do. A shiver wracked her. It was gentle, almost…tender.

“Don’t run away, Victoria,” he whispered. “Stay the night. Please.”

Chapter Nine

He shouldn’t have said it like that, as if he was helpless and needy when he wasn’t either of those things. And yet he couldn’t stop the words from coming out.

She smelled of passion and sex. Rain-drowned magnolia and musk. Her softness against him was like a gift he didn’t know he’d wanted.

Christ, he thought he’d been so good, forcing himself not to take her in the hallway. Forcing himself to keep control and walk away. But she hadn’t let him. She’d made him confront her, take her. Give her his anger and now he felt…hollowed out.

He wanted to get away from her, get some space to put himself back together again and yet he didn’t want to let her go. It was as if the smell of her, the feel of her, filled the empty, hollowed out space in a way he didn’t understand and yet craved anyway.

Victoria was silent, standing motionless in front of him.

And he wished he’d never phrased it like a fucking question. Wished he’d just ordered her upstairs and into his bed like he had the night before because then she’d have to do it.

“I’m not running,” she said at last, her voice frayed as torn silk. “You were clear what you wanted.”

He didn’t know why he felt such relief but he did all the same. And he didn’t want to step away from her, wanted to keep holding her like this, her body against his, savoring the unfamiliar joys of physical closeness while he could.

Eventually though, he knew he had to move. Slowly, he withdrew from her then smoothed down her skirt, noticing the fabric had torn. Jesus Christ. “I’m sorry. I’m going to have to buy you a new skirt.”

“It’s okay. I don’t like skirts much anyway.” She was leaning against the wall as if she couldn’t move, her forehead pressed to the smooth expanse of paint. Her hair, which had been in her usual neat work bun, had come loose, inky black curls falling down over her neck and shoulders.

He reached up and began to gently tuck the silky strands back into the bun. Still she didn’t move, allowing him to tidy her hair without comment. As he neatened up the last lock, he noticed marks on the side of her neck. The marks of his teeth.

A small current of ice wound through him.

Blood everywhere. His mother lying unconscious amidst the shattered glass. His father standing there, still shouting at her. So much violence. That’s all his father was about. Live by the sword, die by the sword…

And you’re just the same.

He pushed away from her, his hands shaking. “Why don’t you go upstairs and have a shower? I’ll get dinner ready.”

Victoria turned around and leaned back against the wall. Her eyes were half-closed, her mouth red and kiss-swollen. And he could feel the hunger for her rise in him again. The need to tear off her clothes and have her bare skin against his.

She gave him a sultry, indolent look. “You don’t want to join me?”

He did. But he wasn’t going to. He needed the time to collect himself and more sex wasn’t going to do that. “Not yet.” Turning away, he added, “This dinner won’t cook itself.”

She didn’t press so he left her to it, using the bathroom downstairs to clean himself up then going back into the kitchen to see to the food he’d put in the oven earlier.

He’d made a lamb tagine as soon as he’d gotten home from work, remembering a conversation they’d had years before about places she’d always wanted to visit. Morocco and the Middle East had featured highly. So he’d cooked something he hoped she might like, adding a cucumber and tomato salad and couscous. The simple task of cutting up the tomatoes and the cucumber was calming, the wild beat of his heart steadying as he put them into a plain white bowl.

Okay, so he’d promised himself he wouldn’t hold back with her. That he’d give in to every dark urge he’d ever had. But he didn’t like how those urges overtook him, overpowered him. How they seemed to hook into the anger living just beneath the surface of his skin.

He’d always prided himself on the fact he treated women with respect. That he didn’t take part and actively frowned on the casual sexism that so often cropped up in his job. It was another thing that set him apart from his father, who’d treated his wife like she was his own personal slave.

And yet here he was, shoving a woman against a wall. Calling her a bitch. A slut. Tearing her clothing. Biting her. Not just any woman either. The woman who was his wife.

He stared down at the bowl in front of him, at the green and red of the fresh vegetables.

Had this week been a mistake? Was letting himself off the leash dangerous? Both for her and for him? Because God knew, he’d never forgive himself if anything happened to her. If he hurt her. He wasn’t a man who hurt women. He’d
never
be that man.

Yet something wasn’t right. The setback with the Anderson case was fairly major, but he’d had setbacks with cases before and hadn’t felt nearly so furious as he had when he’d gotten home that day. He certainly had never taken out that anger and frustration on anyone else before.

What was happening to him?

Perhaps you should call it off? Sign the papers now?

Well, that was one way to fix it. And yet the thought of it was…not acceptable. He wasn’t ready to end the week. Despite the dangers, he wanted more. Which made him not only a selfish prick but a sick one too.

“Hey? Are you okay?”

He looked up from the salad and his heart nearly stopped.

Victoria was leaning against the doorframe, her arms folded. Her hair was loose and damp down her back, and all she wore was one of his white business shirts. The hem came down to mid-thigh, leaving her legs bare and if he wasn’t very much mistaken, she wasn’t even wearing underwear.

“I’m fine.” He straightened, desire igniting inside him once more. “Did I say you could borrow one of my shirts?”

Her mouth curved, as if his response had pleased her. “No. But seeing as how you ruined both my skirt and my panties, you kind of owed me.”

Something else had joined the desire slowly hardening his cock and making his blood pump hard. A possessive kind of feeling, one that approved very much of her in his shirt.
Mine
, it said.

“Keep it on,” he heard himself say. “You look fucking sexy. And I like seeing you in something of mine.”

Her gaze held his for a long moment then her smile deepened, pink glazing the smooth olive of her cheekbones. “Well, thank you. I rather like it myself. Anyway, that smells good.”

“Go sit down and I’ll bring it out.” Best they ate now. Before he grabbed her and had her on one of the kitchen counters.

They ate at the big glass and white wrought iron dining table they’d both chosen when they’d first bought the house. They’d both liked the clean lines and restrained elegance of it, but they almost never sat there eating dinner together. Their schedules had always been too busy.

So it was strange to sit there, eating a meal he’d prepared, watching her sit opposite wearing nothing but one of his business shirts, her only other adornment the black cloud of hair he was rapidly becoming obsessed with.

She wasn’t the reserved, cool woman he’d married now. She was someone else, somehow different. And he found himself watching her, fascinated.

“This is good,” she said, forking up some lamb. “Middle Eastern, right?”

“It’s a lamb tagine. From Morocco. You said you wanted to visit it once.”

She raised a brow. “You remembered that?”

Connor leaned back in his chair, idly playing with the glass of red wine he held. “The night we met. At the law school ball. You said you wanted to travel and that you wanted to go to Morocco.”

“God, really? That was years ago.”

It had been but it was fixed in his memory. She’d worn a plain, classy black dress, different to all the other women in their tight, glittery outfits. He’d been drawn to her cool intellect and the air of reserve about her, admiring both qualities. There had been nothing overly passionate or intense about her and he’d appreciated that. Been attracted to it because it had suited him. He hadn’t been looking for either passion or intensity.

“I still remember.”

She gave him a look he couldn’t interpret, then glanced away, chewing thoughtfully on her lamb before swallowing and reaching for her wine. “Well, perhaps I’ll actually get to go while I’m in England. Be nice to travel somewhere different.”

He shifted in his chair, trying to tear his gaze from the view of her bare thighs he could see through the glass of the tabletop. She had her legs tucked under her, the hem of the shirt hiding the shadowed space between her thighs. But still he couldn’t seem to stop looking.

“What about Jessica?” he asked, distracted.

There was a pause.

“I’m not sure you have the right to ask me that question.”

Her tone was cool, even. A return of the Victoria he’d married, not the sexy woman with the sensual smile who had greeted him in the kitchen earlier.

He finally tore his gaze from her legs and met her dark eyes. There was no heat in them now, or that sensual amusement of before. They were cold, a door slamming shut in his face.

It made him angry for some reason. “I don’t care whether I have the right or not. Will you let her know you’re going?”

Her face had gotten a hard, set look. The one she’d had when he’d confronted her about the letter. The one that had so often been on her face the last couple of years. “No,” she said flatly. “I won’t.”

He should leave it alone, he really should. But he didn’t. “Why not? Don’t you think she’d want to know?”

Carefully Victoria set her wine glass down. “I don’t want to discuss Jessica with you, Connor. So can we change the subject please?”

“Why?”

Her expression didn’t change. “I’m asking nicely.”

No, he didn’t want her looking at him like this. Like he was a stranger or one of her colleagues, or someone she’d only just met.

You were happy enough with it for five years.

Yeah, well, he wasn’t happy with it anymore. Not now he knew what it was like when she was wild with passion, when she looked at him with fire in her brown eyes, wanting him. Needing him. He wanted more of
that
not this…cold, shutdown gaze.

“Fuck nicely,” he said, deliberately coarse. “We’ve had
nice
for too damn long, don’t you think? Why don’t you just answer the question for once in your life?”

And finally, her expression cracked, a hint of furious anger leaking out before she looked away, back down at the table. “Fine. Then you can tell me about that tattoo on your back. The one you’ve never said a word about.”

Fuck, turnabout was a bitch.

Silence fell, oppressive as storm clouds on a mountaintop.

You don’t have to tell her everything. You don’t have to tell her what a fucking hypocrite you are and always have been.

Connor raised his glass and drained it, the wine sitting warm and heavy inside him. “That tattoo? Okay, it’s meant to be a reminder. Live by the sword, die by the sword. I was eighteen when I got it so you’ll forgive me if I’m a little embarrassed about it now.”

She stared at him, the surprise obvious on her face. “Oh. Why did you need a reminder like that?”

He’d never mentioned his family to her. Not once. And he really didn’t want to talk about them now. “Because I grew up in a shitty area, around a lot of violence. And I didn’t want to turn into one of the people I grew up with. Does that answer your question?”

Her gaze held his for a second then it flickered away again, the set expression on her face fading. But her mouth still had a tight cast to it. “Yes,” she said after a moment. “It does.” She paused. “Jessica didn’t ask me to contact her. So I’ve decided to leave it at that.” There was no emotion in her voice, only a cool statement of fact.

Connor studied her. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking, what she was feeling. Whether this was painful or otherwise for her. But he remembered the way she’d absolutely refused to talk to him about the letter. About Jessica. And how, as she’d walked out of the house, he could have sworn he’d seen the briefest flash of agony in her eyes.

“Why?” he said, pushing, even though he knew it wasn’t a good idea. “Don’t you want to know about her?”

“No. I think it’s best if I don’t.” Her tone said plainly this was the end of the discussion.

But for some reason he couldn’t leave it alone. “Why not? Don’t you think your daughter would want to know her mother?”

“That’s my decision, Connor.”

“Are you afraid to meet her? Is that what the problem is?”

She looked at him, her expression a mask. “It’s got nothing to do with you, so how about you stop asking me about it?”

No, he was wrong. He did know what she was feeling. She was in pain, he could see it now. In the way she avoided the subject, in the tightness around her eyes and mouth. And it was so bloody obvious he didn’t know why he’d never seen it before.

Because you’ve never seen her face relaxed in passion, in heat and pleasure before. Now you know the difference.

Again that strange tightening in his chest. Like regret.

He held her gaze. “She wouldn’t have sent that letter if she didn’t want contact, Victoria.”

“Screw you,” Victoria said abruptly, anger bleeding into her voice. “What gives you the right to pass comment? You know nothing about either the situation or her, so why don’t you shut up?” She shoved away her plate. “You wanted me to stay the night so I’m staying. But I’m not having heart-to-heart chats about our lives, our marriage or anything else. You wanted to fuck me, so fuck me.”

Connor’s blue-eyed gaze felt like broken glass cutting into her. Slicing deep into sensitive flesh with the precision of a scalpel, excising the truth from her. And she held it because to look away would mean he was right, she was afraid.

But he wasn’t right. Jessica didn’t want contact. If she had, she’d have said something in the letter and she hadn’t. And Victoria was happy with that. It had been enough to know her daughter had had a good life, a successful job, was loved by her adoptive family. Enough to know her decision to give Jessica up for adoption had been the right one. The only one.