Mine Until Morning (37 page)

237

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She traced her thumb along the five-o’clock shadow on his chin. “Call me when you get there.” So I know you’re safe. Her final words might have been unsaid, but he heard them just the same.

Yeah, things were different. His orgasm had been cataclysmic, and as he’d come down off the high with her in his arms, he’d forgotten they weren’t alone. His mind erased that he’d fucked another woman before Isabel took him. Even now, he wasn’t sure whether the climax had been so mind-blowing because of all the things she and Noelle had done to him. Or because of her words. I love you.

He hadn’t said them back.

She wiped a smudge of her lipstick from his mouth, though oddly, her lips were still in perfect condition. “That security line’s a nightmare. You better go before you’re late for your flight.” She straightened his tie, smoothed her fingers down his lapel, laid her palm over his heart. It was so . . . wifely. I love you.

Why couldn’t he say the words?

“Okay, yeah, gotta go.” He didn’t want to leave. Pulling her in again for one last kiss, he felt like an eighteen-year-old going off to college and leaving his high school sweetheart behind. The gut-twisting moment when you’re terrified everything will be changed when you see her again. The same feeling he’d had thirty years ago.

HER BELLY ACHED LIKE WITHDRAWALS. HE’D BEEN GONE FIVE DAYS. In the past few months, they’d been apart longer than that. But that was before. Somehow she’d separated their relationship into the time before Noelle and Dax . . . and the time after.

He hadn’t asked her to go to his daughter’s recital. Of course, she wouldn’t have gone anyway. But sometimes she thought about his kids. She imagined him with a baby in his arms. He was a good father. She was afraid she would have been a bad mother. It was better he never asked her to meet them. But that night, God, that night with Noelle, he’d finally accepted her. It changed everything between them.

Isabel put the finishing touches on her makeup. Her heart wasn’t in it tonight. She’d made the date before Palm Springs. Another before. In fact, she hadn’t been on a date since she’d initiated the prince. But, as mayor of a major East Coast city, her client considered himself American royalty and requested her 238

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because she was the top tier. In his mind, that made her the best, the most desirable.

She didn’t generally like to be dictated to, but with all practicality, his money was hard to say no to. It was also a business matter. He brought her a lot of clients. Pissing him off wasn’t wise.

She’d always enjoyed the sex and the affirmation. But now, Royce accepted her. Now it wouldn’t be the same without him. There wouldn’t be that special connection. Like what Dax and Noelle shared.

She needed the connection. Funny, all those months ago she’d told Noelle how dangerous it was to be so dependent on one man. Now she craved it. It was time to give up her clients. She didn’t need them anymore. She had Royce. If they needed an extra kick, she’d find someone to join them. Tonight, she’d tell the mayor it would be the last time with her. He’d have to choose a new girl.

HE SHOULD HAVE CALLED, TOLD HER HE WAS COMING. HE’D CUT HIS

Cincinnati trip short, crammed everything he’d needed to accomplish into three days instead of the five he’d planned on.

He should have learned not to surprise her.

Fuck. Where was she?

Royce sat on her fragile living room sofa. It was after midnight, and the night sky was damp with fog, seemingly devoid of stars. He’d been in the same position before, waiting for her. He closed his eyes against the clench in his gut. Maybe she was out with girlfriends.

Except that he didn’t believe Isabel had girlfriends in the traditional sense. If she was out with friends, well, hell, that probably meant she was having sex with them.

Fuck.

She’d never said she wouldn’t date. She’d never said she wouldn’t fuck some other guy when he was gone. Or maybe two or three or four—hell, how about a whole fucking gang bang?

He rose, paced, his stride eating up her Persian carpet, back and forth, back and forth, in front of the picture window.

Until headlights slashed across the road below. He stood on the edge looking out. A black Town Car, one of her preferences. The suited driver climbed out, 239

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rounded the hood, opened the door, and held out a hand. A vision in gold lamé

stepped out.

Royce backed away from the window. Not that she could see him three floors above in her darkened window. Not that he cared if she saw. He was the one who didn’t want to fucking see.

He remembered lying on that same goddamn sofa all those months ago. Waiting for her. Wondering if he was actually in love with her. The question had changed. Because yes, he was definitely goddamn in love with her. But did he love the woman she’d become? Or the woman he wanted her to be?

The only thing he was totally sure of was that he couldn’t abide her so-called dates. He wasn’t built like Dax Deacon where he got off on her calling him to relay every dirty detail. He didn’t want to be tied to a fucking chair watching some other man enjoy her. He’d come far enough that he could actually contemplate sharing her, but he had to be involved, touching, kissing, something. That was his limit. But she had none. He hated to think how she paid for the car and the flat, her clothes, her jewelry, even the food she ate. He was so fucking jealous he couldn’t think straight, and he was afraid of what would come out of his mouth when she walked in that door. He wasn’t sure he could contain the emotions roiling inside him. If he wasn’t very, very careful, he’d set fire to the bridge they’d built between them. He flopped heavily onto the sofa, its delicate frame creaking, straining, and dropped his head into his hands. He knew he had it good. What other woman in the world would actually let her man fuck another woman, enjoy it, participate in it, give him that kind of ultimate freedom? Yet he wanted her over that freedom. He couldn’t go on this way. He didn’t know how to change it without losing her. Yet if he didn’t do something, he’d lose himself. The lock clicked loudly through the flat. Then her heels tapped on the hardwood. Until she stopped at the edge of the carpet. His briefcase and bag sat in the hall where he’d dropped them the moment he’d entered the cold, dark, silent apartment.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” she said, her tone neutral.

“I wasn’t sure I’d make it out.” Leaning over, he flipped on a standing lamp.

“It was starting to snow in Cincinnati.” Yet he would have camped out all night at the airport waiting if he’d had to.

Why hadn’t he called, at least about his intentions? Because he’d wanted to 240

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catch her at something?

She shifted on her feet, stepping out of the shoes, then padded across the carpet. “Well, I’m so glad you came.” She leaned down for a kiss, her fingers sweet and warm on his cheek.

Not a hair was out of place, her gold dress sparkled, and her lipstick was perfect, her breath minty fresh. Yet the scent of sex clung to her, making him both hard and angry.

She came down on the sofa beside him, one knee hooked beneath her, and laid an arm along the back. “Well, then, this is an extra unexpected pleasure.”

He thought a spark of wariness passed through her gaze. A wave of near rage swept through him, and he wanted to rip off her dress, tear her panties, spread her legs, and fuck her, mark her with his scent, show her exactly who she belonged to. His cock throbbed with the need.

He could feel his breath rasp harshly in his throat, an ache in his eyeballs, his heart rapping against his ribs, and the rush of blood through his eardrums. Christ, he loved her. But she tore his guts out. Her chest rose, her breath suddenly rapid. “What’s wrong?”

As if someone or something else had taken over his body, he saw a hand rise to the thigh-high slit in her dress. The material gave way with a loud rip, the tear reaching all the way to her navel.

Her trimmed pussy was bare. No stockings, no panties, just all that pink flesh. He scented her again, not just sex, but her own pure, sweet arousal. Had he made her wet? Or was it residual from fucking some other asshole?

“Condom,” she whispered, going for her purse.

“Fuck the condom.” He didn’t even unbuckle, simply tore at his zipper and pulled his cock from his briefs. Yet instead of spreading her legs, he rose over her, fisted his hand in her hair, and shoved his cock between her parted lips. She made a noise, held him off with a hand on his hip, until finally, she opened, took him deep. Her moan vibrated along his cock. Christ, he wanted her mouth filled. He didn’t want her words, didn’t want to hear her say she loved him after she’d been out fucking some fat cat with cash bulging his pockets. He needed his own words. “Suck me. Christ, I need your mouth on me. Make me come. Drain me.” Be mine, only mine. Yet he wouldn’t say he loved her, wouldn’t give her the power. He pushed her back against the sofa arm, fucked her mouth, pumping hard, 241

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fast, deep. She took everything he had to give, spread her legs, and added her own pleasure to the mix. The orgasm built in his balls, behind his eyelids, in his throat, choking off the words he would have said. Her mouth was so good, so warm and wet, so willing, so fucking expert. She worked him, worked herself, and he was no longer the one in control, no longer taking her but the one being taken. He clamped fingers hard on the back of the sofa, his joints aching, his eyes squeezed shut so that there was nothing but stars behind his lids and the feel and scent of her in his head.

He shot his load hard, deep, his gut contracting, his mind spiraling to another dimension where someone who sounded like him shouted out words he never would have given her tonight.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. God, I love you. I so fucking love you.”

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11

“NOW, THAT WAS HOT,” SHE MURMURED AGAINST HIS HEATED SKIN. Pinned beneath him on the sofa, Isabel nuzzled his neck, rubbed herself on him, imprinting him.

He loved her. That was what he’d shouted. She tucked the words close to her heart and tightened her grip on him.

Yet something was wrong. Very wrong.

She shouldn’t have gone out tonight. Somewhere along the way, it had felt like cheating, all her reasons for doing it mere justifications. Finding Royce sitting in the dark flat had been like getting caught at it. Despite that they’d made no promises in that direction.

He sat up. Suddenly. Leaving her cold. Isabel shivered. Stuffing his cock back in his pants and zipping up, he didn’t even look at her, just waved a hand vaguely in the air. “Sorry about the dress.”

She straightened on the couch, pulled the dress down, but the tear left her pussy exposed with no way to cover it. “That’s okay. It was hot and worth it.”

Yet there was a lump in her throat she couldn’t swallow past. He rubbed an eye, then smoothed his hair. Finally, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Look, this isn’t working for me.”

It took her five seconds to breathe again. She didn’t have time to formulate an answer.

He clasped his hands between his legs. “I want something normal. Where you come home with me for holidays; I introduce you to my parents, my girls.”

Her heart rolled over and over in her chest, tumbling down to the very pit of her stomach. She’d waited thirty years to hear that. But he was thirty years too late. “Royce.”

“And not as a courtesan,” he added without letting her finish.

“That’s okay. We don’t have to tell them about that.”

He turned, eyed her with a dark gaze. “That’s not what I mean.”

Something trembled deep inside. She knew what was coming, and she knew they’d never survive it. “Don’t say it.”

He rose, paced to the window. “I will fucking say it. I want you to stop. Give it up. The whole thing. Be with me.” He stabbed a finger at his chest. 243

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She closed her eyes. He didn’t understand. She’d tried to explain, but he hadn’t gotten it. “I can never give it up. Courtesans kept me alive. I made a promise to Melora to take care of her girls.” All the girls like her who needed to rebuild themselves from the ground up. Without Melora and Courtesans, Isabel would have died. Literally. Courtesans was her legacy. Courtesans was her life.

“Women like Noelle?” He swept out a hand. “She doesn’t need you.”

“You don’t know her. You don’t know her story.” Noelle hadn’t come from the streets like Isabel did, but she’d been damaged nonetheless. Plenty of her courtesans had come from far more horrifying backgrounds, too. They needed her.

She wasn’t about to debate the worthiness of her legacy. Only one thing mattered. She rose from the couch, didn’t bother to hold her dress together, the dress he had torn. “It’s not your family’s business what I do for a living. You don’t have to tell them.”

He pressed his lips together. “They’ll find out. You’ve got satellite offices in all the major cities.”

And abroad. She was proud of it, but her pride wasn’t the issue. His lack of it was. “Let’s face it, Royce. You’re ashamed of me.”