Sinner (The Hades Squad #1) (3 page)

Silence broke through her enchantment. Blinking, mesmerized, and unable to remember her train of thought, she lurched to a standing position and drifted into the kitchen. On autopilot Destiny uncorked the wine, poured two glasses, arranged a platter of cheese, apples, and pears, and set everything on the coffee table.

The quiet grated on her nerves, but she forced herself to perform mundane tasks, cutting five fat carrots into logs and chopping potatoes in half, all the while listening, trying to figure out what Lincoln was doing in the bedroom. After taking two small portions of venison from the freezer, she threw everything into an enameled Dutch oven, covered the contents with some of the wine, and added dried thyme, parsley, rosemary, salt, and pepper to the pot. Earlier Destiny had said another small Hail Mary when she'd discovered the stove was fueled by gas. She set the temperature to four hundred and fifty and meandered over to the couch.

A soft
thud
reached her ears, all her nerve endings sparked and pinched, and she scrambled onto the soft upholstery, curling her legs together on one side, and reached for one of the wineglasses. Pretending she didn't hear the dull slapping of his bare feet meeting the wooden floor, she sipped the fruity merlot and leaned forward to pinch a slice of bread in half.

“You lied to me, Destiny Driven.”

She shot to her feet, her fingers slipping and sliding around the balloon goblet. The doughy bread fell to the floor.

He had her passport in his hand, the book folded to show her picture.

Naked save for a towel tied around his hips, he towered over her, and for the first time since stepping foot in the cabin, fear climbed and clogged her throat.

“Who is Sara Parker?”

Lincoln gritted his back molars as shades of cherry he'd never known existed highlighted Destiny/Sara's cheeks, dipping a shade darker when her mouth opened and closed and no words followed.

Whatever she intended to tell him wouldn't be the truth. Those fathomless obsidian eyes of hers skimmed his nose, flitted to the kitchen, alighted on the door. She opened her mouth again, shot a glance at the roof, wriggled her shoulders, and let out an audible sigh.

“Sara Parker is my professional name.” Distracted by the husky, musical rasp of her voice, he almost missed the rest of her explanation. “My mother named me Destiny, and my last name
is
Driven.”

She worried a bottom lip so fat and juicy, he knew that blowjobs,
Deep Throat
, and Destiny Driven would forever be intertwined in his head. Right before his gaze she seemed to deflate, head drooping, pouty mouth pursing to one side. Lincoln had never noticed a woman's eyelashes before, but hers cast half-moon shadows on her glowing olive skin.

From the second he'd regained consciousness, he'd been captivated. The woman had the face of a Madonna and the body of a stripper. She'd managed to cut him out of the tree and get him inside the cabin while dressed for the balmy tropics, and hadn't whined once. Obviously capable and intelligent, she'd attacked the task of rescuing him with determination and success.

Not to mention the fact that she felt like heaven in his arms, soft, supple, and succulent in all the right places. No way could he spend even two hours holed up with her without getting inside her pussy. And the thought of sliding his dick between those bountiful breasts had him leaking precum.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, to what planet had his famed discipline rocketed? Lincoln narrowed his eyes and focused on a spot above her head as he tried to will his twitching dick into compliance.

A choked gasp caught and held his attention.

Jesus.

Her jaw had dropped, and her gaze was fixated on his groin.

His cock rose to the occasion.

Her little hand clamped over her open mouth.

His eyes crossed as the image of his dick disappearing between those plump lips did a fast salsa in his mind. Beads of sweat peppered his forehead.

Get a fricking grip, Chapman.

She's a civilian. Slow, easy.

Saliva coated his tongue when her nipples pearled and pushed against the soft, cotton, V-necked sweater she wore. When he'd opened his eyes earlier to find two perfect, naked breasts within sucking distance, mounding and bouncing against his chest, his arousal had been instantaneous, his dick going rigid on a heartbeat. Then she'd moved closer, tracing a damp cloth over his face, and those luscious beauties had grazed his chin.

Lincoln had thought he'd entered the Christian version of the seventy virgins in paradise. The memory of olive tits, tipped with After Eight chocolate circles and nubs, surged and whirled on a free-fall draft, threatening the last ropes binding his control. He slammed his hands onto his hips.

The loose side-knot on the towel surrendered to three forces—gravity, slick skin, and his raging arousal—sliding in a soft whisper to the planked pine floor.

“Oh,” she squeaked, the sound half smothered when the fingers clamped over her mouth became a fist. Her head bent, and he couldn't see the expression on her face, but her left hand rose.

Higher, closer, come on, Baby Doll—go there.

Destiny had the voluptuous, hourglass shape of the classic Vargas
Playboy
pinups on which the first Barbie must have been based. Raven hair, stray locks glinting navy as a slight breeze flared and dimmed a dozen candle flames, fell in gentle waves to her midback. Her shiny locks curled and teased the undersides of mouthwatering globes he couldn't wait to suckle, lick, nibble, and torture.

Delicate fingers and toes, strong legs longer than her torso, he guessed she stood just under five-seven. No emaciated, hunger-deprived runway model, his Destiny, her lush curves screamed
sex
, yet she looked untouched, and he'd bet his left nut she'd never had mind-blowing sex. Never begged, or squirmed, or shattered into orgasmic explosions.

She had him as pumped and primed as he had been when he'd tried to beat Kittinger's 102,800 feet, record-setting altitude jump.

An alarm rang, jangling bells exploded into the silence, and Lincoln's thoughts jumbled and frayed.

What the hell?

Honed reflexes had his gaze sweeping the cabin, and he twisted around to the source of the noise.

“Dinner.” Her throaty utterance drew his attention.

Glancing over his shoulder, he stifled a stream of curses.

So blasted close to paradise.

A dark, oblong knot in one of the wooden floor slats seemed to fascinate her.

Time to change strategy, Lincoln decided. “I'll get dressed. There's a stack of sweats”—he stopped, remembering her reaction when he'd taken off his shirt earlier, and continued, trying to keep the triumphant amusement out of his voice—“in one of the bedroom drawers.”

Her throat worked.

He grinned, pivoted, and bent over to pick up the towel, giving her a peep show. Hearing on alert, he caught her indrawn breath and almost gave in to the temptation to wiggle his butt before stalking to the bedroom.

When Linc’d “gone to the shed” earlier, he retrieved his backpack, sorted out his weapons and supplies, pocketed the essentials, and secreted the rest of the items in a dark corner. Under the pretense of taking a bath—he had a quick but thorough wash—he stowed his stash under the bed, and then combed through all her belongings.

The porn DVD selection set his hormones on overdrive. When he found the cuffs, the leather strips, and the silken scarves, the temptation hovering around the corners of his brain cemented into rampant desire. Lincoln made his decision then and there; Baby Doll was his for the duration.

In the bedroom, he donned navy sweats, glanced at the passport he'd thrown on the white down comforter, and his lips thinned. Part of her explanation about her name had a ring of truth, but her body language when she rushed the words blinked
lying
like a Vegas booty joint's neon sign.

Screw first, worm the truth out of her later.

He padded back into the kitchen/living area. She never noticed his return.

Destiny had a hidden Susie Homemaker streak. She'd set the table. Place mats, napkins, bowls, cutlery, and wineglasses decorated a round, two-seater wooden table with a tree trunk as the supporting center leg. Two pillar candles flickered oval, elongated shadows across a ceramic blue-green plate. Local pottery, he guessed. A smile tugged at his lips as he observed her stirring a pot. Her lips moved, and her bare toes curled and uncurled when she sprinkled dried leaves into the liquid.

He caught the aroma of wine, meat, onions, and hints of something else. Destiny could cook. The notion surprised him. The New York women he knew ordered in or ate out. Their idea of cooking—putting together prepackaged appetizers, salads, and entrées, couldn't match his mom's worst St. Patrick's Day stew.

“Smells heavenly.” He leaned over her shoulder when she stirred the navy pot. As he reached to dip a finger into the rich, creamy brown liquid, he blew a soft breath over her ear. She stiffened; the spoon's movement halted.

Satisfaction had his lips curving.

Ah, sweet Destiny, the things we're gonna do.

He straightened, slurped the liquid off his forefinger, and then murmured, “Delish. What is it?”

Linc bent over and dipped into the stew again. He laid a hand on her left shoulder, touched the tip of his forefinger to her lips, and lowering his voice, ordered, “Taste.”

Destiny opened her mouth. He guessed she intended a sarcastic retort, but before she could utter a word, he slipped his finger between her soft, plump lips.

Her mouth closed over the thickness of his thumb, and he couldn't stifle a groan, picturing his dick sliding back and forth over her clit, grinding through hot pussy lips. It'd been a long time since a woman fired him up like she did.

“Suck,” he coaxed. “I taste thyme, garlic, onions. Something else. Hmm?”

As he spoke, Lincoln glided his finger in an almost-imperceptible in-and-out movement, slow, insistent. The rhythm of her breathing changed, small hitches telling him she fought for control, her reactions fueling the sensual frenzy building in his groin.

She'd clipped her hair up while he'd been in the bedroom. Fine raven curls escaped the attempted discipline, slipping and sliding across her exposed, vulnerable nape. Destiny smelled like manna from heaven, a hint of lavender limning images in his head of him buried between her thighs, inhaling her arousal.

“Ouch,” he blurted. She'd bitten his finger. “Why'd you do that?”

She swiveled around to face him, poked his naked chest, drew back, and spoke through clamped teeth, “Contrary to whatever is on that puny brain of yours, I am not up for a roll in the hay. I may have a stripper name, but I am not one.”

Leaning into her so his erection brushed her pelvis, he held up his finger and commanded, “Kiss it better.”

“No. And stop smiling like you've won the lottery.” She reached behind her, grabbed the spoon, and held it up. “You're invading my personal space. And unless you want to forgo eating, because I can empty this whole salt shaker into the bourguignon in one second, you'll bring the bowls and behave like a civilized person.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Lincoln replied, nipping the insides of his cheeks to suppress his victorious grin.

Methinks my Destiny's protesting too much.

Her throat worked and he drank in the sweet dishevelment she presented, face flushed, a thin film of sweat dampening the curls escaping from hair piled high on her head. The spoon's velocity increased. She swept him quick side-glances and chewed her bottom lip, until he couldn't resist tracing the outline of her mouth. She jumped, and her eyebrows climbed. The spoon dripped liquid onto the floor.

“What…what are you doing?”

“This,” he answered, holding her chin. He brushed his lips against hers, a languid, electrifying contact. He held her gaze, drowning in the black lagoons of her eyes, tasting the wine gravy she'd sucked off his finger, feeling the way her nose vibrated when she inhaled and exhaled. Her pupils widened, and something flickered in her eyes. Fear?

Lincoln retreated, relinquishing her flesh. “I'll bring the bowls.”

Destiny spun around to face the stove, her hand jerking a trail of red-brown gravy on the range's stainless steel surface.

Suppressing a victorious
yes!
Lincoln moved over to the table. Stage one—accustom her to his touch—complete.

He'd set up his rechargeable iPod mini sound system on the counter before alerting her to his presence in the kitchen. Destiny had a tendency to withdraw into a dream world, he noted. She hadn't heard his footsteps or his movements as she stirred the pot and sighed, tilted her head to one side, and hummed under her breath.

After she filled the wide bowls he brought to the stove, Destiny shifted and attempted to take one.

“You sit.” Lincoln smiled. He issued the command in a gentle tone. “You did all the cooking.”

He inclined his head and waited for her to precede him. He let his eyes rove over her ripe curves, her mouth-watering hips, cinched waist, and Jesus Murphy, breasts made for fucking.

When she sat in a prim little black-spectacled-librarian manner, he choked back a guffaw. Destiny acted as if she’d spent her adulthood trying to deny a sexuality seething and threatening to boil over. He unfolded the cute envelope-shaped-napkin, and draped the linen across her lap, deliberately trailing his fingers across both thighs.

The hue of the stain flaming across her cheeks triggered a memory of his mother setting a pair of cushions she termed “damask rose” into each corner of the living room sofa. Destiny blushed damask rose.

Linc grabbed the wine bottle and edged closer to the table so his knee brushed her hip.

Damask rose deepened into a ripe cherry, the color tinting every inch of exposed flesh.

Ten to one her pussy lips turn that shade after I've licked and suckled them swollen.

Damask rose. Jesus, he was getting soft in his old age.