Sinner (The Hades Squad #1) (4 page)

His brain restarted before he overfilled the wine goblet.

An enchanting picture met his gaze when he sat. Destiny's black curls tumbled loose from the clip, her olive skin glowing, midnight eyes wide and a tad unfocused, nostrils flaring when her lungs expanded.
Jesus
. His mind faltered. The slight bounce of her breasts as her small pants stammered and stuttered drew his nuts tight against his perineum. Christ, he had to speed the pace of this seduction before he lost control.

“Cheers.” He lifted his glass.

Her hand shook when she reached across to clink his crystal goblet.

“Cheers,” she echoed, then gulped down a third of the glass before setting it on the table.

Lincoln figured she'd be a lightweight drinker, so he made a note to monitor her consumption. He wanted Destiny to remember every millisecond of their first time together. First time? Would there be a second time after he taught her how he liked his sex?

“So, you're a big-time New York editor.” He loaded a spoon with meat and peered at the carrot and potato that came along for the ride. “Did you cut these into logs?”

Damn, her cheeks covered every shade of pink-red on the color spectrum. How could a woman who traveled with whips and cuffs blush so innocently?

“I like to cook.” She ducked her head. “I took—am taking—classes.”

“What kinds of classes?”

“I started off with pastry, then I went on to cakes.” Her face lit up, eyes sparkling in the golden candle radiance, succulent lips curving, dimples doing a slow two-step when her smile widened, showcasing perfect, even teeth.

Bite me, she'd said earlier. A suppressed fantasy?

“My mom used to make this fantastic devil's food cake when I was a kid. Ever heard of it?”

“That was one of the first cakes I ever made.” She blindsided him with contagious enthusiasm. “I could probably make it for you, but it would be in a loaf pan. I didn't find any cake pans.”

“I'd never say no to chocolate. Don't forget there's no juice, so you can't use beaters or anything like that.”

“Juice? I don't…oh you mean electricity.” She smirked. “Ha! I learned to make cakes from scratch and manually. I beat them by hand. I don't need electricity.”

Beating? Spanking? Focus, focus
.

“No kidding—why?”

“It's a basic technique. At first it was tiring, but now I can whip one up just like that.” She snapped her fingers.

“You must have strong biceps and forearms, then,” Lincoln commented, the sinner in him going in for the kill. He reached across, nudged her sleeve above her elbow and ordered, “Flex.”

Destiny didn't know where to look, how to respond. Flustered, rose ebbing and flowing across her flesh, she was adorable.

An ache started in Lincoln's chest, mirrored by a burning in his groin.

“Pretty impressive.” He trailed his fingers over a bunched forearm and a taut bicep. “No wonder you were able to cut me down and drag me inside. You're not just beautiful. You're strong too. I never did say thanks for rescuing me, did I?” Touching her cheek, he added, “I owe you, baby.”

“Oh.” She gave a little shake of her head, as if clearing mental cobwebs. “It was nothing.”

“Now, you know better than that. If you'd left me out there, I would've succumbed to the cold. It took a lot of guts and courage to do what you did. Not to mention brains. Very clever using the sheets. Kudos, baby.”

Her gaze skimmed the table, settled on the basket of bread, and she lifted it. “Bread?”

“Thanks,” he replied, taking a couple of slices.

She reset the wicker basket back on the table and tore a slice of bread into four quarters, her movements jerky and jagged.

Baby Doll's unhinged and nervous.

“When did you start taking cooking classes?”

He heard her soft exhale and noticed the relaxing of her shoulders.

“After I moved to New York. Takeout's expensive on an assistant editor's salary.”

“This”—he flicked a finger at the bowl—“is based on that recipe from
Julie and Julia
, isn't it?”

“No, it's not,” she retorted. “This is based on Julia Child's recipe. That movie didn't do homage to her culinary skills. It concentrated more on Julie's life.”

Destiny has a protective side. She'll make a great mom.

He choked and gulped down half his glass of wine.

Frick. Where'd that come from?

“I've taken most of the classes the Culinary Institute of America offers. It's a good thing they keep adding new ones.” She wrinkled her nose. “I think I'm addicted to their classes.”

“How'd you get into editing?”

“I love to read. Once, I dreamed of writing.” Both shoulders rolled. “After a while you have to face reality. I'm good at finding the holes in a story, at making someone else's words string together better. I like editing.”

You're protesting too much.

Making a conscious decision to keep the conversation nonthreatening, and therefore nonsexual, during dinner, he asked, “What's the name of the author whose work you came to fix?”

All the elation drained from her face and her lips squished into a tight purse. “Angel Robinson.”

“Never heard of her. She's not cooperating?”

“Angel's been on the romance best-seller list forever. She's a Princeton graduate. Thinks no one can improve her work and the world should be grateful she deigns to gift them with a novel once every two years.”

“Ouch. She sounds like a handful.”

A Bach fugue, “The Musical Offering,” one of his favorites, weaved into a momentary conversational lull as they spooned the cooling stew into their mouths. The basket of bread Destiny had placed on the table now held only two slices. Lincoln offered her one, making sure he touched her wrist and palm as he did so.

“You have an amazing voice.” She turned a hundred shades of pink from forehead to the hint of cleavage escaping the confines of her ivory sweater. “I heard you singing in the shower.”

“Sang in the church choir.” He flashed her a grin. “Probably the only reason they let me into church. Catholics don't have that Protestant knack for singing.”

“I can't carry a tune. But I love music.”

“What's your favorite piece?” He mopped the bowl with the last slice of bread.

“You mean song?” She cocked her head to one side and met his stare directly, the first time she'd done so without prompting or insistence on his part. “I'm not sure I could narrow it down to one. I love Norah Jones, but I like Nickelback too.”

“No classical in the mix?”

“I like Beethoven's Fifth Symphony.” Her mouth quirked up on one side. “Probably because it's the only classical music I can recognize.” Comprehension widened her black eyes to Bambi size. “You like classical music.”

“It's a bit of an obsession. I'm guessing you're not an opera fan.”

“I've seen
Figaro
.”

The skin covering her forehead creased into three tiny horizontal lines, and for a crazy moment he wanted to lick them smooth.

“How…how did you get into classical music?”

You're all confused. Can't figure out the big bad SEAL paratrooper, and had me lumped into the brainless category.

Lincoln swallowed more wine than he intended.

Hadn't he done the same with her?

So far her story held up, but anyone who used an alias triggered an ingrained suspicion, and until he uncovered the truth, he had to maintain an emotional distance.

“My mom says I used to scare people as a toddler with my booming voice. Mom actually entered me into a local talent contest. I still have the video of me singing ’Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.’”

“Did you win?”

“Third. I won a dollhouse, which my sisters promptly appropriated.”

She studied him. “Are you from a big family?”

“Big Heinz 57 family. My dad's from Jamaica. My mom's from a small village in Ireland. Mom lives by the pope's decrees, so there're eleven of us.”

“Eleven?” Mouth plumped into an O, Destiny stared at him, brows hiking to her hairline. “Eleven. I can't even imagine that. How many brothers and sisters?”

“Five boys, five girls.”

“Where're you in the mix?”

“Smack-dab in the middle.” Ah, he liked her like this—relaxed, curious, intelligence sparking and dancing and animating her whole face. “What about you?”

“Only child.”

All the vibrancy drained from her face. She swallowed, avoided his eyes, and dropped her spoon into her bowl. Her luscious mouth settled into a flat line. Lincoln guessed family issues existed. “Are you a born New Yorker?”

“I wish. No, I was born in Derby, Connecticut.”

“Never heard of it.”

She snorted. “Believe me, no one has.”

“From your expression, you didn't enjoy Derby.”

“No.” She gulped down the rest of the merlot in her glass. “So what happened to your musical career after you won the contest?”

“By the time I was five, our local parish priest had roped me into the choir. Most young boys have a high soprano voice and mine tended to be more alto, so I was in high demand.” Lincoln topped up Destiny's wine. “Of course, a ton of sissy jokes go along with being a soloist in a church choir when you're that young. I was the only choir member who sported black eyes on a regular basis.”

“Kids jumped you at the age of five?”

Her eyes flashed. His lips twitched at the indignant expression she wore.
She feels protective of me. The boy me, anyway. Progress.

“That stinks.” One fist met the tabletop.

“We lived in a tough neighborhood. Didn't do me any harm, Destiny.”

“Your mother didn't do anything?”

Destiny would be an overprotective mom. It was written all over her face.

“She knew we had to learn to fight our own battles. ’Sides, Dad would never have let her interfere.”

“But you continued singing?”

“Couldn't stop, especially after my voice deepened into a basso profundo when I turned thirteen. Aside from when my chute opens and that first shock of silence reigns, singing, especially in a chorus, is the closest I ever feel to a certain level of spirituality.”

Lincoln stifled a curse. Aside from his family and friends, he never discussed religion. Never opened up with a stranger. He'd sideswiped her with his last remark; her spoon halted its climb to her mouth, which dropped open, and astonishment shone from her great big eyes.

She clamped her lips together, scrutinized the almost-empty bowl, and swallowed a couple of times before lifting her head and asking, “Basso profundo?”

Lincoln stood, collected her plate and spoon, and continued as he strode to the sink. “According to my mom, I memorized songs before I learned all my colors.”

She joined him at the sink, carrying an empty wineglass in each hand. “And the basso profundo?”

“You're like a cat chasing a rat, aren't you?” He deposited the dishes in the sink and flashed her a broad grin. “'S okay. I like tenacity in my woman.”

Destiny's eyes gave her away every time. He could hear the thought, “my woman?” echoing in her brain.

Focus, Chapman. Stick to the plan.

“A basso profundo is the lowest male voice on the scale.” He relieved her of the crystal, half turned, and leaned a hip on the counter's edge. “You've heard of a baritone, right?”

Lincoln set the glasses on the counter on the far side of the sink; he didn't want any potential accidents.

“Of course.”

He heard the peeved, defensive note in her voice.

“There's only one way to explain it, and it's more of a show-and-tell.” Giving her time to back away, he curled his fingers around her small wrist. “Place your forefinger here”—he held the digit on one side of his throat—“and your thumb here.”

Wariness showed in how she held her lips closed and in the fluttering of her eyelashes.

Black eyelashes tickling his belly as her mouth moved closer and closer to the head of his dick. His balls ached so hard, the loose sweats felt like skintight jeans.

Linc released her hand and shifted a tad nearer so their big toes touched.

Her fingers trembled, prickling his heating skin with each slight flutter.

“This is a baritone.” He sang the scale made famous by Julie Andrews in
The Sound of Music
. “Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, ti, do.”

Impossibly her black eyes widened, her pupils so dilated, he couldn't tell where the irises began or ended. For a second he couldn't remember what to do next.

“This is a basso profundo,” he murmured, singing the scale he still practiced twice a day.

“Oh.” A tremulous smile played at the corners of her mouth. “I think I get it. Do it again.”

Sheer piercing desire trebled the blood flowing to his groin when she unconsciously moved closer, her hot exhales raising the hair on his chest, adding pulse beat on pulse beat to his racing heart.

Lincoln sang the scale six times, and when he finished, curved one hand around her waist and cupped her bottom with the other.

“That's marvelous,” she exclaimed, her voice breathy and her words rushed. “What amazing control. I wish I could do that.”

“I'll teach you,” he promised. “Later.”

He bent to her mouth as she opened her lips, his tongue swooping in to conquer and dominate.

Baby Doll, you're mine, all mine.

Lincoln nibbled on her bottom lip, sipping, licking; he smelled of soap and aftershave, all powerful male. The tip of his tongue touched down on the corner of her mouth, the middle, trailed moisture to the other side. Warmth swarmed low in her belly, tightening the walls of her vagina. She opened her mouth, leaned into his heat, and when her hips flexed into his erection, Destiny's knees gave way.

“'S okay, Baby Doll, hang on to me,” he whispered as his tongue tortured her lips, nudging inside, slipping out, waltzing along the seam, dipping into the hollow of one dimple.

His hands cupped both bottom cheeks, and he pressed her belly against an arousal so thick, so hard, the room spun out of focus.

Desperation wormed a groan out of her. “Damn it, kiss me.”