Taming the Wolf (16 page)

Asha was silent for so long that Samara feared she wouldn’t respond. “You know,” Asha said distantly, keeping her face averted, “I actually believe things were better between us when we were poor and down on our luck, moving from one place to the next. Perhaps my modeling career was the worst thing that could have happened to our relationship.”
“How can that be,” Samara countered softly, “When it was the best thing that ever happen to you?”
“Ah, that is the $64,000 question, is it not?” Asha lifted her shoulders in an elegant, dismissive shrug. “C’est la vie. Life is a paradox, chère. One we’re not meant to understand or examine too closely.”
Samara hated it when her mother resorted to riddles and clichés to avoid serious discussions. What was she running from? Would the real Asha Dubois please stand up?
Samara suddenly felt very tired and emotionally drained. She glanced at her watch. “It’s getting late. I really need to get home and catch up on some paperwork.”
Asha looked at her then. “No special evening plans? That’s rather surprising.”
“Why?”
“Because when I first saw you this evening, I swore you had the look of a woman deeply in love.”
Samara faltered, at a loss for words. Was she that transparent, or had her mother added clairvoyance to her exhaustive list of talents?
“So I wasn’t mistaken.” Asha’s lips curved in an intuitive smile. “A mother knows these things, darling. Who is he?”
“You wouldn’t know him,” Samara mumbled, then felt compelled to add, “Besides, it’s not that serious.”
“What a shame. You looked quite blissful. Flushed, even.”
Heat flooded Samara’s cheeks as she remembered the long hours of lovemaking with Marcus in the dark, rainy night. “Do you think you could ask the driver to turn around and take me back to my car?”
Asha sighed in resignation. “Certainement.”
Hours later, Samara was still trying unsuccessfully to put her mother’s visit out of her mind. Asha’s sudden appearance, and her unexpected apology, had thrown Samara for a loop. Asha had never apologized to her before. Not for abandoning her as a child, not for repeatedly disrupting her life. She’d never apologized for not accepting Samara’s decision to pursue her own career path.
And to this day, Asha had never apologized for accusing Samara of seducing André Leclerc, thereby inviting his brutal attack.
Samara had more than enough reasons to sever her mother from her life. But try as she might, she couldn’t.
Beneath all the pain and resentment, she was still the same little girl who’d sat at her mother’s dressing table the night of her very first fashion show in Philadelphia, giggling hysterically as her mother tickled her. She was still the same reclusive teenager who’d kept a secret collection of clippings from every magazine and newspaper Asha ever appeared in, dreaming that one day her mother would climb down from her mountaintop and realize how much she missed her daughter.
No matter how many times Asha disappointed her, a tiny part of Samara always held on to the hope that all was not lost between

What had Pierre called himself earlier? A glutton for punishment? He wasn’t the only one. Samara was a glutton for punishment if ever there had been one.

Needing a distraction, she set aside her paperwork and popped in a Sex and the City DVD. She was sitting around in her bra and panties, giggling through the famous episode about Charlotte’s boyfriend with the uncircumcised dick, when Marcus called.

“Hey, beautiful,” he said, his deep voice pouring into her ear like honey. “What are you doing?”
When she told him, he chuckled softly. “I heard that episode pissed off a lot of people. Someone even contacted me about filing a defamation lawsuit against the producers of the show.”
“Hmm. Well, I guess it’s a sensitive issue.” Realizing what she’d said, she started laughing at the same time as Marcus.
When their laughter subsided, he said huskily, “I miss you. What are you going to do about that?”
Samara smiled into the receiver. “I don’t know. What should I do about it?”
“Let me come over and show you.”
Her toes curled inside her furry pink bedroom slippers. “You could,” she murmured. “Or I could come over there, since I’ve never been to your place before.”
“Mmm, sounds like a plan. I’ll order Chinese.”
“And I’ll bring dessert.”
“Sweetheart, you’re all the sugar I need,” Marcus drawled in those dark, velvety tones of his.
Samara’s nipples hardened. “Give me thirty minutes.”

The private foyer was bathed in warm buttery light that spilled across the Italian tile floor and into a large sunken living room. “Nice,” Samara murmured appreciatively.
“Thanks. You had no trouble finding the place?”
“None whatsoever. I grew up here, remember? I know this city

like the back of my hand.” Her spiky heels sank into luxuriant Berber as she crossed the endless expanse of empty space to a wall of glass windows, which overlooked a wide balcony that provided a stunning view of the Potomac River. It would be spectacular to watch the sunset from there, or to recline in lounge chairs on a sticky July evening to take in the fireworks display on the National Mall.

“Great view,” Samara remarked, turning away from the window before her imagination could roam wild. She had to remind herself not to assume that she and Marcus had a future together—just because she now wanted it more than her next breath.

“It is,” Marcus agreed, approaching her from behind. She marveled that such a powerfully built man could move with so little sound. Stealthy as a panther—or wolf. “Maybe tomorrow morning we can sit out here and watch the sun rise,” he bent low to murmur in her ear.

She felt a slow, hot tingle of anticipation. “Assuming I spend the night,” she said offhandedly, knowing good and well she wasn’t going anywhere.

Sidestepping him, she wandered over to a row of crates on which stood an elaborate stereo system. The only other items of furniture were a cherry bistro table and two matching chairs in the dining room. “Where’s the rest of your furniture?”

“Stayed with the house in Atlanta. The renters paid extra to keep it furnished.”
“So when are you going to furnish the penthouse?”
“Eventually. I haven’t spent much time here yet. But I’ve got the essentials.”
“Essentials, huh?”
“The barest. A bed, too, if you’d like to see it.”
She grinned. “Nice try, Slick.”
Marcus chuckled as he headed from the living room. “It was worth a shot.”
Samara hung up her jacket in the foyer closet before following him into the gourmet kitchen. More Italian tile, stainless steel appliances and an island in the center of the floor. A cardboard box sat unopened on the counter near the Sub-Zero refrigerator. It was labeled KITCHEN in black magic marker.
“Let me guess. Dishes?”
Marcus glanced over his shoulder as he rummaged through the cabinets. “There might be a few in there. My housekeeper packed that box for me before I left Atlanta.”
“Marcus,” Samara said, unsure whether to laugh or scold, “You mean to tell me you’ve been living here a whole month and haven’t unpacked any of your kitchen items yet?”
“Haven’t gotten around to it.” Triumphantly, he held up a new package of paper plates. “That’s why these were invented.”
Samara rolled her eyes. “Bachelors,” she said in mock disgust. “God forbid you should take a few minutes to open the box and actually begin using real plates—oops, but then you’d have to load them into the dishwasher, too!”
Marcus grinned unabashedly. “My point exactly.”
Working together, they piled fragrant helpings of lo mein and vegetables and Szechuan chicken onto the plates, grabbed cold sodas from the refrigerator and settled down at the small dining room table. While they ate, they listened to slow jams and talked about anything and everything. Samara considered, then decided not to tell Marcus about Asha’s unexpected appearance at her office. Although he’d told her about his own mother’s visit yesterday, Samara didn’t want him remembering how much baggage she had.
“I just remembered another one of your hidden talents,” Marcus drawled when he’d finished teasing her about singing at his brother’s restaurant.
“What?”
“The fact that you’re a tiger tamer.”
For a moment Samara was confused. And then she remembered the premiere in New York and laughed. “I do not tame tigers.”
“Sure as hell looked like it to me. You were the only one in that showroom not scared out of your mind when that tiger stepped onstage.”
“As I told you and Walt, Pandora and I are old friends. She remembered me.”
Marcus took a sip of Pepsi, catching a stray drop from his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. Samara couldn’t look away, suddenly reliving all the ways he’d pleasured her with that incredibly talented tongue of his.
“How’d that happen, by the way?” Marcus asked. At her blank look, he clarified, “How’d you come to befriend a tiger?”
“I agreed to accompany my mother on a photo assignment in Johannesburg the summer before I graduated from college.” She grimaced. “Let’s just say the best part of the trip was being there for Pandora’s birth.”
Marcus looked faintly amused. “Africa didn’t agree with you?”
“No,” Samara grumbled, “Being around a bunch of prima donna supermodels didn’t agree with me. Anyway, the animal trainers took pity on me and let me hang around between photo shoots. It was really cool. When Pandora was born, they allowed me to name her.”
“Why’d you choose the name Pandora?”
“Nothing deep.” Samara paused, distracted by the sight of a long noodle sliding between Marcus’s juicy lips. God, she envied the lo mein on his plate right now. “It was my favorite Greek mythology tale in high school. What was yours?”
Marcus chuckled. “That would have to be Bellerophon and Pegasus. I admired Bellerophon’s gutsy arrogance when he challenged the gods and stormed Mount Olympus, even though it cost him in the end. And, hey, what can I say about Pegasus? A winged horse—what better mode of transportation could a guy ask for?”
Samara laughed. “That was my second favorite Greek tragedy. I even wrote a short story about it for English class.”
Marcus grinned. “Where have you been all my life, woman?”
Although he was only teasing, Samara’s heart thumped just the same.
When they’d finished their meals and the plates were cleared away, Marcus casually announced, “I have a brand-new deck of poker cards waiting to be broken in. That is, if you’re up for a friendly game?”
Samara grinned. “Oh, Marcus, I’d feel really bad about taking your money. Which is ridiculous, considering you have more than enough to spare.”
“Is that a yes or no?”
She shrugged. “Sure, why not? It’s not like you don’t already know about my championship poker skills,” she said smugly. “I have no reason to feel guilty if you’re still willing to take me on.”
Marcus chuckled. “Confident, aren’t we?”
“I think I have reason to be,” she said as he disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a deck of playing cards. Samara rolled her eyes in exasperation. The man couldn’t unpack a simple box of kitchen supplies, but he had a readily available deck of poker cards. For that reason alone she’d have fun beating him.
She dug into her jeans pocket as he began setting up at the small bistro table. “We’ll have to keep the ante low. I’m not sure I brought enough cash—”
“We’re not playing for money.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Yesterday you promised me a game of strip poker, remember?”
“I did not! You asked me if we had a game of strip poker in our future, and I just laughed. I never promised anything.”
“What’s the matter, Samara?” Marcus challenged, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Afraid you might lose?”
She lifted a haughty chin. “Of course not.” She sat down decisively at the table. “Deal.”
“Before we start, I’d like to establish some ground rules. When you lose a hand—”
“If, you mean.”
“I get to decide which article of clothing comes off.” His mouth twitched in amusement. “Considering that I’m way out of my league here, I think it’s only fair to spot me at least one advantage.”
Samara hesitated, her eyes narrowed on his face. “Well, I suppose that wouldn’t be a problem.”
She had no intention of losing a game of strip poker to Marcus.

An hour later, she was eating some serious humble pie—in spades.
“Read ’em and weep.” With a look of smug satisfaction, Marcus displayed his cards on the table with a flourish.
Samara’s heart sank when she saw his hand. An ace high straight-flush. His third royal flush. He was beating the pants off her—literally.
Marcus leaned back in his chair with an air of relaxed confidence. “Perhaps I should consider entering a poker tournament. I never realized just how good I am.”
Samara scowled darkly. “I’m having an off night,” she muttered.
“Hmm. Well, speaking of ‘off’…” He looked pointedly at her angora sweater. “I believe you have some stripping to do.”
Samara groaned in protest. “Not my sweater! Couldn’t I just remove my other sock?” She’d already lost her boots and one sock in the course of the competition. Marcus had been generous thus far, picking her slowly apart the way a hunter methodically stalks his prey. Now he was closing in for the kill.
He shook his head slowly from side to side. “No deal—the sweater goes.”
Pouting, Samara stood and pulled off the sweater, tossing it impatiently aside. “If I catch a cold because I’m sitting around in your air-conditioned penthouse with no clothes on…”
The words died on her lips at the look on Marcus’s face. He was staring at her satin-covered breasts with blatant hunger. Even as her knees wobbled traitorously in response, she knew she’d just found her ace in the hole. It was so simple she wanted to kick herself for not thinking of it earlier. She should have lobbied to remove the sweater the first time she lost, then used her partial nudity as a way to distract him from the game. After all, poker was as much a mental game as one of skill and chance. If one had difficulty concentrating on the game…
Ah, strategy was such a beautiful thing.
Smiling demurely, she lowered herself back down into the chair, causing her breasts to bounce just a little as she sat. She made an exaggerated show of leaning way across the table to retrieve the cards so that she could deal the next hand. She noted, with triumph, the way his dark eyes fastened on the swell of her cleavage. She half expected him to lick his lips he was so riveted.
Men were so predictable.
Her ploy worked. Marcus lost the next hand.
“Guess you’ll have to lose your other boot,” Samara said blithely. He’d lost one boot when she won the first hand, not knowing it would be her last taste of victory.
But instead of toeing off his boot, Marcus removed his gray pullover, the muscles in his wide chest bunching and rippling with the fluid movement. Samara’s stomach flipped over, and her mouth went dry. All that glorious mahogany skin. The flat, dark nipples she loved to suck every time they made love. The taut, beautifully sculpted abdomen she braced her palms against as she straddled him, climbing toward one climax after another.
“W-What are you doing?” she managed hoarsely. “You’re supposed to remove your boot, not your shirt.” No way was he going to turn the tables on her with the distraction game!
“I never said you could tell me which articles of clothing to remove. Besides,” he said, smiling rakishly, “Isn’t the whole point of strip poker to get your opponent ‘stripped’ down to the last stitch of clothing?”
Samara swallowed with difficulty. “Fine. Have it your way.”
“Oh, I fully intend to,” Marcus said, his voice husky with promise. He looked so incredibly male and virile that she had to drag her gaze away from him.
Despite the fact that she kept her eyes carefully trained on her cards, she lost the next hand. Without saying a word, Marcus leaned back in his chair and stretched out his long legs, watching her expectantly.
Suppressing her frustration, Samara rose to her feet and unsnapped her jeans. Holding his gaze, she slid the tight denim slowly, provocatively, over her waist and down her legs. She even rotated her hips for good measure and was rewarded when Marcus’s eyes grew hooded, darkening with desire.
“Come here,” he said huskily.
His words sent hot shivers through her whole body. She shook her head, a naughty smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She stepped carefully out of her jeans and kicked them aside, along with the remaining lone sock she wore. “We’re not finished with our game yet.”
“Yes we are. You lost.”
“Is that right? Then I suppose I owe you some type of reward.”
“There’s only one thing I want right now, Samara,” Marcus said in a voice roughened with need, “and it has nothing whatsoever to do with poker.”
“Mmmm,” she purred. “I wonder what that could be.”
Despite her teasing tone, it was with a combination of nerves and anticipation that she stood trembling before him. He sat silently with his hands clenched at his sides, and she could tell how much of a struggle it was for him not to pounce on her. The knowledge filled her with immense feminine power.
He ran his eyes over her body as if it were his first time seeing her. Samara just stood there, erect nipples pressing painfully against her satin bra, allowing him to drink his fill of her.
“You are so beautiful,” he finally murmured.
Her legs quivered. “You’ll say anything to get what you want,” she tried to joke, but her voice was too throaty, too tight with arousal to successfully deliver the line.
With a muffled groan, Marcus leaned forward and wrapped his arms tightly around her waist, burying his face against her belly and rubbing back and forth. Her eyes closed and her head tipped back as his hands roamed up her spine to unclasp her bra, sliding the straps from her shoulders and sending the scrap of lace to the floor. She felt only a moment of cool air upon her exposed flesh before his large hand gently covered one breast, his warm mouth enveloping the other. He licked the left nipple, circling the tight point with his tongue before catching it between his teeth and applying delicate pressure. At the same time, his other hand teased and tormented her nipple until she thought she would explode.
“No, wait,” she gasped, stepping quickly out of his embrace.
Marcus swore raggedly under his breath. “Please don’t make me beg.”
“Shhh.” Samara laid a finger to his lips. “I’m not going to make you beg. Just sit back and relax.”
Chest heaving, Marcus watched as she knelt between his legs. She ran her hand invitingly down his chest before leaning forward and placing her lips to his heated flesh. His breath quickened as she rained hot kisses all over him.
Next she reached for the zipper of his jeans, and he sucked in air sharply as her fingers slipped inside and grasped his hardened penis, freeing him. Holding his gaze, she took him deep into her mouth. She laved and suckled him until he flung his head back against the chair, groaning in sheer ecstasy.
“Samara, I don’t think I can take much more.”
Filled with pleasure at the raw need in his voice, Samara straightened from her kneeling position and smoothly straddled his lap.
“Wait,” Marcus whispered hoarsely. He dug into his pocket for his wallet, his fingers somewhat clumsy as he withdrew a condom. Samara took it from him and raised herself above him so that she could tug his jeans and briefs off. He lifted his hips, helping to facilitate the swift removal.
He groaned as she sheathed him with the condom, smoothing it over his engorged shaft with deliberate slowness. Then, as he stared in helpless fascination, she slipped her fingers beneath the waistband of her panties, leisurely dragging the black satin off her hips and over her legs before tossing it aside.
As she climbed into his lap again, he lifted his head to receive her kiss, letting her explore his mouth with deep, languid strokes of her tongue that made him moan. She took his throbbing penis in her hand and guided it into her body. As he entered her, she inhaled sharply and bit her lip to keep from screaming at the exquisite pleasure of it. They both closed their eyes and sighed deeply as she continued lowering herself until he filled her completely. His hands came up, grasping her hips as he prepared to begin thrusting into her.
But Samara had other plans. After taking just a few moments to savor the sensation of him embedded inside her, she raised herself up until he almost slipped from her body. Then, slowly undulating her hips, she lowered herself again, never taking him completely into her.
Marcus went insane with lust as she repeated the motion again and again. With a low, guttural oath, he arched and dug his fingers into her buttocks, trying to hold her in place so that he could bury himself deep inside her. But Samara resisted his desperate attempts and raised herself once again. She captured his agonized groans in her mouth, telling him in sultry whispers to be patient.
But as she felt her own body begin to convulse around him, she wondered how much longer she could keep up the slow, maddening pace. Especially when she wanted nothing more than to have him deep inside her, thrusting and possessing her.
She lowered herself a little more, then clenched her inner muscles as she rose up one final time. They both moaned at the deeply erotic sensation. Marcus slipped his fingers beneath her buttocks until they found what they were searching for and plunged inside. Samara paused in mid-stroke, shocked into crying out as he caressed her wet vagina.
Arching against him in surrender, she pushed her breasts into his face, wanting to be filled with him until she soared into blissful oblivion. His mouth covered one erect nipple, suckling greedily and nearly sending her over the edge. She arched again to take him all the way into her body and wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, shaking violently with need. She began moving on him, faster and faster, until they were both breathless, until their bodies slapped noisily together over the sound of John Legend crooning softly in the background.
“I’m…almost there,” she gasped. She threw back her head and panted Marcus’s name until the last of his restraint snapped.
Grabbing her hips, he thrust deep and hard, devouring her, literally screwing her brains out. She cried out wildly as she erupted, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder to absorb the violent shudder that swept through her.
Marcus controlled his own urges and slowly rebuilt her desire, stroke by stroke, until she climaxed once again, rhythmic cries tearing from her throat. Only then did he let himself go, gripping her back tightly and moaning with his own explosive release. They clung to each other as their racing heartbeats gradually steadied and their ragged breaths quieted.
Marcus held her in place, stroking a hand down her slick back. His lips brushed her cheek and grazed her moist mouth, kissing her slow and deep. When they at last parted, they could do no more than lean their damp foreheads against each other’s.
“Samara.”
“Yes, Marcus?”
He chuckled softly. “I haven’t even asked yet.”
“Asked what?”
He ran his fingers down the smooth column of her spine. “Will you marry me?”
Samara stiffened for a moment before lifting shocked eyes to his face. “What?”
He looked her straight in the eye. “Will you marry me?”
Tears rushed to her eyes. “Oh my God! Are you serious?”
“As serious as I’ll ever be. I’m in love with you, Samara. I want you to be my wife.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. A tear slipped from her eye, followed by another and another, until she was openly weeping.
Marcus attempted humor. “You’re crying. That can’t be a good thing.”
She laughed softly through her tears. “Of course I’ll marry you, Marcus. I love you so much, and I wasn’t sure whether you felt the same.”
Marcus leaned forward and caught her lips in a deep, possessive kiss. “Does this feel like I don’t feel the same?” he whispered against her mouth. He kissed her again and again like he couldn’t get enough. “Does this?”
“Oh, Marcus.” Samara’s arms tightened around his neck. He tenderly kissed away her tears, one by one, before reclaiming her mouth. They held each other tightly, their heartbeats pounding in unison.
As the kiss intensified, Marcus rose from the chair with her legs still wrapped around his waist. “Let’s finish this in the bedroom,” he growled, already striding purposefully down the corridor.
He kicked the bedroom door shut behind them, and minutes later their exultant cries penetrated the walls as they loved each other long into the night.