Читать книгу Claimed - Tracy Wolff, Tracy Wolff - Страница 9

Four

The kiss was as much about possession as it was about pleasure.

It had been six long years since he’d touched her, since he’d held her, since he’d licked his way across her full pink lips, but, in this moment, in his mind, she was still his.

At the first press of his mouth against hers, Isa’s lips parted on a gasp. He took instant, ruthless advantage, thrusting his tongue into the deepest recesses of her mouth. Her hands came up to his chest and he thought, at first, that she was going to push him away. Just the idea upset him more than he wanted to admit. He prepared for it, for the torture that would be letting her go. But then her hands clung instead of pressed, tangled in his shirt and held him close. It was all the permission he needed.

He brought his hands to her face, cupped her jaw. Stroked his thumbs along her cut-glass cheekbones. And kissed her as if he’d been dying to kiss her for all these years.

He plundered her.

Sweeping his tongue along her own, stroking and circling, teasing and tasting, he coaxed her into opening a little wider, letting him in a little deeper. She did, and he swept in, taking more of her. Taking everything she was offering and demanding more.

He licked his way across her lips, down the inside of her cheeks, over the slick roughness of the top of her mouth. She moaned then, a soft, breathy sound that shot straight through him and made him harder than he’d been any time in the past six years. Harder than he’d been any time since he’d last held her in his arms.

With that thought in his mind and desire pounding through his gut, he tilted her head to gain better access. And then it was on.

Their tongues tangled, slipping, sliding, stroking their way over and around and under each other. He sucked her tongue into his mouth and relished the way her body arched, the way her hips bumped against his, the way her fingers clawed at him, scratching him through the thin silk of his dress shirt.

He used to love the little pricks of pain, and the knowledge that he would carry her marks for hours, sometimes days. It was a blow to find out he still felt that way. That he still wanted her brand on his body—and his brand on hers—as much as he ever had. Or it would be a blow, he figured, as soon as this kiss was over. For now, he couldn’t think about it. Couldn’t think about anything but her and the feelings rushing between them. Because he didn’t have a choice, he gave himself over to it all. Gave himself over to Isa.

How could he not when the kiss, when she, was a strange mix of soft and sharp, poignant and desperate. The familiar and the exotic. He wanted her—and whatever she would give him—more than he wanted air.

His head was spinning by the time she pulled away. She didn’t go far, just broke off the kiss and stood there panting, her forehead resting against his. He let her catch her breath, and dragged precious oxygen into his own overworked lungs, giving his overheated body a chance to calm down. Then he claimed her mouth again.

It was even better the second time.

Her lips were warm and swollen and she tasted so good—like fizzy wine and the sweetest summer blackberries. And the sea. Cool and clean and so, so wild. But then, she always had.

So much about her had changed since he’d last been with her, he’d been afraid that her taste had, too. To find out that it hadn’t—it nearly brought him to his knees. Instead of letting it, he kissed her again. And again. And again. Until her skin was hot and flushed against his palms. Until he was rock hard and aching against her. Until their lips were bruised and swollen and tender, so tender..

And then he kissed her some more.

And she let him. She let him kiss her, let him touch her, let him in when he’d spent so long thinking that it would never happen again. That she would never open herself to him and that, if she did, he would never trust her enough to let her.

But this wasn’t about trust, he told himself as he continued to take everything she had to offer and push for more. This wasn’t about love. It was about need. About chemistry. About a past that burned hotter between them than any jewelry forge ever could.

His mouth was nearly numb by the time she finally broke the kiss. This time she didn’t stay in his arms, resting against him. Instead, she shoved him away, hard, then turned to face the ocean. He gave her space, and just watched, fascinated, as her shoulders trembled, as she struggled desperately to get herself under control.

He wished her luck. God knew, he had absolutely no control when it came to her. He never had.

“Don’t ever do that again.”

It was an order, delivered in a voice that still shook from pent-up desire.

“Never do what?” he asked, turning her around so he could see her face in the shadowy darkness. Her eyes were huge; her pupils wide with passion and seeing her like that sent another shock wave of need through him.

“Never do this?” he asked, stepping so close that every breath she took pressed her breasts against his chest. “Never touch you?” He brushed his knuckles against her jaw, then slid them down, until his open hand rested on her collarbone, his fingers splayed gently against her neck. “Never kiss you?” Her skin was soft and warm against his lips as he kissed a line from her temple to her cheek to the corner of her mouth.

Then he pressed his mouth to hers, pulled her lower lip between his teeth and bit down gently.

Isa’s hands slid up his back to tangle in his hair as she made low, urgent sounds deep in her throat. Her lips parted on a shallow exhale as her body arched against him. It was all he could do not to groan. Not to take her right there against the iron railing of the balcony.

“Never want you?” His hand was on her waist, and he slid it down to mold her behind, to press her hips against his while his other hand slid down to cup her breast through the thin, silky fabric of her dress. “Because, I have to say, I think the ship has sailed on that. For both of us.”

“Marc.” His name was a broken breath on her lips—a prayer, a curse, an absolution, a condemnation. He didn’t know which—nor did he care, he assured himself. All that mattered was having her again. He’d spent the past six years thinking about touching her, dreaming about taking her over and over until his mind was calm and his body was finally sated.

Maybe then he could find some peace.

“Let me have you,” he whispered in her ear even as he rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “I’ll take care of you, make you feel so good—”

Isa shoved against him, hard. She was a little thing, slender, with tiny bones—but she was a lot stronger than she looked.

“Marc, no!” She twisted her face to the side and shoved again. “Stop.”

No. Stop. He hated those two words, almost as much as he hated being told what to do. But they were nonnegotiable, the words and the sentiment behind them not open for discussion when they fell from a woman’s lips. And so he stepped back, letting his hands fall away from her lush, inviting curves.

“I know what you’re doing,” she said. Her eyes were wild, her voice shaky.

“Do you?” he murmured. “Do you really?”

“You’re trying to embarrass me at work. You’re trying to ruin everything and I’m not going to have it.”

He didn’t even try to hide his insult. “Embarrass you? Kissing me embarrasses you?”

She must have sensed the danger in his voice, because she ran a nervous hand over her hair while the fingers of her other hand played with her locket. “Don’t get all macho and insulted on me,” she told him, exasperated.

“I don’t do macho,” he said, disdain in every syllable.

She snorted. “You don’t have to ‘do’ it. Every cell in your body is alpha and controlling and if you don’t know that, you’re even more deluded than I thought you were. But, be that as it may, I’m not going to stand out here and be your toy for one second longer. This is a work function for me and, unlike you, I don’t have a trust fund and a diamond company to fall back on if I lose my job for inappropriate conduct. This career is all I have and I’m not going to let you ruin it, the way you ruined—”

She broke off before she finished the sentence, moving around him in a quick and desperate attempt to get to the door.

He grabbed her elbow, but it was his will much more than his gentle grip that kept her in place. “The way I ruined our relationship?” he asked silkily. “Because the way I remember it, you did that all on your own.”

“I have no doubt that’s exactly how you remember it.” She glanced pointedly at his hold on her, then pulled her elbow out of his grasp before he could say another word. “Which is how I know you’re doing this just to mess with me, to get me in trouble. But I’m not having it. I don’t ever want you to touch me again. Go back to whatever you were doing before you decided that humiliating me was your best bet. Or better yet, go to hell.”

She moved past him then, disappearing back into the party in a swirl of purple silk, Chanel No. 5 and righteous indignation.

He wasn’t sure what it said about him that it was the latter that turned him on the most.

* * *

She was insane. Or in the middle of a psychotic break. Or having a stroke. She didn’t know which of the three she was suffering from, but it was definitely one of them. There was no other explanation for what had happened on that balcony. No other explanation for why she had fallen into Marc’s arms—and onto his lips—as if it had been six minutes since they’d last been together and not six years. Or as if he hadn’t sent her packing in the cruelest manner possible.

She understood sexual attraction—when they’d been together, she and Marc could barely keep their hands off each other. But shouldn’t that attraction be grounded in respect or love or something other than the intense dislike and distrust they now had for each other?

And still she’d let him kiss her. She’d let him touch her and stroke her and bring her way too close to orgasm. It was ridiculous. Worse, it was self-destructive. She was ashamed of herself. Ashamed of her body for responding so readily to him after everything he’d done to hurt her. After everything she’d done to hurt him, too.

As she walked through the party back to Gideon, Isa could feel Marc’s eyes following her. She didn’t need to look to know he was running his gaze over her back, her backside, her legs—and then up again. The weight of his stare was a physical touch—like an electric shock all over her body.

By the time she got to Gideon, she was shaking with reaction and self-recrimination. Though she knew the smart thing for her career was to stay at the party, drinking champagne and waiting for her turn to chat up the president of the Gem Institute, the truth was she didn’t have it in her to be in this room for one more minute. She had to escape, now, before she freaked out in front of all these people. Or before she threw herself at Marc and begged him to take her right here, in the middle of the crowded gallery.

Just the thought that such a thing was possible had her all but running the last few feet to Gideon. Had her putting her hand on his arm and leaning in so that her lips were only inches from his, so he could hear her in the loud, crowded room. Had her begging off the rest of the night, telling him she’d catch a cab home because she wasn’t feeling well. She was pretty sure her sickly pallor and trembling hands lent credence to the assertion.