Off Limits Page 9

  He shakes his head. ‘Not the only prerequisite, but it’s an important one.’

  ‘Why?’ I push, taking another sip.

  He presses his finger under my chin, tilting my face towards his. ‘Because that’s what I want.’

  ‘One-night stands.’

  ‘Two-night stands, in your case,’ he says, pulling me forward.

  At the same time I reach for his towel and push it down his body. He lifts me easily, settling me on a bar stool, his eyes holding mine as he slides on a condom, and then he takes me totally, driving deep inside me and winding my legs around his waist. Even as the bliss of his possession moves through me I feel a strange distaste for his statement.

  A two-night stand on its second night means it’s the end.

  But don’t I want that?

  Aren’t boundaries a good thing?

  I bite down on my lip, unable to process it any more. He holds me tight, gripping me against him.

  ‘I like being able to be inside you like this. Whenever I want.’

  His fingers grab my dress and lift it up my body, over my head, so that I’m wearing only my heels and a lace bra. He disposes of the latter easily and then, true to his word, grabs his daiquiri glass and trickles ice-cold liquid across my breasts.

  His mouth on my nipple is warm and I arch my back, giving him greater access. He chases it down my body as he thrusts into me again, his ownership of me both thrilling and frightening at the same time. His chin is stubbled and rough against my neck. He takes an earlobe into his mouth, wobbling it between his teeth, and I groan, desperate for him to move faster, deeper.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asks softly.

  ‘More!’ I call the word out loudly, an incantation or an invocation, scoring my nails across his back, marking him as mine even when I know he isn’t.

  ‘Like this?’

  He moves a little deeper, so that I nod, but it’s not enough.

  ‘More...’

  He laughs, pulling out of me and guiding me off the stool at the same time.

  ‘Turn around.’

  ‘Has anyone ever told you you’re a bossy son of a bitch in bed?’

  ‘We’re not in bed,’ he reminds me frankly, and there’s a sexy, sardonic smile at the corner of his lips.

  ‘You’re a bossy son of a bitch to fuck,’ I correct dutifully, and he laughs.

  ‘You’re complaining?’

  I shoot him a look over my shoulder and do as he says, turning around.

  ‘Those fucking heels...’ he says, bending me at my waist and spreading my legs before taking me from behind, his fingers digging into my naked arse. ‘You have no idea how hot this is.’

  But I do, because he’s driving me to the point of distraction with every single move. Fire spirals inside me, coiling, spinning, taking me and making me fall apart in his arms.

  The kitchen bench is marble and cold beneath my fevered palms. And then he brings the palm of his hand down on my arse and I jerk, crying out as both pleasure and pain radiate through me.

  ‘Did you know you have a mark here from me?’ He presses into what I presume must be a hickey from the last time we were together.

  I shake my head and he catches my ponytail in his hand, pulling it with just enough pressure to hold me still as he thrusts inside me. His other hand trails down my spine, chasing each knot, each groove, until he reaches my arse. Once again he presses a single finger against me, and there is something so illicit and forbidden about it that I come—out of nowhere.

  The orgasm is intense. He’s only touching my skin, there is nothing invasive about his finger, but just the idea of what I’d let him do to me makes me fall apart.

  ‘Shit...’ I swear under my breath, sweat across my brow.

  His finger pushes in a little way and I buck hard. His dick thrusts into me and his hand around my hair pulls. It’s too much. The pleasure is making me weak.

  ‘I can’t...’ I say, my breath coming in pants, my eyes fevered, my body wet.

  ‘You can do whatever you want,’ he contradicts, and brings his mouth to my back.

  But he moves his hand away, bringing it to cup my breasts and torment my nipples. I have never known sex like this. I have never been an instrument of pleasure. I always call the shots and yet now I am his to control, to command, and there is something so hedonistic about that I know I will never be the same again.

  ‘You are so much more perfect than I imagined,’ he groans, and now he thrusts deeper and harder and faster, and I rock my hips with him until we fall apart together, him exploding inside me while I tremble and squeeze him tight.

  I bring my weight forward, pressing my head onto the marble kitchen bench, not wanting to lose him.

  He belongs inside me.

  It’s an erroneous thought. No one person can belong to another—inside or out.

  ‘I needed that.’

  He steps away from me as though he’s sated, when I’m satisfied and still needy all at once.

  ‘You and me both.’

  I walk around the kitchen bench on legs that are wobbly as all hell. I sip some of my drink, my eyes linked to his. But he’s staring at my breasts. Bemused, I look down and see that they’re red from his stubble.

  His jaw is clenched and he looks away.

  Something jars in my mind. A memory I can’t quite grab, like finding soap in the bath.

  ‘What is it?’

  His smile is tight. ‘I ordered Japanese.’

  ‘Great. No karaoke, though,’ I tease, referring to my last drunken night with Jack.

  He nods. But something is wrong.

  ‘What is it?’ I insist.

  ‘I’ve marked your entire body,’ he says after a beat has passed. ‘You’re literally covered in marks from me.’

  I frown, running my hands over my breasts, and then I shrug. ‘So?’

  His eyes, when they meet mine, are haunted. ‘It doesn’t bother you that I like fucking marking you? That I’m turned on by seeing proof of me on you?’

  I tilt my head to one side, pretending bemusement, but my heart is accelerating and again I wonder at the risk of broken ribs in the face of a particularly aggressive heartbeat.

  I shake my head slowly.

  ‘Jesus...’ He drags a hand through his hair unsteadily. ‘All this time I thought you were Miss Moneypenny and you’re actually Air Force Amy.’

  ‘Who?’

  He doesn’t answer, just reaches down and picks up his towel, wrapping it around his waist, then walks into the kitchen to stand behind me. He runs his finger down my spine.

  ‘There is a line here.’ He drops his finger lower and presses it against my butt. ‘And here, where I sucked you until you bruised.’ Then he cups my arse. ‘And here, where I slapped you hard enough to redden your skin.’

  I swallow. This description of his touch is erotic and dangerous.

  I suck my lip between my teeth. ‘Don’t you get it?’ I don’t look at him as I speak. ‘When I’m here, I’m yours. I trust you. And I want this. This—what you do to me—is what turns me on. More than anything I’ve ever known.’

  He drops his forehead to my shoulder, and then he grabs me and turns me around to face him. ‘It doesn’t bother you that I’m just using you?’

  It’s not what I expect him to say. I look at him with an obvious expression of confusion because he shakes his head.

  ‘Not you, per se. Sex with you.’

  I try to play the lighter side. ‘Do I seem like I mind?’

  He exhales, frustration and anger communicating themselves in the weighted breath. ‘I don’t want you to be another one of them.’

  His eyes are hollow. No matter how I stare at him, I can’t intuit his meaning.

  ‘Another one of whom?’

  ‘Them. The women I fuck to forget about her.’

  I know instantly that he’s referring to Lucy. Sadness wells inside me. Sadness for Jack, for Lucy and the whole sordid mess.

  ‘But that’s all
this can be.’

  There’s a determination in his statement that fills me with ice.

  I nod, but his words are exploding in my mind like tiny little bombs.

  ‘I know,’ I say. Because I do.

  That’s the worst thing. I have known this about him for a long time and yet here I am, fucking him and letting him drive me crazy when I should be running a mile in the opposite direction.

  ‘So what are you doing here? How can you be okay with that?’

  A great fucking question! One I wish I’d asked myself sooner.

  ‘Hasn’t that horse already bolted? We’ve had sex together. Does it really matter why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ His laugh is uncertain, his eyes cagey. ‘I’m not usually this...barbaric.’

  He drops his mouth to my shoulder and bites me gently.

  ‘But with you...I don’t know...it’s like some animal instinct kicks in. I feel like I want to carry you over my shoulder and tie you to my bed.’

  ‘You’ve already done that. Check and check.’

  A flicker of his lips acknowledges the truth of my reply. ‘I mean for days. I mean I want to feed you when it suits me. Let you drink the champagne that I tip into your mouth. But otherwise you’d exist for my pleasure alone.’

  ‘Maybe you just want that because you know I’d never go for it,’ I say hoarsely, hiding the fact that his words have evoked a powerful emotional need in me.

  ‘Maybe.’

  Suddenly, his need gives me an idea. No, it gives me a bartering chip. ‘What if I let you go all Neanderthal?’

  ‘You think I haven’t already?’ he asks, the words full of hoarse self-condemnation.

  I shake my head. ‘I think you’ve just scratched the surface.’ I cup his face, rubbing my thumb over his stubble. ‘So give me what I want and I’ll give you what you want.’

  ‘And what is it you want, Gemma Picton?’

  I swallow my anxiety. What’s the worst that can happen? He’ll say no?

  ‘I want you to answer my questions. I want to understand you better.’

  * * *

  The shower is warm against my skin. I rub my body all over, letting the soap bubble and froth before turning the heat off and stepping out into an enormous soft towel. I dry myself and then reach for one of the luxurious robes hanging behind the door.

  I’m nervous, as though I’m on a first date. But that’s stupid.

  Because Jack doesn’t date. Come to think of it, I don’t really date either.

  What we’re doing is fucking—sure, the best sex of my life. But still just sex. Two nights? Maybe more? But definitely not any form of happily-ever-after.

  It’s sex. And it’s discovery.

  I’m getting my curiosity answered—and I have been curious about Jack for as long as I’ve worked with him. I’ve wondered about the demons that drive him. The ghosts, real and imagined, that play on the edges of his mind.

  Besides, it’s kind of win-win for me. I love the animal passion in him. So much so I’m terrified of myself. This way I get to find out more about the beautiful darkness of Jack Grant, and I get the beast in bed.

  Perfect.

  When I step out of the bathroom he’s arranging containers on an enormous dining table. It could easily seat twelve people, but he’s placed us at one end and, in a gesture that makes my heart thump, he’s even lit a candle.

  ‘Expecting company?’ I murmur with forced sarcasm, desperate to cover the trembling emotion in my chest.

  ‘That’s not what I’d call you,’ he responds in kind, but he winks at me and my heart pounds harder.

  ‘We’ve covered that already with—who was it? Amy someone?’

  He grins. ‘I called you Miss Moneypenny first.’

  ‘Yes, and that’s equally wrong. I’m not some wallflower assistant.’

  ‘You assist me,’ he says with a shrug, but he comes to a chair and pulls it out, his eyes meeting mine, silently inviting me to sit.

  Electricity sparks between us like a current neither of us can control.

  I’m nervous, and that makes me angry! I don’t want to be nervous around Jack, like this is a date or something. I’ve agreed to let him ravage me so that he’ll tell me stuff. It’s not a date. If it were he’d tell me all that stuff without the promise of animalistic sex.

  It’s only when I sit that I pay attention to the kind of food he’s ordered. There’s sushi, sashimi, a Katsu curry, edamame and a couple of miso soups. I try not to think he’s remembered that Katsu curry is my favourite thing in the world.

  He takes the seat opposite mine and lifts a glass. I tilt mine towards his and then rest it back on the table.

  ‘It’s bad luck not to drink after clinking glasses.’

  ‘I haven’t heard that.’

  I lift the drink to my lips and taste it. Of course it’s delicious.

  He rests back in the chair, his hands linked beneath his chin. ‘Well, Miss Picton. We have a deal. What is it you’d like to know?’

  ‘You’ll tell me anything?’

  ‘And you’ll let me do anything.’

  I nod, my throat dry as I wonder just what his idea of ‘anything’ encompasses.

  ‘How do you know I won’t chicken out, out of interest?’

  His laugh makes my gut vibrate. ‘Because you’re you. I can’t imagine you backing away from anything in your life. You’re fearless.’

  ‘Not entirely,’ I say under my breath.

  ‘No? What are you afraid of?’

  I sip my wine again, and then snap my chopsticks in half reaching for a piece of salmon nigiri. ‘I’m afraid of lightning,’ I say softly. ‘Terrified of it.’

  ‘As in thunder and lightning?’

  I nod. ‘Yep. That one.’

  ‘But why? It’s just atmospheric discharge.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s just a weather phenomenon. But I will still hide under my covers during a storm, waiting for it to pass, without fail.’

  ‘Why? Since when?’

  My smile is lopsided. ‘Since I was a girl.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘How do you know anything happened?’

  ‘I just do,’ he says with a shrug of his broad shoulders, lifting his own chopsticks and taking a piece of chicken karaage.

  He’s right, of course.

  ‘I was seven years old and locked out of our home. I’d gone to pick apples and my parents presumed I was in bed. They were out to dinner with friends and Nanny Winters thought I’d gone with them. The house was locked up and I couldn’t get in.’

  I shiver. It was one of the most horrifying nights I can recall.

  ‘I climbed into my tree house and waited it out there. But a flash of lightning came down so close and so loud it smoked on the ground at my feet.’

  He nods thoughtfully, but I can tell he’s unravelling the story.

  ‘When did you get back into your home?’

  ‘Not until morning. I fell asleep eventually, and it wasn’t until Nanny discovered me missing and the alarm was raised that I heard the staff looking for me. I woke up and all was well. Except that I can’t stand storms now. Even the smell of rain in the air makes me afraid.’

  He strokes his chin thoughtfully.

  ‘So I’m not entirely fearless,’ I finish lamely.

  ‘Lots of people are afraid of thunderstorms.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘No.’ His smile is perfunctory. ‘There isn’t much I’m afraid of.’

  ‘But...?’ I ask, sipping my wine, curious to the point of distraction.

  ‘Yes, I have fears,’ he admits grudgingly.

  ‘Like...?’

  He makes a deep, guttural noise. ‘This was a crappy idea.’

  I laugh softly. ‘Ghosts? Spiders?’

  ‘No.’ He’s quiet for so long I wonder if he’s not going to answer, and then he continues, his voice hoarse. ‘I’m afraid of powerlessness. Of watching someone I love die.’

  His grief hits me like a web
and I am caught in it.

  ‘You’ve watched someone you love die and you’ve survived.’

  ‘Barely.’ He shakes his head. ‘Try the chicken. It’s great.’

  I don’t move. The ghosts of his admission linger between us, haunting our table.

  ‘Were you with her when she died?’

  He recoils as though he’s been slapped and I briefly regret the agreement we’ve made. But I want to know this stuff. It’s so important to me to understand. I feel like I’ve got only half of the picture and bit by bit I want to piece him together.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I wanted to be with her.’

  ‘Of course.’ I nod. ‘How long were you married?’

  ‘A year.’ He clears his throat. ‘Can we talk about something else?’

  Sympathy is thick inside of me but instinctively I know talking about this will help him so I don’t back down. ‘You told me I could ask what I want.’

  ‘And this is what you want to know?’

  ‘You told me you’re fucking me because of her—so, yes, I want to know.’

  His face pales. ‘Fine.’ His teeth are gritted. ‘What else?’

  I drink some wine and eat another piece of sushi, chewing on it thoughtfully. ‘She died of cancer?’

  He nods.

  ‘And...?’ I prompt.

  ‘And what, Gemma?’

  ‘Well, what kind?’

  He expels an angry breath. ‘Chronic Lymphocytic Leukaemia. Stage Four. It was a terminal diagnosis.’

  I wince. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Why? It’s not your fault.’

  I understand his anger and aggression.

  ‘Nothing could be done?’

  His eyes meet mine and he shakes his head. I feel like he’s holding something back, but I don’t want to push him anymore. Not about this.

  Sympathy trumps curiosity. So I let it go.

  ‘This is delicious,’ I say instead, reaching for another piece.

  And he visibly relaxes, as though he’s been in hell and I’m unlocking the gate.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Do you spend much time here?’ I look around the palatial apartment, seeing it almost as if for the first time.

  ‘I used to.’ His smile is tight. ‘So...Nanny Winters, huh?’

  ‘No, no—you don’t get to change the subject.’

  He laughs. ‘I can do what I want.’