Bolt: Bolt Saga: Volume One Page 10

  “Just…peachy.”

  He curls a smile, making me want to groan. Holy shit. The man’s generous lips are as mesmerizing as his proud cock. “Peachy, hmmm? Glad to hear that.” Just as swiftly, the mirth fades from his mouth…as fresh lust smokes his eyes. “You have no idea how glad.”

  “Oh, I have some idea.” My effort at cute and coy is destroyed the moment he reaches over, dragging me close. In the same motion, he finds the top of the zipper at the back of my skirt. Before our bodies touch, he has the enclosure open. As our mouths tangle, the whole garment plummets to the floor. We’re flesh-to-flesh once more, my soaked slit cushioning his stiff length, my hungry moan absorbing his harsh grunts. I’m dizzy with disbelief but high on gratitude. How is this even happening? How is my body, my spirit, my very core already so ravenous for him again? This isn’t me. At least this never has been me. I’m the female with needs beyond my clit. The vanilla-town girl with the kaleidoscope-colored dreams. The one who can count past lovers on one hand and be fine—hell, be proud—of that fact.

  “Yeah?” But his silken growl has me forgetting all concept of pride, especially as he sweeps me up, parking my ass on the marble vanity top. “Tell me about your ideas, beauty.”

  His mouth, elegant and entrancing, hovers an inch above mine. He doesn’t leave the space empty for long. At once he sweeps down again, spearing his tongue past my lips, demanding a new and wicked dance. Though he leads the tango with smooth mastery, I’m struck once more by his urgent desire, which leads me to actually believe his earlier disclosure. It’s been a while for me…

  “Yours fascinate me more.” The words quiver as he yanks me forward, nearly unseating me from the vanity as he wraps my legs around his waist.

  “Uh-uh.” His tone is as thunder-dark as his gaze. “Not as fascinating as you, Emmalina Crist.” He dips in as if to kiss me again but hovers instead, raking those thunderheads across my face. “I want to know everything about you.”

  He speaks with such reverence, I don’t know whether to be swept away or scared shitless. Then there’s the option behind door number three. Total bewilderment.

  I funnel all the confusion into a muttered question. “Why?”

  He pulls back a little and looks at me with such perplexity of his own, I wonder if he’s having second thoughts about this whole conversation—or whatever the hell this exchange is.

  But he’s still serious, even resolute, as he murmurs, “Why is there gravity, Velvet? Why does the sun come up every morning? Why do stars fall and mountains rise?” He pulls himself closer to me. “Some things are just inevitable.” He slides his hips against mine. As he rocks, stroking my clit with the boldness of his cock, I swear his gaze flares with a million points of iridescent light. “Some things are just meant to be.”

  Well…hell.

  Forget fighting the leap of my pulse. The sprint of my heart. The complete swoon of my better senses, turning my I-am-woman-hear-me-roar into I-am-bunny-let-me-melt.

  “Meant…to…be.” I push out the words between hoarse, heavy pants. “Like the fact that I need you to fuck me again?”

  Chapter Seven

  Reece

  I grin so wide, it hurts.

  Fuck. Everything hurts.

  Every drop of power in my dick. Every molecule of air in my chest. Every crazy thought in my head.

  It hurts, and I’ve never felt more amazing in my life.

  I sure as hell haven’t ever spouted such quixotic bullshit and truly meant it. I’ve never stared at a woman’s face like this and sworn I’d never be tired of the sight. And my cock sure as hell has never demanded a repeat trip to paradise this fast after the first visit.

  Most remarkably, my hands have never felt like this before.

  Yeah…my hands.

  They’ve never ached to hold a woman tighter. Never clenched into fists, fighting back the urge to cradle her face as I kiss her senseless and screw her into nirvana.

  And they’ve never glowed brighter.

  Ten garish reminders of the freak I really am.

  Which is why I reach beneath us, gripping her ass as I lean in close, consuming her vision with nothing but me as I tell her through my teeth, “Close your eyes, beauty.”

  The center of Emma’s brow pushes into a perfect little V. “Why?”

  My jaw clenches. “Emma—”

  “You’re so beautiful.” She delves a hand into my hair. “Let me watch you this time.”

  “Close your eyes, Emma.”

  I hate how it jolts her. Hate how it paints her face in nervousness, even though she complies. And I hate what it does to her body, tensing her before I can even drag the second condom from my pants.

  I want to fascinate her again. Turn her into the mindless she-beast who let me take her in front of the window. Turn her into my partner to the stars.

  So once again, I tiptoe into territory I’ve never traversed with a woman before.

  Seduction. The real kind. As in, slow and sensual…and verbal.

  “That’s good.” Simple, but an effective start. Also the truth, though I know everything I’m about to say is the truth. I’m just not sure how. This isn’t my normal MO. I’ve always been a show-not-tell guy. A master in the art of stringing women along with expensive food, expensive booze, and the belief they’ll be the one to get beneath the suave shell I show the rest of the world.

  I don’t want to be suave with her.

  I just want to be real.

  “Yeah. Very good,” I say with more confidence. “You’re gorgeous like this, Emma.” I brush kisses across her eyelids. “No. Not even gorgeous.” I swallow and hope she feels it. I hope she knows that texting this shit is one thing but speaking it is another. An experience that makes me feel like anything but a superhero right now. I’m so far out of my comfort zone, I’m in the fucking desert—and she’s the only oasis that can keep me alive. “You’re…you’re gravity.” It spills out, lamer than I ever imagined but good because it’s straight from my gut. My deepest instinct. “You’re morning. And—”

  I’m silenced—saved—by her grip around my neck and her mouth jutting up to mine. She shoots her tongue into my mouth. Rolls the gorgeous curves of her hips, drenching my throbbing head in her scorching juices. “And the woman who needs you inside her again,” she grates. “Now.”

  I growl hard. Kiss her harder. There’s a charge in our contact now, making her taste sooty but sexy, which awakens an animal drive in my mind, my gut, my dick. She tastes like me and all the places I’ve already marked her from the inside out. And I want to find even more.

  With that thought dominating my brain, I fumble the condom on. The second I’ve slammed it down to my balls, I grip Emma hard and position her for my full, fiery slam. No gradual build-up this time. Not when I’m a rod of rage, full of racing electrons and blazing come, manifested all too clearly by the neon-blue glow my fingers cast across her ass. I fixate on that sight, reflected back to me from the mirror, as I plunge deep and fast and hard into her wet, kneading heat.

  Then faster.

  Harder.

  Driving to make her scream. Giving everything to bring her pleasure. Rejoicing in the view of my erection disappearing over and over again into her perfect sheath.

  Succumbing to her magic.

  Giving in to her spell.

  Hailing her as my sorceress…as I give her every drop of my own superpower again.

  EMMA

  Two days after Reece Richards made sure I’d never think of that suite in the same way again, I return to my office from the water cooler, doing my best not to wince. Neeta has come in during my absence and secured herself in the chair on the other side. Privacy is no longer a luxury, so I’m forced to hide how every inch of my ass still feels as if I spent the day at Malibu lazing too long on my tummy, covering everything but my backside.

  But that’s the boring metaphor for everything that really happened.

  For how Reece Richards gripped me so fiercely when fucking me,
he left bruises that feel like burn marks.

  For how he seared himself into my mind with the same ruthless force.

  For how my body has turned pyromaniac on me, craving those flames again.

  For how much it hurts to ache for him like this.

  And for how much I really like it.

  I frown at Neeta, but she’s still furiously tapping text into her phone. She glances up as I place my water bottle, newly filled at the cooler, on the opposite end of the blotter from my computer. “If you add vodka to that, I’ll steal a swig.”

  I chuckle, knowing damn well she’s joking.

  “I’m not joking.”

  “Okaaaayyy.” My deeper frown counteracts the casual blurt. “Sorry, girl. What’s going on?”

  “You mean what’s not going on,” Neeta returns. “As in, what’s happened to Bolt and his hot streak.”

  I resettle in my chair, jolted again by my personal hot streak. “I’ve been…busy. Haven’t even turned on the news. What’s going on? Wasn’t he just zapping every creep in town with thunderbolts and lightning?”

  “Until a day and a half ago, yes.” She pushes her sculpted brows together and slides a finger up her screen. “But now he’s disappeared into his dynamo den or whatever.” She rolls her eyes. “I guess cheese doodles and a Lone Ranger binge are more important than saving Los Angeles from rapists, thieves, and vandals.”

  I huff, progressing to the logical conclusion. “And let me guess. The tour group is now wondering why they bypassed Anaheim to stay here.”

  “Give the lady a prize.” She rings an invisible bell.

  With crazy-weird timing, a musical ding erupts from my computer. A window slides in from the left, topped by the name of the person hailing me via our in-house instant message system—set to a privacy level I’ve never even heard of much less been invited to share.

  Reece Richards

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I grit my teeth to keep the words from spilling out, but a stressed sigh is inevitable.

  Neeta charges. “What? Who is it?”

  I shrug, praying I’m convincingly casual. “Rick from housekeeping.” Thank God there’s a supervisor in that department with an “R” name. If she glances at my monitor, she’ll see that much before I close the pop-up. “He thinks the tour group is hoarding the comp shampoo bottles. And he might still be a little peeved about Ree—Mr. Richards and me forgetting to tuck the shams on the beds in the Sunset Suite during the team turnover.”

  My message box pings again.

  Emmalina

  Speaking of tucking a sham.

  Emmalina

  “Sorry.” I flash an apologetic look at Neeta, not having to pretend this time. “I should get this.”

  EMMALINA

  “Of course.” Neeta waves an indifferent hand but shows no signs of ceasing her scrolling. Or moving from the chair. “Go ahead. I’m just hoping to find any random mentions of Boltalicious. Maybe he dropped off his hottie leathers for dry cleaning somewhere.”

  I concentrate on pulling in a fortifying breath but take my time about it. Acting like I’m thinking may actually lead to doing it. Besides, the action steadies my fingers on the keyboard.

  You want pompoms with that megaphone, mister?

  A little line beneath my words, looking like a dwindling dynamite fuse on repeat, denotes he’s typing a reply.

  Nice segue.

  Why?

  Because balls ARE involved with my intentions right now.

  I had to go and bring up dynamite.

  I pass off another long breath as efficient frustration.

  Have fun with those, then. Don’t dribble both at once. You may hurt yourself. I have to get back to work.

  My lips twitch. Well, look who just got glib and sassy with the boss. I am woman, and my roar is full of sultry power. Maybe I’ll go out and kick some bad guy ass.

  You’ve been at work for four hours.

  My fingers fly, taking advantage of the perfect comeback.

  You only know that because you’re still the dictator of my commute.

  Dictator Richards. Has a nice ring to it.

  Have fun playing with that one too, Your Excellency.

  Four hours, Velvet. By law, you have to take a break.

  Hell.

  How is his middle name not Persistence? And how does he crash my heart against my ribs by simply messaging that nickname?

  I square my shoulders. I have to be stronger than this. Remind myself I’m likely not the first woman he’s ever called that, no matter how special it feels or how many backflips my stomach insists on subjecting me to. Realize that a rich rogue with eyes like mercury, hair like satin, and the body of a god won’t care about the moony-eyed manager he leaves behind once the fascination of the fuck is gone.

  Not relevant. Salaried, remember?

  I preen for a second before clicking send. “Ka. Pow.”

  While I wait for his dynamite fuse to reignite, Neeta looks up with an inquisitive smirk. “Is Rick being a douche again?”

  I send a wry wink. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  Take a break, Emmalina.

  I’m in the middle of something.

  And it’ll be waiting when you get back.

  From visiting your spire?

  You like my spire.

  A new huff bursts out. He’s right, so damn right, and I can’t let him be. I really am in the middle of something. If the tour group is as pissed as Neeta alleges, my workload as Guest Satisfaction Manager is about to get heavier, and I can’t even pretend taking a “break” with him will be “relaxing.” Peace isn’t an option when we’re in the same room together, and the more I’ve pondered it, the more I realize what he said the other night is the only way to explain the wonderful war zone.

  There’s no explanation for it at all.

  Unless stuff like the sun, stars, and gravity are worthy definitions. And they’re not.

  They can’t be.

  Which is why I must declare détente now.

  I’m not going to the tower, Reece.

  I send the reply before I can chicken out. And then literally sit on my hands while waiting for his response.

  But his typing fuse never reignites.

  I tap a toe on my plastic chair mat. The move is actually empowering, giving an excuse to admire the new fire-engine-red pumps on my feet. Okay, so they were the result of shopping therapy as a distraction from him, but they’re still killer. But even their superpowers fade after a long minute of inactivity in the chat box.

  I stop the toe tapping. And hold myself back from writing stupid scripts about why he’s suddenly ghosted. I imagine him sitting there at his refined desk, in front of those penthouse windows, glorious even in his fury. Who knows what’s prompted his silence? The man has a million other things to focus on besides getting peeved with the mousy manager currently serving as his fuck buddy side dish.

  No longer.

  It’s for the best that he recognizes that too. That we both do.

  Blasting aside the lead plate closing over my chest, I minimize the chatbox with an efficient click. “Any luck?” I query, converging my attention back to Neeta. “Mr. Lightning-in-Leather sighted anywhere at all?”

  She jerks her head up, tossing her unbound hair across her slumped shoulders. “You mean other than a bad imposter on Melrose, using the lure to flash his junk?”

  I groan but finish in a snicker. “So that’s a giant no.”

  “Affirmative, kiddies.” With the same wry emphasis, she stabs again at her phone screen. “So we’ll probably have the group for just two nights instead of four. Ugh.” She turns the device over, slamming it to her lap while letting her head fall back. “That’ll teach me to include a last-minute booking on the weekly forecast.”

  “But you can put a note on the report, right? Explain that the revenue loss was due to circumstances beyond our control?”

  She stabs me with a new stare, now drier than her tone. “Last time I c
hecked, a superhero no-show doesn’t count as an Act-of-God excuse.”

  My encouraging smile twists into a grimace. “So who’s going to tell Mr. Richards?”

  “Says the new teacher’s pet herself.”

  This time, I really need her to be kidding—but I see the unnerving truth sneaking through her sheepish smile. “Oh, come on. Seriously?”

  Neeta rises, leaving her phone on the desktop so she can clasp both hands, practically petitioning me. “I’ll bring you ladoo for the next month.”

  “Not fair.” I’ve had a weakness for the coconut dessert balls since she shared some with me last week. The girl makes a mean ladoo.

  “Then consider it a noble act. He likes you, Emma. And you’re more comfortable with him and that strange aura of his than the rest of us.”

  I double down on the glower. Comfortable isn’t how I’d describe the vibe between the man and me, but that justification is way different than everyone else’s. They all act like he’s a moving nuclear waste zone and they’ll start glowing if they breathe around him. And me? I have to keep reminding myself the glow won’t last forever.

  “And you think that’ll make him less ticked about the news?”

  “What news?”

  It’s more dictate than question, issued from the doorway behind Neeta with the authority of an arriving king. The man to whom it belongs is such an image of sovereign glory, I’m shocked there isn’t a crown atop his umber waves. That elegant suit. That regal stature. That all-encompassing gaze. I own everything I see…