All Mixed Up Read online

  I was so busy doubling down on the fume, his reply didn’t register at first. When it did, I stepped away and narrowed my eyes. “What the hell?” Was he purposely playing cheeky? But in the next second, I changed up my tune as fast as I could. “Ohhh, hell.” And then choke-chuffed. “The…the place I’m staying,” I finally stuttered out. “It’s…”

  “Mine.” He stepped forward. Then dug those beautiful hands into his back pockets while allowing a shrug to hint at his shoulders. “One of many I own in the city, offered to Milo when the Avanti project began to…” Well, damn it. Now he had to add to that shot of youthfulness by pursing those full lips with authentic confusion. “How do you say…errrm…avait des ailes? Had its wings?”

  “Took flight?” I supplied.

  “Ah. Oui. Took flight. Merci.” But the next second, he ditched student for teacher once more. His jaw hardened. The sternness climbed, taking over the mesmerizing depths of his eyes. “So, you see, I was not playing creepy evil stalker man.”

  And just like that, his inner disciplinarian had my saucy schoolgirl romping out again. “Oh, not at all,” I riposted from smirking lips. I ignored his scowl to plunge on. “So now that we’ve ruled out ‘creepy evil stalker man,’ tell me what I am dealing with here.” Oh, screw it. I gave in to a full-on giggle. “S’il vous plait,” I snickered out. “Monsieur.”

  Serious relief flooded in as he looked up—mirroring my tentative grin. “Hmmm,” he murmured. “Perhaps we should just say…concerned friend. And semi-boss-man.”

  “Semi-boss man?” I tilted my head and folded my arms. The move danced us back to flipping the teacher/student thing again, but I was enjoying the mischief in his eyes too much to refrain. “But I know your secrets, mister. You do remember?”

  “Some.”

  I didn’t doubt the truth behind that hedge. The man was an enigma, and clearly wanted it to stay that way. Fine by me. It had to be. If he got to keep his secrets, I got to keep mine. Things were best that way.

  “Well, you’re good by me.” I held up a hand. “I’ll even let you pinky swear me to it.”

  I extended my littlest digit. For a long second, he just stared at it. I glowered back. Was the guy going to be a huge douche about things now?

  But then comprehension collided with my cerebral cortex.

  The guy didn’t get it. Really and truly.

  “Come on, Paget,” I teased. “You have pinky fingers, right? So pinky swear me in.”

  I pushed my finger out a little further.

  But in the doing, should have listened to my psyche’s second crash of recognition.

  The instinct that ordered me not to push him on this. That screamed at me to drop the game that second, and write off the contact as a dumb little piece of American silliness.

  An action requiring the man to slide his skin against mine.

  To twine his heat and hardness around me…

  Okay, it was only one damn finger. One little inch. One miniscule contact.

  But it was all he needed. The necessary connection to spark our senses even hotter for each other. To blast open our awareness of each other. To inject the knowledge in us both that the fire wasn’t going to wane just because we let go of each other.

  Not that the man was going to do so.

  Not if I was correctly interpreting the tightening twist of his digit against mine.

  Oh, God.

  He yanked even tighter, causing me to lose my balance.

  Oh, God.

  As I stumbled forward, he stepped in too.

  Oh, God.

  He consumed my personal space, easily absorbing every shock and zap and spark between our bodies. Every new millimeter he gained was another bump of amplitude to his heart-stopping potency, his breath-robbing force.

  Awareness started coming in spurts of dazzling awareness. The silent sweep of his dark head. Then his wordless warning, a stop from just an inch away, telling me to get away now if I wanted. But heaven help me, that was the last thing I wanted. Maybe even needed.

  I craved what he gave me instead.

  The pull of his fingers, long and powerful and steely, ensuring our bodies’ nearness was now a crush. The hypnosis of his stare, hot and weighted and sure, as he descended his head by another fraction.

  And then another…

  Before he took me.

  Enflamed me.

  Devoured me.

  Then parted me. Pushing in between my moaning lips so he could taste and relish and ravish me. Making me taste him in return, drenching me in his dark spices and masculine need. Slicking the heart of his mouth against the soft recesses of mine so that finally, finally, our bodies acknowledged what our spirits already knew. The awareness combusted between us, blossoming into full physical form. Into searing, consuming hunger…

  Still, the man made no sound.

  Uttered no words.

  Neither did I.

  Even after we yanked back from each other, heaving in gulps of air like we hadn’t breathed in a year.

  Even while he scooped a hand around mine and guided me into his car, locking the seatbelt around me himself—and taking brazen advantage of the chance to bite my neck as he did.

  Even during the drive back to the apartment—five minutes that felt like five hours—and during the ornate elevator’s climb to the seventh floor.

  Still not a word during our walk down the hallway to my door. Somewhere between the Metro station and here, I’d gotten the point of it. The silence was our foreplay. In every one of his nuanced glances, I was as good as teased and tongued. In every look I returned through my lashes, I mentally stripped and stroked him. And when our fingertips brushed, our bodies instantly communicated the contact to other places. Deeper places. Harder places. Wetter places.

  Much wetter.

  By the time I handed him my key and he unlocked the door, I was almost screaming from the wild, insane need of it all.

  Wasn’t happening.

  As soon as we got inside, he robbed the sound from every cell of my throat. By plunging his tongue down it. At the same time, he shoved me against the door I’d just closed. Pinned me with the might of his huge body. Drowned me in the fierce force of his need.

  No.

  Not anymore.

  Not need.

  The force of his lust.

  A high sigh swirled through my mouth. The resistance drained from my limbs. The will vanished from my mind. He was sweeping into it all, and I liked it. Holy shit, I felt born for it. He was no longer just an inspiration for my fantasies. He’d become every sordid, sweltering vision from them.

  I wanted him.

  And I was damn tired of feeling conflicted about it.

  I mean, why? The effort was feeling more like asking why day couldn’t be night, the planets couldn’t reverse their orbits, or lions would just stop craving their prey. Our attraction was just as elemental. Primal. Animal attraction. The urge to merge. The caveman crazies. We could’ve spent all night attaching labels, and they wouldn’t change a damn thing. This was a pull we couldn’t control, spawned from the insane mix of our chemistries. Nothing less, but nothing more, as well. We’d scratch the crazy itch and then be done. Tomorrow, he could go back to his princesses, actresses, and models. I could go back to the work I loved and the good money Milo paid me to do it.

  But tonight, right now…

  It was about the fire.

  The magnificent, marauding, invading, perfect, inferno.

  Letting it in. Letting it possess. Letting it burn.

  Letting him take over.

  “Damn. Ohhh, yesss…” I hissed it out as he bit into the other side of my neck. Then again as he became a decadent dervish, ripping away my hoodie, my T-shirt, my bra. I dissolved in full as he scooped his own sweater up then off. I swept my hands down his torso, letting my words become a string of delighted sounds while stroking up and down his V-shaped sinew.

  Beneath my fingers, his skin turned into flames. I commiserated with the feel
ing. He was just as beautiful as I’d envisioned. His bold pecs topped twin ladders of ripped abs, centered by an arrow of dark hair that led my gaze…

  Right…

  Down…

  There.

  Without thinking, I reached for the buttons covering his crotch. When I’d undone them, he shoved the denim down. He wasn’t commando—perhaps the first real surprise of my night—nor did he make any motion to shuck the black briefs hugging his muscled hips and thighs—or the astounding evidence of his desire.

  I looked up in silent question—just in time to watch him step from the puddle of the jeans and sweep me up, pulling me close as he headed straight for the bedroom. No scenic routes for this man, and that was fine with me. I’d had the scenic route already tonight, and was still paying the price for that mistake.

  Or…reaping the reward?

  Was there really a difference?

  And did I care?

  Surprise number two of the night: once settling me to the middle of the messy sheets and blankets, Lucien didn’t join me in them. At that point, I actually colored a little. I hadn’t exactly picked up when leaving for the airport with Leese and Greer. I glanced around nervously and prepared to mumble an apology—it was technically his place, after all—but his dark wolf glower was my instant mute button.

  Our silence was still golden.

  And molten.

  And mesmerizing.

  Lucien stared down at me for the better part of a minute, his inky eyes igniting my nerves and pulsing my pussy, before he dipped a small nod my way. Holy freak. The move needed to be added to the worldwide canon of male sexiness, on the shelf next to Idris’s strut and Channing’s hip rolls. He pivoted and left the room, though it was all the code I needed to know exactly how he wanted me upon his return.

  Totally nude. And very ready.

  Checking your boxes right away, Monsieur Wolf.

  As if we’d choreographed this whole thing, he reentered the room as I kicked my jeans completely free. Though he still wore his briefs, I let out a gasp. The sight of him standing here, tall and proud in the streaming moonlight, making him look like one of the perfectly-muscled statues from one of the fancy museums up the avenue…

  And just like that, I was gasping again.

  Though if the onyx glints in his eyes were any clue, that would be my last full breath for a while.

  Which led to the instant yearning to put my clothes back on.

  My body wasn’t awful. I hardly worked a sedentary desk job, after all. But because of that, I also didn’t watch every bite, either. I liked New York hot dogs, chili fries, and straight shots of whisky. And yeah, a nibble of chocolate every once in a while, especially when I was stressed.

  I’d just been stressed a lot lately.

  With a surreptitious toe, I dragged a sheet up. A little higher. Caught it with my fingers then draped it alluringly around my body. Hell, if it worked for the painted nymphs lining Avanti’s ceiling, why couldn’t it work for—

  Thwap.

  The sheet was sent flying, ripped back by the man who stared down at me without mercy. His eyes were as dark and fathomless as the night sky they took after. His chest pumped in and out. So did mine. Holy shit. Was he still turned-on…or had I pissed him off? I couldn’t tell, and didn’t know how to ask. Didn’t even know if I should. I had no clear bead on him. Not even half of one. The mystery scared me a little. Which, of course, soaked everything more between my thighs.

  “No more hiding.”

  It was rough and husky, ended by his solid stroke between his own legs. I gulped hard as a circle of moisture spread on his briefs. So much for the plan I had to accuse him of hiding. He was baring more of himself, and what I did to him, with every passing moment. His teeth were gritted beneath his parted lips. His powerful thighs and tight ass began to bunch and strain.

  And then there was the aroused mountain at the center of his underwear.

  The only factor that turned me on more was the black intensity of his eyes. Then the tiny glints deep within them. The watchful heat with which they took me in. The intense craving of his whole energy…

  All right; fine. If he could do it, so could I.

  I lifted my chin as I dropped my shoulders. Settled them back against the pillows, coming all the way out of my own hiding…for him.

  The feeling was bizarre.

  Beyond bizarre.

  Crazily, a realization slammed me. Pax and I had screwed each other like bunnies for eight tempestuous months, but never looked at each other in the doing. Not even during foreplay. He was always too busy devouring my breasts like melting snow cones, raining hickeys down my neck, or mowing on my mound like a cheeseburger on sale at—

  Shit, shit, shit.

  My mound.

  In horror, I looked down. It was effing Sherwood Forest down there, a wilderness I’d let run wild mostly out of spite for Pax, but a little out of hopelessness for myself. I had no decency barometer when it came to men, so why try?

  But here I was, trying again—with a man who was barely an improvement from Pax, except for the number of zeroes in his bank account. This was such a bad idea, no matter what angle I looked at it from. Lucien Paget normally slept with goddesses who probably had their mounds waxed in liquid gold. Moreover, he was partly responsible for my paycheck, and literally owned the bed under my back.

  But like the finest of train wrecks, I was helpless to stop it now. I was powerless against anything but the riot of my own senses, the wild rush of exhilaration he brought in greater doses with every minute. My brain was only good for running involuntary systems now—save for the one last thought it fed me as my saving consolation.

  This was only one night.

  One night I’d clearly not expected.

  But before I could save myself with a groan of embarrassment, Lucien swooped down onto the bed with me.

  Oh, damn.

  Then forced my knees apart with his own.

  Oh, damn!

  Then fitted his whole, hard palm over my full, damp bush.

  “No. hiding.” He cupped harder while all but snarling the order, spiking heat through every inch of my sex. The cosmos, in its twisted sense of humor, made sure every one of my intimate curls felt it too.

  I gasped again. Arched into his touch. I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t even want to try.

  And what did that dark, beautiful bastard do in return?

  He smiled.

  Not a gloating smirk, either.

  He smiled.

  At me.

  Adoring me. Caressing me with the velvet of his eyes before doing the same thing with his fingers. My gasp became a high, aching cry. Those thrilling digits…circling deeper into me now…slower then faster…softer then harder…testing every nuance of his talent on me.

  “Oh!” I yelped. “Oh, my God.”

  “Ssshhh.” He bent down, spreading the admonishment across my lips like a prayer. Which made no sense, because this man was Lucifer in flesh form. I flicked a glance down to the side, using the excuse to look for a horned tail, but was actually after a glance of his tight, flawless ass.

  So. Flawless.

  So screw the prayers.

  All I wanted was more of this. More of his steady gaze, watching me without blinking. More of his intoxicating scent, cedar and cloves and man. More of his low, lusty growls as I trembled and sighed beneath him.

  Didn’t stop me from watching him in return.

  From memorizing him.

  The way his dimples appeared, even through his scruff, when I mewled as he hit a sensitive spot in my folds. The way his lips firmed as he swirled and explored, hunting for another. And most beautifully, the way his eyelids dropped, hooding over the furnace of his gaze, as he stroked the outer edges of my deepest entrance.

  “Holy shit!”

  “Ssshhh!”

  He backed the dictate by kissing me again—and doing it hard. And ruthlessly. So perfectly. A keen curled up from my belly and tumbled into his
mouth. He replaced it with his moan as he touched me there again, but added the pressure of his thumb atop my clit. As every nerve between my thighs shivered, I twisted a hand into the satin glory of his hair.

  And then hung on for dear life.

  His dimples flickered again—but an instant were gone, as a new tremor rolled through him too. “Mon reve,” he whispered. “C’est si belle. So…beautiful.”

  “No,” I uttered between one breath and the next. “You. You’re the beautiful—”

  He robbed me of the rest by kissing me again—but this time, he breached my lips with unwavering authority, and twisted his tongue along mine in a hot, urgent mating dance. I pushed up a little, unable to get enough of his sinful taste. He answered with a primal sound from low in his throat, giving back just as much passion.

  Dear God, what he did to me.

  And what I was doing to him in return…

  An honesty he exposed to me, in all of its longing and lusting fervor, as he slid his hand away from my slit.

  I drew breath to moan in protest, but before the air came he was fitting his crotch against me in place of his hand. We rocked together, lunging and retreating, driving ourselves crazy with the friction. Our breaths were like half-crazed horses. Our bodies churned like locomotives. Sweaty, lusting, sex-crazed locomotives. It had to be the world’s crappiest cliché, but I never knew it could be like this. I never knew men actually made love like this.

  No. Not love. It’s nowhere near love.

  It’s way fucking better.

  With a sudden jerk, Lucien rose up and away. I almost took a figurative gun and shot myself, but he was back with his gorgeous body and his satyr-dark eyes and his steamy lust before I could remember where the trigger was. He reached in, gripping my hips with force that bulged his biceps and my eyes. I yelped again. He snarled again. Then in one tidal wave of motion, he flipped me over.

  “Oh!”

  “Ssshhh.”

  I bit my lip to stay my scream as he enforced that with two stinging slaps to my buttocks. Oh damn, it hurt. Oh damn, it was good. And even better as the pain mellowed into flames, licking out and then in, spreading into the apex where so much of my desire was waiting to be ignited…

  He leaned over me with his muscled chest along my spine. With sexy-as-hell grunts, he tugged at my hands and then my knees. When he was done, I wasn’t just facing the modular-style headboard. I was gripping it, my body in the most wanton of poses. My thighs were spread, my ass was jutting, and my sex was dripping.