Locked and Loaded Page 2

  “Michael — !”

  “Oh no, you're not finished,” he growled, when I tried once more to sit up. Another finger joined the first, while he used his thumb to add extra pressure.

  “I feel strange,” I choked.

  “Good.”

  He intensified his efforts and then, oh, then I understood.

  Like the ashes of a land ravaged in the sweep of a ferocious flash-fire, orgasm was just as final and just as devastating.

  Michael

  I had been with other women before. Some of them, I had come to a sort of understanding. We went out, we fucked, we went home happy. A sexual quid pro quo. That arrangement suited me just fine.

  But those women wanted to change me. Own me. Turn me into something I fucking wasn't. As soon as they demanded that of me, I kicked them to the curb. No questions. No remorse. I didn't need those kinds of complications in my life.

  When I'd captured Christina, she had become the physical representation of everything I loathed about myself. Every time she flinched, every time she drew back from me in fear, I felt vindicated.

  And then — even that stopped working. I was left with a woman who was unaware of her own sexuality, who was fierce and brave, with a raging intellect that seethed beneath that sweet face, and who hated my guts when she wasn't fearing for her life in my presence. I'd thought all was lost, that I was going to do something stupid that would only cause her to hate me more than she already did, but lucky for me, she hated and feared Adrian Callaghan slightly more than she hated and feared me.

  Christina's body went slack as she climaxed, like a snapped rubber band. That tightening around my fingers was like a rapid heartbeat. I watched her open her mouth but she was panting too hard to speak.

  I relaxed my grip on her hips and pushed myself back into a sitting position. “Did you like that?”

  As if I didn't know.

  “Oh my God — ” She paused to drew in another breath. And then another. “What did you do to me?”

  Sweet Jesus.

  I'd have kissed her, but I still had her smeared all over my mouth and she might think that was bad manners. Most women did. As a general rule, they aren't too fond of real sloppy, messy, dirty sex.

  They're missing out.

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Ah — ” she looked up at me helplessly. “What was the question again?”

  I patted her cheek with my other hand. “Didn't I say you wouldn't be bored when you're with me?”

  “Yes.” She could barely talk. “You did say that.”

  I watched her with satisfaction as she struggled to compose herself. Her eyes dropped and she looked startled. Then embarrassed as she realized what, exactly, was poking into her hip.

  “You're — again?”

  “After what I just watched?”

  She blushed. The tide of color went clear down to her breasts, and I swear, even her nipples blushed.

  “That was hot as fuck. Of course I'm sporting a raging hard-on. Any man would, hearing his name said like that.” I ran my fingers along my cock without breaking eye contact. “Screamed like that.”

  She stared at me with those huge eyes.

  “Want to get me off?”

  The muscles in her throat contracted. She looked at me, hesitantly. Then she smiled that quizzical little smile that managed to look both shy and devious, and sexy as hell. “How?”

  “Watch me.”

  I made a fist around my swollen, aching cock and began to jerk it — slow upward thrust, quick downward release. Each squeeze released a spike of pleasure that jolted straight from my dick to my brain. Her eyes were like a tangible weight; it added to the pressure, the pleasure, and it made my breath come shorter and my hand go faster. Fuck yes.

  “Touch yourself,” I gasped. “I want to see you touch yourself.”

  Christina stared at me, frozen. Her smile disappeared. She looked at her hand, then at me, and she looked away. “I don't know how.”

  I almost laughed, but I was in no laughing mood.

  “You never…slid a finger between your legs and pretended it was a man? Maybe while lying on your bed…daydreaming about your wedding night?”

  Her face lost its color. “No! That's disgusting!”

  “Oh, Christina.” I did laugh then, and it vibrated all the way to the head of my cock. “No wonder you're always so…tense.”

  Right at the end, I hit the money spot. Christina stiffened, her hands folded on her lap like some prim, naked schoolgirl. “Is this turning you on, darlin?”

  She didn't answer. I took that as a yes.

  Since she seemed to like a bit of sound effects I made a few more for her benefit, enjoying the fact that she was unable to look away in spite of her obvious discomfort.

  “You don't want to touch yourself, that's fine. Rub you breasts for me then. Lick your fingers and rub them. No, not like that. None of that dabbing shit” — as she poked them uncertainly with a finger — “you're not finger-painting. Touch them the way I would.”

  She cupped their weight in her hands, looking at me for confirmation. I nodded, breathing out when she began to knead them. “You're kind of a pervert.”

  “Not really,” I said.

  When she began pinching and stroking her nipples, my mouth went dry.

  Maybe a little.

  “Get 'em nice and wet. Pretend that's my mouth on you.” Hot white heat was bursting behind my eyes. “All this right here, it's all because of you, my petit dirty girl.”

  I drew in another breath.

  “Oh, Christ. Okay. Come here. Leave your tits alone. Put your hands over mine. I want you to feel — really feel — what you do to me.”

  “It doesn't work like this when you're…alone?” Her breathing was a little uneven too.

  “Not so effectively, no. “You want to finish me?”

  “I don't know how,” she said again.

  “It'll be fun.” I wrapped her fingers around my shaft, squeezing until she got the pressure right. Then I moved, nudging against her palm, and she jumped.

  “Relax.” I directed her movements with my own hands. “Up and down, darlin. Up and down. Keep squeezing. Oh, sweet Jesus, yes, mais yes” — she was rubbing the head of my cock lightly between two fingers — “now down, keep doing that, for the love of fuck, keep doing that and don't stop until I tell you.”

  That was about two minutes later. Pleasure seized me by the cock. I'd timed it perfectly and came on the sheets, which I balled up and kicked to the floor.

  “Now that,” I said, “was a good fuck.”

  Chapter Two

  Fuse

  Michael

  All that sex had caused us to miss the hotel's breakfast window. Worth it, but unfortunate because I had a mean craving for a post-coital meal, and the only food in the room was the mints the maids had left on our pillows.

  I devoured them while Christina showered, washing the chocolate down with a splash of rum. Then I took my own shower, giving her some privacy while she got dressed. A cold quickie, to wake me up a little. I could have fallen right back asleep the way that leaded tiredness weighed down inside my bones.

  While I was at it, I took the time to give myself a nice, close shave with the complimentary razors, still buzzing pleasantly from that ball-shattering orgasm. I had to wipe the mirror down in order to see, they were still steamed up from one of her hot showers.

  I remembered reading somewhere that the women who take the hottest showers are also the wildest in bed. In Christina's case, that hardly seemed true. I shook my head, rinsed off the razor. There was a lot of bullshit out there posing as fact.

  But then, she was good at surprising me.

  Mornings were always a little chilly in San Francisco. I pulled on a pair of jeans and the gun holster before pulling on my t-shirt and coat.

  I splashed my face with cold water. There was a bit of a sting, but in a good way. Like biting into an apple that's a little too crisp. Pain and pleasure, like love an
d hate, are two sides to the same coin. As with everything else, it's all about moderation.

  I brushed my teeth until I had the taste of her out of my mouth and shut off the spigot. “You about ready?” I called out. “Can I come in now?”

  “Yes.”

  She was in jeans and a sweatshirt, with one of those little tank tops underneath that looked so good on her when she was wearing nothing else beneath it. She was in the act of knotting her hair into a bun, but it all fell down around her shoulders when she turned around to glance at me.

  That coy gesture made her look an awful lot like the girl she still was. It made me wonder just how the hell she was going to assimilate herself into the BN. Being a mercenary required a certain frame of mind.

  But then, Christina didn't have a lot of choice. If she hadn't signed up with the BN and what little protection they had to offer, she would have been fair game for anyone with a grudge against me or her father, and between us two we had pissed off some pretty powerful people on all sides.

  Adrian Callaghan had his eye on her, too. The sadist was obsessed with her because she was his key to hurting me and he really didn't like me. Sick fuck.

  He had sent two of his hired goons to kidnap her from my Seattle apartment. Made an offer that was groundless, telling her he'd set her free if she betrayed me. Then he'd hurt her, because she had refused.

  Just thinking about what he had done to her body filled me with wordless rage. He'd left her there, for me to find, like a discarded rag doll.

  Her going to work for the BN was a good thing. Better than leaving her at his mercy; he had none.

  “Wear your hair down,” I said to her, when she looked at me. I stuffed my wallet into my jeans pocket. “Looks better that way.”

  She combed the strands over one shoulder with her fingers. There was a troubled expression on her face that damn close to matching the way I felt inside.

  I watched her from the corner of my eye as I slipped on my shoes. She hemmed and hawed, toeing the carpet. Not the damned BN again. But no, it was worse.

  “Listen, about last night — ”

  No good conversation has ever begun with those four words. Possibilities flooded through my head. I should have expected this scenario, that she would second-guess herself into turning a perfectly good screw into some kind of moral conundrum.

  But I hadn't. I hadn't, and it came across as a major blow. Steeling myself, I said calmly, “What about last night?”

  “I don't do that kind of thing.”

  “But you do,” I said, “and you did. With me.”

  Had she been fucking me as a way of blowing off steam about her job? Was she going to blame me for playing the part of the Corrupter again? For taking advantage of her, even though she had jumped me?

  “I don't want you to get the wrong idea — ”

  What, the fact that she was using me as a human stress ball? Calm down, Boutilier.

  “We'll discuss it later. After breakfast.”

  She tried to speak again, and I smacked her ass, cutting her off with a little unhappy cheep of surprise.

  “Later means later, sweetheart. Not now.”

  And if I did it a little harder than was strictly in good fun, well, I think the Good Lord can forgive me.

  Christina

  Michael was like a half-tamed dog, as likely to turn on you as he was to snuggle up against you and lick your face, and just as slow to trust. The way he was looking at me, all cold and frozen over, left little question regarding which state he was in now.

  The morning had started out so pleasantly, until something I had said upset him. It was when I had broached the topic of sex that I had noticed the change, and I wasn't sure why. Why wouldn't he let me explain myself? He didn't welcome deception.

  I looked at the store windows, most of them still dark in spite of the lateness of the hour — it was Sunday, after all — and studied our reflections. Did we look like a couple? He was holding my hand, but his grip was tight, almost painful.

  That didn't show up in the glass, but it was there and very much present. When I had tried to pull away, to loosen his grip, he squeezed harder until I gasped from pain. Then, and only then, did he relax his grip, but he hadn't apologized and his silence showed no more hope of thawing than from the start.

  My tummy hurt from dizzying anxiety as I tried to figure out what I had done to displease him. If anything. I was starting to wonder if there had been no pretext at all, and the blame sat entirely with him.

  It was possible; he was very temperamental.

  If that was the case, he was being a bastard.

  Fog was rolling in from the bay, shrouding the streets in opalescent clouds of vapor. My hair was starting to curl — not the neat, bohemian curls that are vogue these days, but the kind that make most girls dash for the nearest flat iron.

  “What do you want to eat?”

  His voice startled me into looking away from the shops and their reflective windows. The tone he spoke in was civil, but not friendly. I shifted from foot to foot, deciding, weighing my answer carefully.

  “I'm not that hungry, but I wouldn't mind a doughnut or a pastry or something.”

  Michael nodded and resumed his brisk stride. He stopped outside a small cafe on one of the corners. The faded awning obscured the name of the place, but the smell of organic free-trade coffee wafting out through the cracked-open door was welcoming.

  I felt a tiny bit better as we stepped inside.

  It was small, but cozy, and very warm, decorated in what I think was the baroque style. Kelly green counters, chairs with curlicued embellishments and bold brass accents. Yellow wallpaper with designs done in mock gold leaf. Tacky, quaint, endearing — all rolled into one. Somehow, they made it work.

  Only in the city could you find such a place.

  Its charm was lost on Michael. He sat me in one of the corner booths, underneath an impressionistic painting of a magnolia blossom. I read the placard beneath it again and again while Michael ordered.

  How did we come to this?

  I missed the days when life was normal.

  He was coming back. I straightened as he set down a frosted glass of lemonade and a cherry danish for me. Did I tell him I liked lemonade? I couldn't remember. If I hadn't, that was eerily perceptive.

  For himself, he'd gotten triple-shot espresso and two breakfast sandwiches. He squeezed in beside me, casually slinging an arm around my waist as he unwrapped the first of the sandwiches with one hand.

  “Um, thanks,” I said. “For the food.”

  He grunted.

  So he was still mad at me for whatever imagined transgression he considered me guilty of. The arm was just for show, like the hand-holding in the street.

  And I couldn't shake the feeling that he thought I might run away, and was just taking precautions.

  I sneaked a glance at him. He was studying me over the rim of his cup, like I was something interesting he'd scraped off the bottom of his boot. “Why are you looking at me like that?” I began to get angry with this childish display. “What is the matter with you?”

  My heart-rate increased to triple-time when he leaned in. “Nothing.” I flinched when he ran his finger along the edge of my mouth, wiping away a dab of jam from the danish and then licking it off. “Absolutely nothing.” Oh God — that smile — that voice — “Finish your food.”

  While I was still reeling from the contact, he leaned back in the booth and continued to sip his coffee, staring dead ahead.

  Why was I drawn to him? Why, when he did things like this, again and again? He kept luring me in, and the moment I let down my guard and started to get comfortable, he went and he shoved me away.

  Some women could always land on their feet. They were the lucky ones. I ended up on my butt every time, dazed and wondering who had so cruelly yanked the proverbial carpet out from under me.

  The answer was usually Michael.

  Even I knew that this shouldn't be, inexperienced as I was. L
oving someone should make you want to run to them, not away. Michael made me want to run, yes, but I wasn't sure in which direction. Not yet.

  He jerked me around by the heart as if it were his own personal pull-toy, manipulating my emotions, treating me alternately as if I were a child or a fool, and however many times he had saved my life he had put it into danger at least as many times.

  Yes, he had told me that he loved me, but he had also told me other things, too. Nasty, cruel, hurtful things that don't bear repeating. Things that couldn't be canceled out by a mere three words, however powerful they might be.

  Which side of him was I supposed to heed? The cruel, cold side? Or the sweet and fumbling side that was so heartbreakingly awkward? Michael had many personalities, all of them untrustworthy.

  I didn't want to be just one in a lineup. I wanted clarity. I wanted to know if he was worth making room for in the shambles my life had become, or if I should just cut my losses and move on.

  And people in hell want ice water.

  The situation couldn't be as hopeless as that.

  I finished the danish and wiped my hands on my jeans. Michael, attracted by the movement, looked over at me with those cold, dead eyes.

  I tried again. “M-Michael — ”

  He pushed back his empty plate. “What?”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “Talk then. I'm not stopping you.”

  “You are, in a way. When you — ” This was getting away from the point. “Why are you treating me like this? Are you mad at me?”

  No, that wasn't the tone I wanted. It sounded like a plaintive whine; it sounded like, deep down, I might deserve this treatment on some level. I was handing him an excuse on a silver platter.

  I yanked it back. “Whatever the reason, you shouldn't be treating me like this.” That was better. “You're acting like a jerk.”

  One of his eyebrows arched.

  “I want to know where things stand between us.”

  The other eyebrow joined the first. “You tell me.”

  “Why should I be the one to decide? Even if I did, it wouldn't matter since you keep shutting me out.”