In Bed With the Billionaire Read online

  He leaned farther down, gently brushing her mouth with his, at the same time as he toyed with her pussy, sliding his fingers along her folds, pressing inside her. “You’re doing it again, Temple. You’re being a sore loser.”

  She didn’t move, but her body trembled, her hips shifting against his hand. “And you’re being a gloating prick.” Her voice was low and husky, and it felt like a caress against bare skin.

  He smiled, pushing another finger inside her, stretching her delicately, watching as helpless pleasure unfurled over her face. “I notice you didn’t deny it.”

  Her throat moved. “Deny what? That I’m a sore loser?”

  “Well that.” He sunk his fingers deeper, pulling them out before sliding them back in. “And the fact that you’re here to kill me.”

  She arched her back restlessly beneath him, lifting her hips. “That’s not a question.”

  “No, it isn’t. That’s a fact. Isn’t it?” He brushed his thumb over her clit.

  The breath rushed out of her in a hoarse exhalation, her hands clenching suddenly into fists at her sides. “If it’s a fact, then surely you don’t need me to confirm it.”

  “I don’t, it’s true. But it would be nice if you would all the same.” He brushed his thumb over her again, more insistent this time. “Are you a cop, Temple? An assassin? Is this a paid hit?” Part of him actually didn’t give a shit what she was. The most important thing was that she was wet and hot and willing under him. But he knew which part of him that was. The part with no brain. And it wasn’t that part that had enabled him to survive all these years.

  “Does it matter?” Her voice was even huskier, even more ragged.

  He brushed his mouth over hers again, her lips so incredibly soft, he couldn’t help but nip the lower one, just to test it. “Yes, it matters.” He nipped her again, a punishment for the ridiculousness of the question, even though he was now beginning to wonder that himself. “Tell me.”

  Her sex clenched around his fingers, her hips flexing in time with the movements of his hand. Her lips parted beneath his, shuddering in reaction as he nipped her a third time. “N-no,” she whispered. “I’m not telling you anything.”

  “That’s a shame.” He pressed on her clit with his thumb, a hard pressure. “Because you’re not going to come until you do.”

  Her breath hissed between her clenched teeth. “Fine. Then I won’t come.”

  Jericho laughed. She was so goddamn impressive. Even now, even having failed to kill him, even wanting him and the pleasure he’d give her, she still wasn’t giving up. She was still holding out.

  The satisfaction and the triumph burned inside him, twining with his desire until there was only a bright, pulsing thread of sensation, white hot and electric, drawing tighter and tighter.

  He slowed his movements, the air around him thick with the scent of feminine arousal, with the heat of her body and the soft rush of air in time with her quickened breathing.

  It wasn’t only her he was testing, it was himself too.

  Lowering his head, he bit the delicate cords of her neck, applying a slight pressure, allowing his thumb to circle agonizingly slowly around her clit. “Come on, kitten. If I can make you give up the perfect chance to kill me, I can make you tell me who you are.”

  Her jaw was tight, her body trembling. She must be so close to the edge now. “No-n-no,” she whispered, a desperate edge to her voice. “No, you can’t make me do anything.”

  “Yes, I can.” He sped up, sliding his fingers in and out, at the same time pressing down with his thumb, giving her the friction and the pressure he knew she was desperate for. “Tell me, Temple.”

  She groaned, her breathing coming harsh and hard, moving against him helplessly. “N-no.”

  “Tell me, and I’ll make this stop. I’ll make it all go away.”

  She was shaking, her eyes shut tight, her knuckles white as she clenched her fists. There was such determination in her, he’d seen it burn there in her golden eyes. She’d hold out against physical pain, that was clear, but something told him she couldn’t hold out against this. Pain was one thing, pleasure was quite another, and she didn’t understand that.

  But she would. Oh yes, she would.

  He slowed his hand on her, made his touch light, tantalizing.

  “D—d-don’t,” she said raggedly. “Please … stop…”

  “Just tell me,” he whispered. “That’s all you have to do.”

  Something slid down her cheek from the corner of her eye. A tear. A surrender. A good man would have stopped right then. But he wasn’t a good man.

  “No.” The word was a hoarse scrape of sound. “I’m not a cop. I’m … an … assassin.”

  It wasn’t a surprise. Given what she’d managed to do to him, it was even obvious.

  “Good girl,” he murmured, giving her another light brush of his mouth. “Such a very good girl.”

  Putting his thumb on her clit, he pressed down hard.

  And watched her as she shattered.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Temple didn’t know what had happened. One minute she’d had the bastard under her with her arm across his throat. At her mercy. The next … She was lying on her back, shaking with the aftereffects of the orgasm that was still ricocheting around the interior of her body.

  All while Jericho leaned over her, his hands working their terrible magic on her. Stealing her strength and her determination. Robbing her of her rage. Taking it and turning it into something else, into desire, inexorable and unstoppable as the tide.

  And she still didn’t know how he’d done it.

  She’d wanted to kill him so badly, had been prepared for it. This mission needed to be over, and she’d decided to make her move. Shit, she’d nearly succeeded. She’d had him at her mercy, his life could have been measured in minutes, in seconds. All it would have taken was one hard push on his windpipe and this would be over. This whole mission accomplished.

  But that hadn’t been what had happened.

  He’d moved against her, so subtly, so gently, she hadn’t even realized he was doing it until it was too late. Until her body had begun to demand things of her. Demand that she stop what she was doing and concentrate on what he was doing to her instead.

  She didn’t understand why she’d listened to it. Why she hadn’t made that final move and ended him while she’d had the chance, while he’d refused to stop that movement of his hips, while her body had clenched hard and tight, and everything had begun to get lost in a haze of lust.

  How had he done it? How was she now on her back, trembling so badly she didn’t think she’d ever stop? How had he thwarted her from the one goal that had been driving her for the past seven years?

  And not only that. You told him what you were.

  Shame filled her, bitter and hot, and she turned her head to the side again, unable to bear it. There was something wet on her cheek, and the shame broadened, deepened. Jesus Christ, she was crying.

  Strong fingers gripped her chin, turning her head back, but she didn’t want to look at him. She couldn’t seem to remember how to move to get away from him either, as if her body, still humming and sated with pleasure, had lost the ability she’d trained into it.

  Something warm touched her check, the brush of soft skin. And again on her closed lids. A third time on her lips then staying there. His mouth.

  She’d told him she was an assassin. He knew she was there to kill him. And he was kissing her, coaxing her mouth open, then the slick glide of his tongue inside. A deep, intense, hungry kiss.

  Temple tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her, his grip on her chin tightening.

  Now. Kill him now. You can do it.

  Except she couldn’t remember how. He was exploring her mouth, so slow and delicious and hot, and her brain didn’t seem to be working. Nothing seemed to be working. She was lying on her back on the bed, and she wasn’t fighting. She wasn’t even protesting.

  She was letting him do whatever
he wanted to her.

  You fucking loser. What would Thalia think of you now?

  Tugging on the shirt she wore as he undid the buttons, spreading apart the fabric, his mouth was moving down her throat, over the curve of one breast. Then there came the hot touch of his tongue on her nipple, licking, teasing.

  Temple put her fists over her eyes, pressing hard until light burst behind her closed lids.

  This was what Thalia had protected her from for years, standing between Temple and the sleazy bastard who was supposed to be her father. The sleazy bastard who had used his eldest daughter when he was high.

  Jericho’s teeth tugged on her nipple, a gentle bite before drawing it deep into his mouth and sucking hard. A sound ripped from her throat, a low moan she couldn’t stop.

  You need to think. You need to plan your next move.

  But thinking was impossible. The inexorable pull of his mouth on her nipple was causing everything inside her to tighten, the ache between her thighs that had only just been satisfied beginning to build again.

  No. No, she had to stop this somehow. She had to move. She had to fight.

  His hands slid down her sides, stroking down over her hips to her thighs. Then moving inward, pushing her thighs apart.

  Stop him. Why aren’t you stopping him?

  She didn’t know. There was a hunger in her she hadn’t understood was there until now. Until he’d started moving his hips, pushing his hard-on against her pussy, making her tremble and burn. Seeing into her with those sharp, impossible green-gold eyes.

  He’d known who she was already. He hadn’t needed her confession. But he’d dragged it from her anyway. It was a humiliation, a demonstration of his power over her, and she shouldn’t have given in. She should have held out the way she would have with any physical torture.

  But this was … different from pain, and she didn’t know how to resist it. She had no experience of it.

  His body shifted on her, the press of his broad shoulders between her thighs, his thumbs parting the folds of her sex, opening her up as delicately as a flower. She trembled again, like she was a fucking virgin. This was insane. What the hell was she doing just lying here?

  Thalia didn’t fight. Thalia just lay there and kept quiet because if she’d protested he would have come for you.

  “S-stop.” The word broke from her shakily and she dug her fists into his shoulders, pushing him hard. “Don’t.”

  But he only bent his head and gave her one long lick, straight up the center of her pussy, his tongue lingering on her clit, sending a lightning strike of pleasure right through her.

  She groaned, her body tightening.

  Fight, damn you. Fight.

  But his tongue licked her again, and this time it pushed deep, dragging a small, hoarse scream from her. She arched back on the mattress and her hands were no longer in fists over her eyes but twisted in the heavy, dark gold silk of his hair. Holding onto him.

  It had been so long since she’d felt anything but anger. Anything but the despair and pain that lurked underneath that anger. And something inside her was desperate to feel something different. It wanted the pleasure he was giving her, it wanted the thrill and the excitement, the adrenaline rush. It was starving for it.

  Even if the man who’s giving it to you is the man who probably had Thalia murdered? The man you’ve just failed to kill?

  “You hate me, I know.” His breath was warm against her skin, his beautiful voice winding its coils around her, velvet and smoke. “And you hate yourself for taking this from me.”

  She shivered as his hands moved on her thighs, his finger moving to her clit again, circling as she felt his tongue explore her again. Her heartbeat pounded in her head, the pleasure drawing impossibly tight once more.

  How did he know? How had she given herself away? God, what had he done to her? She shouldn’t have this, not from him. Not after she’d failed to take the chance he’d offered her. That one moment where she could have ended this, ended seven years of hell.

  Of course you shouldn’t have this. What makes you think you deserve it?

  “But you’ll take it anyway, because you want it. You’re desperate for it.”

  That sensual, hypnotic voice. The terrible skill of his finger, moving so insistently. And then the subtle glide of his tongue in her pussy making her arch her back, making her scream. Making another climax crash over her whether she deserved it or not, whether she wanted it or not, leaving her shaking so hard she wasn’t sure she’d ever stop.

  Even as the aftershocks rocked her, she couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t move.

  The bed dipped, and she felt him get off it. Then there came the sounds of fabric rustling and foil tearing. The bed dipped again, and this time she felt the heat of his bare skin on hers, so hot she nearly gasped.

  His weight settled on her, heavy and sure as an anchor, pinning her to the mattress.

  “Look at me.”

  There was something in his voice, an implacable authority that had her responding instinctively even though she didn’t want to. She so didn’t want to.

  But her eyes opened nevertheless and met the gold flames in his.

  And her breath caught in her throat. Because there was something else there, behind the desire and the heat. A cold, clear intent. Unlike her, he wasn’t distracted by physical pleasure. No, as he’d warned her, he was going to use it. As a weapon to break her open.

  “Am I your contract, kitten?” The question was soft and rough and dark. “Were you paid to take me out?” His hips shifted, and she could feel the head of his cock pressing against her, a tease. “Or is this more personal than that?”

  Of course he knows this is personal for you. If he knows you hate him, then he must know that.

  The realization hit at the same time as she felt him begin to push inside her, as she felt the exquisite stretch of her pussy around his cock. Not all the way in, just enough to make her shake, to make her burn.

  The sharp edges of his determination glittered in his eyes, emerald tinged with gold, half molten heat, half cold shattered glass. As if he was holding himself apart from the flame igniting her.

  And it wasn’t fair, it just wasn’t fair. How could he keep himself untouched by it, while she felt as if she’d lost a part of herself? The part that made her the assassin she was?

  She felt stripped. Exposed and vulnerable. Like he’d scraped off a layer of her skin leaving all her nerve-endings raw. And she hated it. Hated feeling so helpless. Hated him for revealing her weakness so very thoroughly.

  No, she didn’t know pleasure. Didn’t know how to respond or how to handle it. But she was learning. And if he could use it as a weapon, then shit, so could she.

  She hadn’t killed him when she’d had the chance, but she wasn’t going to just lie there and burn while he remained cold as ice. He was damn well going to burn with her.

  Without waiting, Temple reached up, shoved her fingers into his blonde hair and dragged his mouth down onto hers. Then she lifted her hips, driving his cock deep inside her, closing her legs around his waist and holding on tight.

  And she opened her mouth, kissing him hungrily, exploring him the way he’d explored her, all slick heat and desperation. The smoky taste of whiskey hit her, along with a musky sweetness that must have been herself, and instinct had her wanting to rear back and let go.

  But she didn’t. She kept her mouth right where it was, moved her hips against his in a slow, undulating movement, until he growled, right down low in his throat.

  Then there were no more questions and no more distance.

  There were only the flames and the burning heat, the hard thrust of his cock as he took charge, sliding his hands beneath her butt and lifting her, holding her steady as he slammed himself into her. Hard and fast and deep.

  And then the starburst of pleasure, a white shock of sensation that had her turning her face into his throat, inhaling musk and cinnamon and sandalwood. Opening her mouth to scream against his sk
in. Biting down to the powerful muscle of his shoulder to stop herself from sobbing.

  But even then she failed.

  As the orgasm smashed her into pieces, his fingers sank into her hair and twisted, his grip so tight it was almost pain. “This isn’t over,” he whispered, soft and hot and dark. “I will have all your secrets, kitten. Every last one.”

  And as if to prove it, he made her sob aloud before he finally claimed his own pleasure.

  * * *

  She was shaking in his arms, her sobs echoing in the air around him, her truth laid bare before him, and yet all he could seem to think about wasn’t the fact that she was indeed, as Dmitri had suspected, an assassin. Or that it was starting to look like she was here to kill him.

  No, the thing he couldn’t stop thinking about was that tear. That single fucking tear that had slipped down her cheek as she’d given him her confession.

  A beautiful, deadly red-haired assassin who cried.

  His fingers were still buried in all the red silk that was her hair and he was still deep inside her hot, tight little pussy. But that goddamn tear was still stuck in his memory like a barbed fishhook.

  He looked down at her. She had her head turned away from him, her cheeks flushed, coppery lashes hiding her gaze. But there was a small tear stain on her skin, faint and barely noticeable but there all the same.

  He knew tears. He’d seen plenty of people cry over the years. The women that had turned up in his club, the poor, lost girls that the men in his network had taken, purely because no one would know they were gone. That didn’t stop them from crying harsh, desperate sobs.

  The first few times he didn’t think he’d be able to bear the sound of such despair, but he’d made himself listen. Imprinting the sound on his memory so he’d never forget why he was doing this. And who he was doing it for. Adding to the cold, hard certainty that this was what he had to do if he was going to free every last person from the net his father had woven.

  He’d been a betrayed boy back then, a fresh-faced college kid burning with the fire of his own self-righteousness and sense of justice. His own guilt too. But over the years, that kid had steadily been eroded away, the sounds of despair corroding him like acid. Until tears were just another part of the backdrop. Just another misery he had to tune out to keep himself sane.