Wrong for Me Page 8

  All the breath left her lungs in an explosive rush, her body going absolutely rigid with shock. She felt suddenly dizzy, overcome by sensation. The rough denim of his jeans against her butt. The hard wall of his chest at her back. The incredible heat of his palm against her stomach. And the smoky scent of him all around her . . .

  She couldn’t move. Couldn’t even think.

  Warm breath feathered the back of her neck and then beneath her ear, and it didn’t matter how much she tried to think of the beach, of tropical sun and sand, she remained firmly right here, every nerve ending she had tight with awareness.

  “I dreamt of this too.” His voice was soft, the rich timbre of it roughened with heat. “Of holding you like this.” His hips shifted, and she could feel the hardness of his cock against her butt. “Of bending you over and getting inside that tight little pussy. And I will, Rachel, make no mistake, I will. But you know what I want right now.”

  She stared at the wall, trying to moderate her breathing, trying to control the wild beat of her heart and the terrible, empty ache between her thighs. The one she didn’t want, the one she was trying to distance herself from however she could. “What’s that?” she forced out.

  His hand on her stomach stretched out lazily while the other pressed hard into the flesh at her hip. Then she nearly gasped as she felt the brush of his mouth against her ear, his voice a rough murmur against her skin. “You know, sweetheart. I told you. I want you desperate. I want you to suffer like I did.”

  He left her no time at all to process that, the hand on her stomach pushing down, sliding into her damp curls, finding the hard bud of her clit with unerring accuracy and applying firm pressure.

  Rachel jerked in his arms, a lightning strike of sensation spearing her, punching right through the steel she thought she’d encased herself with, ripping a helpless, choked sound from her.

  “You like that?” Another dark, rough velvet murmur.

  You’re supposed to pretend.

  Yes, yes. Pretend to him that she wanted him. Pretend to herself that she didn’t feel anything, that she was on the goddamn beach.

  “Yes.” Her own voice sounded so husky. “Yes, I love it.”

  Instantly his hand moved away, and she almost sagged in his arms in relief, her thighs trembling. Yet he didn’t release her, keeping the hard wall of his body at her back, his hand pressed against her stomach. “You don’t sound convinced. Perhaps I need to try something else?”

  “No,” she wanted to say. “No, don’t try anything else,” but this wasn’t supposed to matter. This wasn’t supposed to affect her, so she stayed silent as his hand slid down again, but this time slowly, so achingly slowly. His fingers brushed through the damp curls between her thighs, tangling in the soft damp hair, before closing into a fist and tugging gently.

  A gentle pain, a sharp jolt of sensation.

  She let out a harsh breath and closed her eyes, trying to visualize her beach again, the sun, the sound of the water. The cool feel of the drink in her hand.

  “Is that better?” His mouth brushed the side of her neck again, lower this time. “Or perhaps this?” There were teeth against her skin and pressure as he bit gently down on the sensitive cords of her neck.

  Pretend. Pretend.

  But it wasn’t happening. The beach image shattered behind her eyes, and she made some kind of sobbing sound in her throat as the hand between her thighs released her, then achingly slowly began to part the soft folds of her pussy. The combination of his bite and the movement of his hand made her vision blur, made her forget what she was supposed to be doing.

  She was supposed to be distancing herself. She was supposed to be pretending.

  But then the other hand at her hip was moving down too, and he was holding her open, spreading her with one hand while the other stroked down the center of her sex in one light, long movement. And she couldn’t hold back the groan that escaped her. Couldn’t stop the jerk of her hips or prevent the tremble of her thighs.

  Then he did it again. And again. Long, slow strokes of his finger, sliding down, pausing at the entrance to her body and circling around, pressing gently, almost pushing in but not quite, then sliding back up again.

  She hadn’t been touched like this before. Never ever. She hadn’t even touched herself like this. It was . . . maddening.

  A wave of heat broke out all over her skin, scorching her as a pleasure she didn’t want to admit to began to gather in a tight, hard knot.

  Think of the beach.

  Yes, God, she had to. It was the only way to keep herself distant, protect herself.

  “You’re desperate now, aren’t you?” He flexed his hips, the hard ridge of his cock pressing against her butt, his finger stroking up and down. “You want me, Rachel?”

  She was shivering, and she couldn’t stop. “Yes . . .” It was supposed to be a lie. At least, it had to be a lie, didn’t it? Because she couldn’t actually want him. Couldn’t actually want this, not really.

  “You don’t sound sure.” That maddening, stroking finger moved away, and she felt him grab one of her wrists. Instinctively she resisted, but he drew her hand with inexorable strength between her thighs, guiding it. “Here, I’ll show you.”

  She couldn’t stop him, her jaw tight and aching as her own fingers slid over her sex, feeling her own slick flesh, the evidence of her own desire wet on her fingertips.

  “See?” The rough purr of his voice was like a touch. “You like this, Rachel. You want this.”

  There was a voice in her head, a different voice, telling her the same thing, and she tried to block it out. Because she didn’t want this; she never had. The words she had said were only pretend.

  But her body, the traitorous bitch, wasn’t pretending, and when he guided her finger higher, to her clit, sliding her fingertip over and around it, transmitting tiny electric shocks of sensation down each nerve ending, she couldn’t tell herself it wasn’t pleasure she felt.

  It was pleasure. So much of it, like a fire building inside her.

  You can’t feel this. You’re not allowed.

  And just like that, the dark, insidious sense of shame was swamping her, choking her.

  Hardly even aware of what she was doing, Rachel jerked herself out of his arms and away from him, stumbling forward a few steps, reaching out blindly to the desk in front of her to stop herself from falling.

  Her breath was coming hard and fast, and everything ached. And that shame, that terrible sense of humiliation, seemed to pervade her every pore.

  “Point proved, wouldn’t you say?” Levi’s hard voice was roughened, the cold edge blunted by the heat running through it. “I think we both know you want me.”

  She leaned against the desk, forcing herself to stop shaking, willing away the toxic combination of unfulfilled desire and shame that burned in her blood. What could she say to that? Nothing. He had, indeed, proved his point.

  “What you feel now?” he went on, relentless. “That’s what I’ve been feeling for eight years. Every fucking night. So now you’re going to suffer through it just like I did.”

  A belated anger stirred inside her. Anger at him for doing this to her, for tearing her armor apart like it was made of tissue. Anger at her own weakness, because, Jesus, she should have been able to withstand Levi.

  She pushed herself away from the desk and turned around, suddenly not giving a shit that she was naked. She met his disturbing, uneven gaze. Wanted to face him, show him that she was stronger than he seemed to think she was.

  He was standing so close and obviously not expecting her to turn, because when she did, he took a step back, his eyes flaring in shock. Then the shock faded, replaced by a naked hunger, a burning need that slammed into her with the force of a blow.

  Levi didn’t move, and yet his whole body was rigid, a muscle flicking in his jaw. And she had the impression that it was only his own titanic will that was stopping him from closing the distance between them.

  For some reason
that made her feel better, made her feel as if she had some of her power back, which was weird considering she was naked and he wasn’t. She straightened, putting her shoulders back and watching as his gaze dropped down her body. Like he couldn’t help himself.

  “What?” She raised an eyebrow. “No blow job? No screw on the desk? That’s not what you promised, Levi.”

  He turned sharply away, his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans. “I’ll come for you tomorrow,” he said, rough, curt. “Be ready.”

  “What do you mean tomorrow?”

  He was still a moment. Then his gaze came to hers, the echoes of that need and hunger lingering in his eyes. “If you think this is all I want, you’re wrong.”

  Foreboding turned over inside her. “But I—”

  “Tomorrow, Rachel.” He gave her one last intent look, then he turned and headed toward the door, unlocking it, pushing it open and letting it slam shut after him.

  Tomorrow. Jesus Christ.

  The wood of the desk was hard and cold against her bare skin, making her aware of her nakedness. Making her aware too of the heat between her thighs and the slow throb of desire that hadn’t gone away, that hadn’t faded one iota.

  More voices floated up from downstairs, calling out goodbyes from the sounds of it. Probably because Levi was leaving.

  So much for a homecoming.

  Rachel passed a shaking hand across her forehead, shoving away the unfulfilled ache, pretending she didn’t feel a goddamn thing. Then slowly she bent to pick up her clothes from the ground and began to dress. Unfortunately she couldn’t do anything with her ripped panties, so she had to stuff them into the wastebasket and hope like hell no one would know she had nothing on underneath her skirt, and that no one would go looking through the trash later.

  Hope that they wouldn’t have heard her cry out and wouldn’t guess what had happened upstairs. Because she didn’t think she could stand it if they did.

  Smoothing down her skirt, she crossed to the door and put her hand out to open it, pausing a moment to take a breath and make sure her armor was in place.

  Then she pushed the door open and went downstairs, as if nothing had happened.

  Chapter 6

  Levi stepped out of the ice-cold shower the next morning and grabbed the lone towel on the rail, drying himself off roughly. He’d hoped the cold water would ease the fire burning in his blood from the night before, but it hadn’t made the slightest bit of difference.

  He was still hard. And he still ached.

  He could still feel the heat of Rachel’s soft, slick pussy against his fingers and smell the musky scent of her arousal. Could still hear the sound of her cry as he’d run his fingers around and around her clit, making her shake in his arms.

  And he could still see her leaning against Gideon’s desk, completely naked, all lush curves and golden skin. Full breasts and silken curls between her thighs. The sight was burned into his brain as indelibly as the ink of his tattoos into his skin.

  He was never going to get that out. Never.

  Little bitch. She’d turned to face him deliberately; he was sure of it. Making sure he got a good look at her nakedness. And it had only been sheer force of will that had held him back from screwing them both into oblivion on Gideon’s desk.

  Thank Christ, he’d managed to hold onto his control, because a quick end to this was not what he’d been planning. She had to suffer first, like he’d suffered. Be left aching and wanting, with no relief in sight.

  Now dry, Levi put the damp towel back on the rail and stalked out of the bathroom and into his bedroom.

  It was mainly empty, apart from the air bed in the middle of the room.

  He stopped and stared at the bed, frowning. That was going to have to go, especially if Rachel was going to be here. Which she would, because that was all part of his plan too.

  She was going to live with him, just like he’d always dreamed. In a nice apartment, where there weren’t drug deals going on in the hallway and lowlifes gathering in the stairwells. Or whores next door taking clients and loud, drunken parties at all hours. Where she didn’t have to worry about anything or be afraid of anyone.

  Anyone except you, right?

  He shoved that thought away, dressing quickly then turning to go through the set of double doors that led from the bedroom into another large space, where there were windows set in the ceiling, flooding the area with light. The space had been painted white, just like rest of the apartment, and he could already see it, Rachel standing here in front of the massive canvas propped up against one wall, brush in her hand.

  Her very own studio. Where she could create the art she loved.

  Levi leaned against the white painted brick, mentally measuring up the space. He hadn’t wanted to stock the studio since he knew fuck all about painting, had been planning to take Rachel shopping at an art store so she could get the supplies she wanted in fact, but he had a couple of things already in mind to put in here. A sweet architectural light fitting he’d seen in a home magazine in the prison library a while back. A long chaise lounge since that was the kind of shit artists put in studios. Except this one would be upholstered in soft black leather because Rachel was edgy like that, and when he came in here to see her after she’d spent an afternoon painting, he’d push her down onto it, get inside her, make her scream....

  His breath caught. His jeans were suddenly way too fucking tight.

  No more goddamn fantasies. Time to make this shit a reality. Now.

  Pushing himself away from the wall, he stalked back through the apartment, grabbing his keys from the counter in the kitchen before letting himself out.

  He walked to Rachel’s tattoo studio, observing the neighborhood with a business eye as he went. Running over the plans he already had in place. A massive space in the old building by the sex shop that should hopefully attract a few big-box stores. And then in the building down the street a ways, some more apartments, not too high-end, but nice enough to get a few more people with money in the area.

  Rounding a corner, he came to a halt, staring at the building across the street.

  Rachel’s building.

  This would be his jewel in the crown. He’d gut the whole thing, get some fucking fancy architect to redesign it while keeping the industrial feeling that rich people liked. Then he’d put all the really high-end décor shit into it. Make it exclusive and expensive, and maybe put a café in the basement, or one of those specialized supermarkets that sold gourmet food.

  Man, he’d have those rich folks looking for a cheaper alternative to downtown lining up with their checkbooks at the ready.

  He smiled, feeling better than he had in weeks. Satisfied finally to be making progress on all those plans that had been stuck in his head for way too long.

  Levi crossed the street and approached the building, pulling open the door to Sugar Ink and stepping inside.

  Music vibrated through the space, a hard, house bass line that had him grimacing since he wasn’t into that kind of crap. Resisting the urge to tell them to turn that shit down, he scanned around the studio instead, spotting Rachel sitting next to one of the tattoo chairs, in the process of inking a client.

  Her black hair had been pulled back into a neat ponytail, the look on her lovely face pure concentration. He recognized that look, the one she got whenever she was drawing in her notebooks, with her brows pulled down and her tongue between her teeth, her hand moving as delicately and precisely as that of a bomb disposal expert defusing a bomb.

  For a moment he stood there staring at her, watching her hand move across her client’s skin, creating beauty as she went, oblivious to the fact that he was standing there, oblivious to everything but what she was doing. And something heavy and painful caught in his chest.

  He remembered this. Remembered watching her like this. Wishing she would look at him with that same concentration. Touch him with that same focused delicacy. And he remembered, too, the ache of knowing she never would.
/>   But not now. Now, she’s yours.

  Yeah, she fucking was.

  Yet for reasons he couldn’t explain, irritation coiled inside him as he turned away and went to sit down on the battered velvet couch in the studio’s waiting area. He didn’t know what the hell was wrong with him. Probably impatience. But he could wait while she finished what she was doing. It would give him a moment to take a closer look around the space in greater detail anyway.

  He’d seen it the day before of course, but then his head had been too full of her to really appreciate it. Now, he sat back and looked around at the exposed brick of the walls, the industrial lights, the jewelry displays in what looked to be old hospital medicine cabinets, and the collection of clothes on a battered iron rail.

  The whole place looked cool and quirky, just the kind of place hipsters would come looking for bird tattoos, and yet with a grim, semi-seedy edge that would appeal to old-school-style clients.

  His gaze shifted to the massive piece of graffiti art on the wall opposite the tattoo chairs. A beautiful woman’s face with a sugar-skull overlay. A crown of roses circled her head, an explosion of flowers and birds and vines erupting from behind her and climbing up the walls. Definitely Rachel’s work; he’d recognize it anywhere.

  It was beautiful and yet disturbing at the same time with the image of death over the woman’s face. Which made it kind of perfect for a place like this.

  Christ, she had so much talent. And it was cool to see how she’d managed to make her dreams a reality in the form of this studio. Except she could have aimed higher. So much fucking higher. She’d once wanted a gallery in New York, or to study in Paris, and she certainly had the talent.

  Why the hell had she settled for a goddamn tattoo parlor?

  The door banged open, and a man walked in, chains jingling from his belt, flames inked onto his arms. He paused, then pulled a face. “Jesus, Hamilton, not this shit music again.”

  She didn’t look up from her work, merely extending one hand and showing him a middle finger.