Kinked

NINE

That surprised him. She could see it in the quick dilation of his vivid eyes. Then he burst out laughing. The sound was darker, harsher than his earlier laugh had been. “I don’t believe you.”

“You should.” Leisurely, she stood, and he did too, springing upward with a catlike quickness that had her wondering if he had ever been truly relaxed that evening, or if his appearance had been disingenuous.

Disingenuous. She liked that word to describe him. It fit. On the surface, he was smooth charm with everybody else at the Tower, cloaking the blade that she knew lived inside him.

Genuinely curious, she asked, “How did you and Kitty Lawyer get along?”

“Who?” He looked blank.

“The chick you were with the night of the sentinel party. Wyr lioness, lawyer. Painted nails, high heels and possessive.” Kitty Lawyer had licked his chin too. Aryal’s smile soured. She’d forgotten that until just now.

He made a slicing gesture. “Not the topic at hand, sunshine. The topic you brought up, I might add. Unless you’re just throwing things out there at random to see if you can get a rise out of me.”

Mmmm. A rise. That sounded like fun. She turned away from temptation and forced herself to concentrate on what they were talking about. “I meant what I said.”

“Now you’re fucking around with me. You know you couldn’t do it.” He came around the table at her.

His predatory instinct had kicked in. Ooh, she should probably flutter around and act all flustered. Instead her eyes widened. “Not any more than you could?”

He circled her, as if assessing her physical attributes. “We’ve been down this road already.”

“Have we?” He had reached her back, where he paused, standing in utter silence. He was trying to rattle her. It wasn’t working. She stood still, arms crossed, in an appearance of relaxation while inside, adrenaline kicked in. Okay, maybe it was working a little. “I propose a different turn down that road. But of course, if you’re not interested, we can stop talking about it right now and hit the sack.”

He was interested. She could sense it pouring off him. He circled around to face her again, appearing casual again, except she knew better. The pulse at the base of his jaw pounded. He drawled, “I’m listening.”

She took a deep breath. “We hold an experiment and set a time limit. We get fifteen minutes each of total control over the other person. You think you could handle that?”

Once she had thought of the idea, she couldn’t stop. Surely fifteen minutes was doable. She could do almost anything for that long, including holding her breath. It would totally be worth it to own fifteen minutes of his ass.

Quentin looked suspicious. After he thought for a moment, he said, “Fine. On one condition. Your time comes first.”

“You wish.” She snorted. “We’ll do a coin toss.”

“No coin toss. You brought it up. They’re your terms. You go first.” His smile had turned catlike in anticipation. “Besides, you’ve bloodied me twice. You owe me.”

“I don’t owe you anything. You pounded my head on the pavement and throttled me. Twice.”

“You pinned me against a metal door with your fucking talons, for God’s sake.” He moved so close, he was in her face. They stood toe-to-toe, looking in each other’s eyes. “You punched me.”

“You punched me first,” she pointed out. It had been a hell of a strike too, much faster than she had expected. She had admired that—and made a point to never forget it.

“Are we going to keep going like this forever, or are you going to strike the bargain you offered?” He gave her a hard smile that glittered in the firelight, put a finger under her chin and tilted her face just so. Then his mouth came to hover over hers, their skin barely touching. He whispered, “Give it up, Aryal.”

Her breath came short and fast, and he had to know it, because the only way he could be closer to her was if he were French-kissing her. He started to laugh again, only this time it sounded angry. He really did think she had just been fucking with him.

She said, “Deal.”

He froze.

It was her turn to laugh. She always loved the feeling of cutting loose, no matter where she found it. Jumping off a cliff, starting a chase, losing all the doubts and questions and analyses. She was the original Nike girl. Just doing it.

She might not trust him, but she trusted her own judgment. He wouldn’t kill her. There was no way he could do it in this kind of setting and hope to sell it as an accident to Dragos back home, and besides, he had been telling the truth about that earlier. Just like her, he’d had the impulse and given it up.

If he hurt her really badly, he was going to have to cut her loose at some point, and then it was his turn.

And if he tried to renege on his part of the bargain, well.

Hell hath no fury like a harpy who’s been fucked over.

“Fifteen minutes,” she told him. “Set your iPhone’s clock when you’re ready to start. We wouldn’t want to lose track of such a short amount of time.”

Inside, her heart was leaping about like a jackrabbit. If she could have pounced on it to make it stop, she would have. How badly was she going to hate this? She needed to keep her eye on the prize—her time with him, or a real sense of righteousness as she kicked his ass.

Angling his head, looking the very picture of incredulity, he backed up, dug in his pack until he found his iPhone, turned it on and programmed it. His thumb hovering over the screen, he glanced up. Anticipation had sharpened his lean features until he looked even more predatory than ever. “Last chance to back out.”

Surprised that he even offered, she snorted, the sound derisive. “It’s just fifteen minutes. You’re not that scary. Do it.”

He pressed the iPhone. Held it up and showed it to her. Fifteen minutes were counting down on the screen. Carefully he set it on the table.

Then he sprang at her, and even though she had been expecting him to do something, somehow she hadn’t been ready for his incredible speed. He pushed her back until she hit the wall. Already they were both breathing heavily, as if they had been fighting for a very long time.

He pressed his long, hard body against hers and took her chin in one hand, and with the other hand, he held a stiffened finger under her nose.

“Shut up,” he said. “Don’t say a word out loud or telepathically. We’re going to have fifteen minutes of silence from you. I know that’s going to break your head, and the thought of that makes my day, so just fucking do it. Don’t touch me, and did I say, shut up?”

Laughter exploded out her nose. She opened her mouth.

He glared at her. “One word, sunshine, and you forfeit your fifteen.”

Ouch. She had words, so many of them, crashing into each other like a freeway pileup. She made a frustrated noise and panted a little with the effort to hold them back.

He stroked her hair. Her gaze slid up and sideways to track the movement of his hand. His expression was sharp, electric. He looked fascinated with whatever he saw in her expression. “Can you do it?”

She widened her gaze and shrugged. She honestly didn’t know. Of all the things she had been braced for, she hadn’t expected this. As an adversary, he was diabolical. As a potential sex partner, the diabolic part grew exponentially.

He chuckled, and the husky sound was full of triumph and intent. Then he bent his head and kissed her.

Really, really kissed her. Deep and full out, his tongue invading her mouth, his lips hardened and hungry as he pressed against her body. Kissing and kissing her.

Her hands came up.

He said in warning, telepathically, Huh-uh.

They hovered in midair. Clenched into fists.

Meanwhile the pileup of words continued on the freeway in her head. The wreck was tremendous and ugly, and the force of holding all those words back while keeping her hands off of him, while he continued to leisurely, thoroughly, sensually explore her mouth, caused her whole body to shake.

He never said she couldn’t kiss him back. She did so, aggressively, while she growled low in her throat, and his hot, accelerated breathing gusted over her cheek. His hips pinned hers, and the long, hard length of his stiff cock pressed against her belly.

She had the impulse to grab hold of his hips and yank him harder against her—and caught herself just in time before her hands connected. Damn it! Why didn’t he just tie her up and make this easy?

He sensed her struggle, of course, and laughed wickedly against her lips. The hoarse sound vibrated against her chest. He put his hands at her waist, slipped them under her sweater and the thin cotton undershirt she wore underneath, and slid them up the length of her narrow torso until he reached her high, slight breasts.

She never wore a bra. She hated them and didn’t need one. His hands collided with bare, sensitive skin, and they both sucked in air. She threw out her arms, and her fists slammed into the wall.

Quentin. Caeravorn. Is. Touching. Me.

She liked having her breasts fondled. She wasn’t any stranger to it. It was still the Quentin part of the whole equation that bent her head.

He dragged both of her tops up and stared down at her naked torso as he rubbed callused thumbs over the dusky, erect flesh of her nipples. Sensation jolted through her, jagged bolts of lightning strikes that hit at her moistening sex.

Desperate for something to grasp so that she could keep her hands off of him, her talons flicked out. She dug them into the walls and held on. His expression was clenched, the tanned skin darkened. He muttered something under his breath. Her mind was too hazed to figure out exactly what he had said. It had sounded very like a curse.

Then, still flicking one nipple with the nail of his thumb, he bent his head further, pulled the other nipple into his mouth, and bit her.

Pain joined the lightning bolts of pleasure, each sensation heightening the other to an almost unbearable pitch. She had always liked the mixture of pain and pleasure, like the raw fire of brandy coupled with the smooth sweetness of chocolate. She cried out wordlessly, arching her back to offer her breasts to him, and hooked one leg around his waist to pull him tighter against her, rubbing the center of her aching flesh against his erection. Heat from their bodies wrapped them in a velvet inferno.

Do it. Bite me again. She nearly strangled on her own tongue. Son of a bitch.

After the bite, he suckled strongly, each pull as devastating as a blow. She cried out again, the sound sharp with the unbearable ache building in her body.

The only sounds in the cabin were sexual ones that created a mélange of urgency. The abrasion of cloth, rasp of breath, the sounds that he made, the sounds that she made.

Until a foreign noise thrust into the mix. An insistent beeping.

Fractured thoughts and impulses climbed over the wreckage in her head, and tried to make themselves coherent. What the hell … somebody hit whatever that is … make the noise stop.…

Realization hit.

It was the alarm on Quentin’s iPhone.

His head lifted. They looked at each other. His eyes were glazed, hands still clenched on her rib cage.

What to do.

She wanted, needed him to continue. She almost grabbed him to kiss him again. In fact, she was surprised she didn’t. The only thing that stopped her, the one thing that was more compelling than the hunger rampaging through her body, was a single thought.

She yanked her talons out of the wall and retracted them, and smacked his shoulders with the palms of her hands, hard enough to make him stagger back a few steps. With a smile that blazed across her face, she said, “My turn.”

Quentin was on fire. His body was ablaze, his mind hazed with smoke.

This small slice of power that Aryal had given him was the headiest thing he had ever experienced. It ravaged his senses like napalm, clinging to everything and transforming the landscape inside of him. She, who was normally so uncontainable, was under his control.

He looked into her uncommon face, twisted with agonized desire. The tendons in her arms stood out as she dug her talons into the wall and struggled to do as she was told. She had arched her torso away from the wall in an unconscious offering to him. It caused her abdomen to hollow out underneath the graceful arc of her rib cage. Above that, the curve of her slender breasts flared. The small nipple he had bitten and sucked had turned red as a ripe cherry.

Everything about her was racy, streamlined and built for speed.

Greed swallowed him whole. He gripped her with both hands, fingers imprinting on the canvas of her flesh, and thought, you are mine right now.

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP.

What? He shook his passion-fogged head.

Her head came up, dark eyes wild with some internal storm. Something hit him, knocking him back a few steps. A half second later, he realized it had been her.

“My turn.”

No. NO. He wasn’t ready to stop, to give her up.

“I need more time,” he said. He didn’t recognize the sound of his own voice.

“That’s another bargain.” She yanked down her tops and gestured with a shaking hand at the noisy iPhone. “Do something about that or I will.”

Dear Christ. He stalked over to the table and jabbed at the phone, and it stopped the incessant noise. Then he leaned both hands on the tabletop and struggled to get control of his breathing. The scent of her arousal was an aphrodisiac so strong he felt kicked in the teeth.

“I’ll set it for the next fifteen minutes.” He began to punch it in.

She moved up behind him, curving her long body along the line of his as she laid her cheek against the back of his neck. “What if I wait?” she said against his skin.

He froze, not quite believing what he heard. “You wouldn’t,” he growled. She couldn’t wait. She didn’t have it in her. Hell, he didn’t have it in him to wait either.

She put her arms around him and ran her hands down his chest. He looked down, compulsively, watching her hands travel down his body. His cock was on fire along with the rest of him, and it jerked as her hands came closer to it.

“Have you ever been taken from behind?” she whispered.

He tilted his head back, astonished at his own crazed reaction to everything she did or said. He said roughly, “Men aren’t my thing.”

The pressure from her hands grew lighter as they reached his jeans. She passed them over the aching bulge at his crotch in a teasing caress. “Have you ever been taken by a woman wearing a strap-on? Using a dildo? Fucked from behind until you explode all over her hands? I doubt it. You’re probably too dominant, aren’t you?”

The images she created seared his mind, and his own reaction astonished him. He would never consider such a thing, never give himself over to someone else like that.

Except.

He thought of Aryal moving behind him, moving inside of him as she cupped his penis in both hands. The concept was so startling and strange, he nearly came right there in his pants.

It wasn’t as though he had never heard of a strap-on before. It was the thought of Aryal using one. On him. Everything she did was so goddamn sexy, it was breaking every rule he thought he had in his head.

He hissed, “Am I setting the alarm or not?”

Her hands flexed. He listened to her hard breathing, feeling it against his back. She wanted it bad. He could feel it in the rigidity of her body, smell it on the rich scent rising off her skin.

The bizarre thing was, he was starting to want it bad too.

Even though it wasn’t like him, and he never gave up control. There was something about her impetuous leaping into situations that was seriously screwing with whatever scraps of sanity he might have otherwise had.

She said, “Set it.”

He punched the button and stared at the screen as fifteen minutes began to scroll by.

He wore a belt with his jeans so that he could attach his knife sheath and the holster of his gun to it. He watched her hands go to the belt and unbuckle it. She yanked it out of his belt loops. “Take off your sweater.”

He straightened, yanked off his sweater and threw it aside. The air felt good on his overheated skin.

“Turn around,” she said.

He turned to face her, his longtime enemy and unexpected partner on this exploration that was rapidly becoming more intimate than any other exchange he’d had before.

Her expression was stripped of everything else except the same kind of hunger that was driving in his blood. He looked at the belt she still held, then up again at her face. She met his gaze. “Lie back on the table.”

He warred with his instincts that wanted to snatch at the belt, wrap it around her neck and haul her close for another one of those kisses that were so hot they seared him somewhere deep inside, in a place that was invisible to anyone else.

But she had struggled with her part of the bargain too, and met it, and part of what he had enjoyed about her was witnessing that struggle, and how she had overcome it.

Her gaze was sharp and steady. If he reneged on this, there would be no second chance with her, no opportunity to explore more of that which he had just gotten the merest taste.

He moved the iPhone to a chair, sat at the edge of the table and lay back. His torso covered the length of the table, from his head to his ass, while his legs spilled down to the floor. She took his legs and nudged him sideways until he lay with his head in one corner, the opposite corner ending between his thighs and causing them to fall slightly apart.

“I’m going to make this easier on you than what you did with me,” she told him. Her voice sounded shredded. “Hands over your head.”

His gaze went back to the belt. That’s why she still had it. It wouldn’t be easy, but a leather strap, no matter how sturdy, couldn’t hold him if he felt endangered or enraged enough to snap it. Still, he had to fight to control his instincts enough to put his arms over his head. He did it, watching her face closely.

She strode around the table and slipped a loop of the belt over his hands and fastened it to the leg of the table. Then, moving rapidly, she came back around, unbuttoned his jeans and yanked them down his legs. Just like that, within a matter of a few moments he was naked and spread out like a feast before her gaze.

His contradictory instincts grew more chaotic, and his body clenched. He hated the sense of vulnerability. He was not supposed to be the one on the table. He was supposed to be the one standing where she stood.

She stared at him with a wide, fixed gaze, her eyes dilated so that they were almost totally black. He felt it as a physical touch, as she lingered on the bulging muscles of his arms, down the angle of his chest as it narrowed to his long abdomen, to his erection where it lay heavy and thick on his stomach.

She yanked his legs wide apart, and a growl erupted from his throat. Before he could stop himself, he wrenched at the leather strap that pinned his arms. The strap held, and he managed to stop before he broke it. Pushing between his legs to hold them apart with her hips, she held up a forefinger where a single talon had emerged.

“I like blooding you,” she told him in a gentle voice. She ran the talon along the inside crease where his leg met his groin. An instant later, a line of fire flared where she had given him a shallow cut.

Goddammit, she had marked him.

The growling that came out of him then was feverish and wild. He sounded like he could savage her to death. He almost felt like he could. “What the fuck, Aryal.”

“A little memento for you,” she whispered. “It’ll heal fast, but until it does, every time you move or shift your position, you’ll think of this moment.”

He would get her for this. He would—

She came down between his legs, resting her weight on one elbow braced on the table, lifted up his stiff cock and swallowed him whole.

Everything in his head splintered so thoroughly that there weren’t even fragments left. There was no pretty foreplay, licking or teasing, or looking up at him seductively. She just opened her throat and took him all the way in. Then she pulled back and suckled at the broad, thick, sensitive head. After a few moments, she plunged her head down again.

Her eyes closed as she concentrated on him, and her mouth and throat were so hot and wet and tight, and confident. She had known what she wanted from the moment the timer had been set, and she had gotten it, gotten him, with a minimum of effort and without any wasted words.

She fucked him with her mouth, a tight pistoning. He fucked her with his cock, shoving up and up, while the fire from the cut joined the fire in his blood. He hooked his legs around her back, holding her in place. She palmed his tight sac while she worked him, squeezing and molding the round, sensitive flesh. Then she put her hand down her own body.

It took a moment for him to understand what she was doing. She was working herself while she suckled at him.

Gods, his explosion was building, and it felt like it was a long time in coming. Years, definitely. Maybe his whole life.

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP.

They both froze. She pulled her head up from his penis to stare at him.

There it was in her face, that wild juncture from which anything might happen, anything at all. She was a nexus point, pulling all possibilities together into herself.

He roared, “IF YOU STOP I WILL MURDER YOU!–

Laughter broke out over her face, along with fresh heat.

While the electronic alarm jangled in the air, she bent and took him in her mouth again, squeezing on his distended flesh, and she didn’t stop until the fire poured out of him in convulsive spurts of lava.

She swallowed all of his semen with such evident relish, it caused him to spasm further. He emptied everything into her until he had nothing left to spill, no internal whip or twist, and he felt completely hollowed out and clean.

He had nothing left inside of him when she finally let him go. She looked drunk, a little dazed. She didn’t untie him. She straightened and turned away, then abruptly disappeared from sight as she sat on the floor. A moment later, his iPhone sailed across the air and stopped shrilling when it hit the wall. He wanted to laugh, to take her by the hair and shake her, then kiss her.

Instead he lifted his legs and pulled with his arms, curling over himself until he somersaulted over his head and off the table. He worked quickly to loosen the belt from his wrists.

When he did, he stopped and stared down at his arms. The belt had marked his wrists when he had yanked at it, leaving reddened welts. He rubbed the area. It wouldn’t last, nor would the thin, bright line of fire at the juncture of his legs.

The last half hour had been the longest half hour of his life, and the shortest.

He hated that it was over.