“What are you . . .”
“Why me?” he asks.
I blink, his question catching me by surprise. “I, um, needed you . . .” I forget what I’m about to say, forget everything as I feel his hand skim across my abdomen.
Oh my God. His touch is just as I imagined it . . . maybe slightly rougher with the friction.
“This why?”
“This why . . . ?” I swallow hard. It’s like I’m an open book and he’s reading the naughty, dirty descriptions I’ve written about him . . . about us. And now, he’s putting my words, my desires, into action.
“You called me?”
I gasp, as his palm presses against my skin, firmly like there’s no mistaking it’s there yet not hard enough to be a punishing touch. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Just as well.” He slides his hand lower, his fingertips dipping beneath my bikini bottom.
Oh. OH.
“This what you want from me? To get you off with my fingers. To make you come from my touch. Make you whimper my name and beg for more. Finish what that punk couldn’t manage to do?”
My mind races in a mad dash with my heartbeat. Is this what I want? Now, under these circumstances? “I can’t whimper your name,” I remind him. “I don’t know your name.” And there he goes again . . . what does he mean by “that little punk”?
I stiffen with surprised excitement mixed in with a hell of a lot of well-earned nervousness when he rubs me there, circling around my sensitive hood and causing a tingle to spread throughout my body.
But he doesn’t stop there. Oh. My. God. He’s moving lower, arching his finger so the tip pushes into my entrance . . . penetrating me a fraction of an inch.
“I don’t know anything about you,” I whisper, “and you wrote to call in case of an emergency. I have no one else to turn to . . .”
He freezes, suddenly tense. Then he shakes his head. Abruptly, his hand is gone, leaving me cold where a second ago I was warm. Wickedly, wildly warm. With a swift kick, he knocks my duffle bag out of his way and stalks into the bathroom.
I hear water running, and bite my lip.
Nothing is clear. Everything is twisted . . . even my allowing him to touch me like that. What’s come over me?
Minutes pass before he reenters the bedroom. His hair is wet yet again. But his manner is different. Frigid. Ice cold, as he stands beside the bed, scowling down at me.
“What’s going to happen next is your own fault.”
I blink, fighting against the glare from the lamp that’s reflecting off the cool metal object he’s holding in his hand.
Shit. Oh. Shit.
He’s picked up the knife.
8
Declan
The leather handle fits perfectly in my hand. It should, I had the knife custom-made. My other requirement had been a strong steel blade that needs infrequent sharpening. A reliable knife that efficiently gets the job done. Hell, it held up during my last assignment. Death by stabbing isn’t a pretty way to go. Fuck, I’ll take a gunshot to the gut any day.
No, knives are meant to send a message. Like the one Hayden issued when he ordered the termination of those three hired pissants. Wrong woman to mistakenly cut up, someone who I’ll bet my prized knife on means something to my boss.
Leaning forward, I place the flat side of the knife on my thigh, running my thumb across the smooth blade. Blood—another bitch of a mess to have to deal with.
“No going back now,” I mutter more for my own benefit than hers.
“What do you mean?” she whispers.
