Out Of Control. Shannon McKenna
for a woman. Would’ve done them again tonight, in fact. All night long, if Margot had let him.
The evening ticked by, impossibly slow. He wandered from room to room, discarding books and magazines. He surfed the net, the tube, but nothing was remotely interesting. It all seemed empty. The silence was so thick, it clogged his brain, but any music he put on irked him.
Evening stretched into an endless night. He finally wandered into the bedroom and dragged his jeans off to give his relentless boner some air. He sprawled out on the bed, but instead of sleep, he slid right into a series of erotic waking dreams about Margot. Kinky stuff, charged with anger and power games. Struggling against ropes, staring up into her bright eyes as she taunted him, showed him how helpless he was.
Very weird. He wondered what the hell that was about. Bondage games had never remotely entered his mind in terms of bed play. That was for bored people who needed to shock dulled senses to life. And God knows he went to great lengths in his life to avoid feeling helpless.
There was nothing dull about his senses. The dream memory of writhing beneath her beautiful body was vivid to the point of pain. He covered his face with one hand and gripped his stone-hard cock with a growl of frustration. There was no reasoning with his hard-on tonight, with the memory of her slim, strong shoulders beneath his hands so fresh in his mind. The fine texture of the skin on her neck. The look on her face, when she was thinking about letting him take her to bed.
His heart had beat so hard it almost exploded out of his chest.
If she’d kissed him, he would have gone for it and fucked her anyway, in spite of all the question marks. Everything about her turned him on, even her clumsy lies. They didn’t come to her easily. It was almost endearing. The woman couldn’t tell a decent lie to save her life.
The way his mind had couched that passing thought sent an uneasy chill down his back. He shrugged it aside.
Years of interviewing witnesses had made him expert in the study of body language. Margot was prickly and defensive because she was afraid, not guilty. She was no scam artist. She would crash and burn if she ever tried that line of work, the way her feelings were plastered on her face. She was proud, tough, principled. Impulsive. Scared to death, but more scared of the cops than she was of her bloodthirsty stalker.
Something even bigger and nastier lurked in her past. It would be a challenge to get past her wall of thorns. Challenge stimulated him, though after the Fleur debacle, he made a big effort to avoid challenges in his love life. He tried to keep things simple. Uncomplicated.
“Tried” being the operative word, women being what they were.
Curiosity burned him like acid. It wasn’t his problem or his responsibility, but he wanted to nab this asshole who was terrorizing her. The more he thought about it, the more it pissed him off. He wanted to pin the sadistic fuckhead’s balls to the wall.
He rolled up off the bed, restless and jittery, and wandered into the bathroom. He set the shower running, and stared at himself through the mirror fog. He wasn’t vain about his body. It never occurred to him to be. It was a tool, a resource to be maintained. It was useful to have strong muscles and quick reflexes. Women tended to say yes when he made advances, and that was convenient, too. Up to a point.
He stared at himself, trying to see what Margot saw in him. Wanting her to want him. His pulse spiked, and his dick stood higher.
He stroked himself experimentally. He didn’t much go for the shallow relief of jerking off. It was wasted energy, and he disliked the flat, let-down feeling it gave him after. But six months, for fuck’s sake?
No one was perfect. No one was watching.
He stepped under the pounding water, soaped up his hand and gripped himself. His mind hit the reverse button and ran him right back to that moment where Margot’s slender, cool hand was pressed against the center of his bare chest, her multicolored eyes wide and fascinated. Midnight blue fading to bright aqua, and a ring of golden brown around the pupil, like whoever put her together couldn’t make up his mind and just kept on tinkering. That red, sulky-sweet mouth slightly open, cheeks flushed. Taut nipples poking the thin fabric of her worn T-shirt.
If things had gone how he wanted, her mouth would have curved into a sultry smile, and she would have pulled the T-shirt off and displayed herself to him. Eyes bright with that what-are-you-going-to-do-about-it look that drove him right out of his head.
No hesitation there. A sweep of his arm to clear the dinner stuff out of his way, and he set her on the table, shoved her onto her back so he could pull her sweatpants off, hands lingering on every warm detail of her lush hips and ass. She unbuckled his belt with frantic urgency.
Her words echoed. “…don’t have the time and energy for a boyfriend…can’t handle no strings sex…where does that leave us?”
Good question. A dangerous idea took form in his mind, parallel and independent to the sexual fantasy that churned on unimpeded.
Maybe they could work out the perfect deal.
He didn’t want a girlfriend any more than she wanted a boyfriend. He was tired of the frustration on the woman’s part, the guilty discomfort on his. He hated one night stands, too. Often squalid and empty, always a health hazard, and he disliked waking up with someone with whom he had nothing in common but sex. Sneaking off before the woman woke up was bad, as if he’d stolen something, but the coffee, the groping conversation, her hopeful eyes—that was worse.
He didn’t want no strings sex. He wanted carefully chosen, clearly agreed upon, precisely negotiated strings. A civilized, sensible arrangement between consenting adults. They were both single. She was attracted to him. She needed help, and protection. He was in a good position to offer it. She had her secrets to guard, he had his space to maintain. He would be very clear with her. Honest and respectful.
The idea excited him more deeply than the fuck fantasy had. The water had run cold, so he switched it off, rubbing water out of his eyes, and heard his cell phone ringing. He almost broke the sliding glass door in his haste as he bolted for the bedroom, dove for the phone. “Yes?”
Silence. The hollow kind that indicated that the line was open.
“Hello?” he said, more urgently. “Who is this?”
Click. Whoever it was hung up.
Her phone number had stuck in his mind even after he’d decided that he’d never have reason to use it. He punched it in. It rang, once, twice. The line clicked open. “Margot? You OK?”
Another brief silence. “No,” she whispered.
A queasy, crawling feeling squirmed in his belly. “What’s wrong?”
“Sorry I hung up on you.” Her voice was dull, none of its usual sass. “I lost my nerve.”
“Never mind that. What happened?” He waited a few agonizing seconds, and prompted her. “Did Snakey send you another present?”
“I think so. I’m scared to go out and look more closely.”
“Shit.” He was off the bed like he was on springs, fishing his jeans off the floor. He jerked them over his wet ass, not bothering with underwear. “What did he leave you this time?”
“I…I shouldn’t have bothered you. I don’t know why I…I guess I just panicked.”
She was chickening out. His instincts screamed to jump on her, pin her down, quick and fast. “I’ll be right there.” He shoved wet feet into his boots, struggled with laces. “Fifteen minutes, max.”
He hung up, the better to forestall further argument, and dragged on his shirt. His mind flicked across the Glock 9mm in the gun safe.
He decided against it. Bare hands were his preference, with the knife in his boot sheath for backup. He charged out the door and over the dew-soaked lawn. He gripped the wheel to keep his hands steady.
He was an idiot, running into God knew what kind of mess, but he would