Her Bad Boy Page 7

  She'd surprised him that night—in the most pleasant of possible ways—although he had been somewhat wary, which was understandable considering how she had reacted before. But she seemed committed to leaf turning, and, after she allowed him to make love to her that first time, surrendering herself to him so completely, he found himself unable to maintain any objective distance from her at all. He wanted her too badly for that, and he spent that entire evening making sure that she knew just how much.

  But they had talked, too, in the dark, intimate hours of the night—and he had whipped up some snacks when they became peckish—and she remained surprisingly loose lipped—both sets—the entire time, sharing with him things he had already guessed, really, but he liked that she felt comfortable enough with him to tell him herself. Of course, he had done so much more than she had and was a relatively experienced dom, which, rather than being jealous as some women would, she seemed to find a curiosity, instead, asking him question after question, even getting him to expound on his philosophies about it, as well as confiding about things he'd done that had gone well—and terribly wrong. He'd done nearly everything she'd ever read about and wanted to do, which he considered a good sign.

  She had only ever had one other lover, she'd confessed in a charmingly shy manner, who sounded like a selfish idiot who had no idea of the treasure he had in his hands in her. The asshole had fucked her and left, never calling again, not having bothered to even begin to try to satisfy her in any way whatsoever.

  Lucas had grimaced, wishing he knew the man so that he could teach him a thing or twelve. "I will never understand men who are like that."

  "How many partners have you had?" she asked quietly, and he took her hand, tickling the palm with her fingertips.

  "None of any import, until you," he replied, and she rolled her eyes, making him chuckle. "You didn't find that in the least romantic, I take it?"

  Her eyes flickered away from his. "I'd find it more so if I thought that there was the slightest possibility that it was true."

  If he had been soberer, himself, he might have been upset at that, but he kept it to himself, standing up suddenly to prod her off the bed, stripping the bedclothes from it with one tug.

  "What are you doing?" she asked from just behind him.

  He turned and took a moment to drink her in as she stood there completely naked before him.

  Suddenly, she saw a glint in his eye that she'd never seen before, and it made her a little nervous. "Stop looking at me like that, Lucas."

  He took a step towards her. "Like what, Allyria DuPres Barstow?" he asked, his voice a velvety growl as he advanced on her.

  "As if you're going to devour me once you get to me." She tried to giggle, but there was something disturbingly intent about his look—it created a fissure of fear that tingled up her spine and remained on the edges of her consciousness. His use of her full name, too, only added to that titillating spark of fear, reminding her that he knew probably just about as much about her as she did about him, the difference being that learning about him was like reading a thrilling true crime novel or the latest mafia bestseller, where the dashing, GQ cover model crime boss hid a surprising heart of gold.

  The details of her life were much more likely to have put him to sleep.

  His laugh wasn't really much of one, and it added to her fear, especially since he hadn't stopped staring at her, his gaze never wavering as he backed her up until she could go no further. He didn't stop walking into her until her shoulder blades were pressed against the bedroom wall by his muscular bulk. "You should be so lucky, my dear, to feel my mouth on you," he rumbled as he kissed the side of her neck. "That is a reward for very good behavior—and you have recently confessed to me that you are a bad girl. In fact, you even asked me to spank you again, didn't you?"

  She peeped up at him as he raised her hands above her head and held them there, watching her breasts rise even further as he did so, bending down to suckle at first one, then the other.

  On a long groan, Allie begged, "Can I go back to being a good girl now, please?"

  Lucas straightened, asking, "So soon? The dark side a little too dark for you?"

  She surprised him again by straightening her shoulders and looking him in the eye. "No. I was just kidding. Do your worst. I can take it."

  He chuckled, as if she had no idea what she was asking for. "Do you trust me, Allie?" he asked, and she could see that it was a serious question.

  "Not as far as I could throw you, no," she answered truthfully.

  But he shook his head. "Not in the world. The world is gone for tonight. We'll get back to being enemies, tomorrow, in the harsh light of day. I mean here, now. Do you trust me to really dom you? To keep you safe while you submit to me?"

  She bit her lip, and he was fairly certain that she was going to say no, and he would have understood her hesitation completely, using the knowledge to guide them in a different, less acute direction for the rest of their time together.

  Then, as if she'd been holding her breath, she'd sighed a soft, quiet, "Yes," and he felt as if he'd been given a gift of which he would never really know the true value.

  He lifted her then, her feet dangling above the floor, holding her in place by his body, as well as the wrists he was pinning above her head. "I'll make you regret agreeing at first, you know," as if he was deliberately trying to scare her, giving her the chance to change her mind.

  Her eyes were clear as they met his. "I-I know." She looked down for a split second, then back at him, saying, "I want you to."

  She made him want to roar at that, but he managed not to until much later.

  By the time she had left him the next morning—and he had choked back his desire to extract promises from her that he knew he had no right to ask for, and that he figured she'd turn down flat anyway—she was wearing the stark, vivid red evidence of her regret across her backside and the tender backs of her thighs in the form of weals and raised welts from the cane, as well as the signature long, thick imprint of his belt, all delivered over two layers of delicate skin made already atrociously sore by his style of thorough hand spankings.

  And she'd born it extremely well, especially for a beginner. He'd been sure to praise her—only occasionally, though—throughout—but just before he'd allowed her to step out his door that next morning, he'd reached out to pinch a bare nipple—since he'd confiscated the bra she'd been wearing as well as her panties as spoils—using that hold to pull her back to him and pinching both her little nips hard the entire time he spoke to her.

  "You were a naughty girl when I brought you here, but I have made you a good girl. My good girl. You took your punishments very well. Can you still feel me dripping out of you?"

  "Yes, Sir," she responded immediately, confessing as she colored brightly. "I'm still contracting, and I'm leaking you all over me every time I do."

  His hips snapped forward mindlessly as he groaned at her words, and Lucas kissed her hard, then forced himself to push her out the door, which was one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do in his life, but he knew that, in this kind of situation, he had to take what little of her he could get and learn to be happy with it.

  He'd tried to keep things going between them afterwards, hoping that was what she had wanted, too—without making himself a pest—but it seemed that his good girl turned bad had reverted to her good old ways in the harsh light of day—not, altogether unexpectedly—and that she wasn't interested in engaging in the kind of machinations that would be necessary for the two of them to continue to see each other.

  He was involved in his own problems up to his neck, and he back burnered her, as much as his overeager body would allow him to, promising himself that he would get back to her as soon as he possibly could. That he wouldn't allow her to get away from him.

  Their last encounter—after the charity event gone seriously wrong—had been unexpected—certainly not unwanted by any means, but unexpected. He really had just gone there to try to make su
re that she was all right, intending to keep it low key and casual, especially since they seemed to have arrived at the point where, when he saw her occasionally, usually coming in and out of court, his eyes following her helplessly as she walked past, but she never acknowledged him in any way whatsoever. And, unfortunately, he had to acknowledge to himself that hers was probably the better approach.

  When he had stumbled on her being horribly molested by Daughtry in an alcove by the bathrooms the night before, he had experienced the actual phenomenon of seeing red. She was crying and doing her best to try to resist him, but he had her pinned against the wall and was groping the ever-loving crap out of her, and Lucas was going to rip him apart with his bare hands if it was the last thing he did.

  When he attacked the chief, the big, sweaty, flabby old man had flung Allie away in order to deal with him, and she stumbled on the cheap carpeting and ended up bruising her ribs on the old-style radiator on the way to the floor, not that he hadn't done enough damage already, himself.

  He'd barely begun pummeling the man—as far as he was concerned, although he guessed he'd done a good enough job that the old letch had to stay in the hospital for a few days—before he was descended upon by the city's finest, and he was quite proud of the fact that it had taken five of them to get him to lay off, although he didn't stop struggling to get back to viciously beating the man even once they had his face ground into the carpet and his hands cuffed behind him.

  The problem with his strategy—however satisfying on a very macho, visceral level—was that he was now unable to help Allie since he had so many gorilla sized cops on his back, so he ended up having to watch another cop lead her away, hearing her declining medical attention, even though anyone could see that she was hurt by the way she held her arm across her body to guard her ribs.

  He, of course, had been a guest of the city—although not for too long, thanks to well-paid lawyers—but even once he was released, he knew he had to bide his time before he could see her. He couldn't just go to her house, as much as he wanted to, or even call her to see if she was all right, having to wonder all night if her friend had been able to talk her into doing the right thing, which was to go to the hospital to get thoroughly checked out.

  The rug in Lucas' study was nearly worn through by the time he'd given in to his need to see her. The man he had keeping an eye on her—purely for reasons of her own safety, of course—told him that she had gone into the office, and Rafe had been parked out there long enough to know the security guard's routine, which wasn't much of one, apparently. He was an older, past retirement guy, and essentially he came in, watched the monitors and only got up to eat, use the john, and when he absolutely couldn't avoid doing so.

  Although she'd given him the chilly reception he'd been expecting, all bets were off as far as Lucas was concerned the minute he'd set eyes on her. He'd been torn between wanting to stake his claim on her in the most carnal and primitive fashion, hoping to erase any lasting memory of Daughtry's hands on her, and wanting to pull her close and hold her in his arms while he wrapped her in cotton and promised her he'd never, ever let anyone hurt her—in any way—ever again.

  All in all, though, he was pretty happy with how things had turned out, especially since he had made damned sure that the threat he'd whispered to her about banging her up against the wall before he let her go was exactly what had happened.

  To say nothing of the fact that he had extracted from her—granted, under a certain amount of duress, namely the fact that he had her stuffed full of every toy he could get into her—although they were smaller than most of what he owned because she was incredibly tight. Allie was gagged, bound and blindfolded while he held a very powerful vibrator to a completely exposed clit that had seen a lot of action that night but not much satisfaction while he swatted her bare ass with the other, forcing her to ride that very powerful edge between pain and pleasure until she finally nodded her assent—that they would begin trying to actually date. Somehow. He didn't care what needed to be done to achieve it, but he wanted to see her more often than very occasionally. Much, much more often.

  So, he did what he did best—arranged a clandestine date, calling in a few favors, and arranging to meet her well out of town where no one was likely to recognize either of them.

  Well, her, at least. He got recognized all the time—both because his purported occupation brought him a certain amount of notoriety, but also because he was reasonably good looking, and he donated a lot of money to certain charities. The first thing might get him in the paper, but the last two had landed him in People magazine.

  But he'd dress down and wear a baseball cap, and the chances were that no one would notice him.

  Just as a lark, he'd sent her what he wanted her to wear, telling her in his note that he expected to see her in it and almost challenging her to obey him, and knowing that, either way—whether she wore it or she didn't—he was going to win, because if she did, he'd get to see her in it, and if she didn't, he'd lay into her bottom as soon as he got her home. It was a win-win for the both of them. And he didn't just send the dress, either—he sent shoes, perfume, a purse and jewelry and even an iPhone case to go with it.

  And when he walked into the surprisingly elegant little bar-slash-restaurant he'd chosen, he'd immediately seen that she had actually obeyed him. And she looked positively stunning. Who'd've known that she hid such an amazing body under all of those demure business suits?

  It was a turquoise dress that hugged all of the generous curves he'd come to love, although it stopped just short of making her look like a streetwalker. It was much too expensive a dress for a whore to afford, anyway, and the quality of the material and the cut of the dress made it haute couture. Her shoes were Jimmy Choos, decorated by blue Swarovski crystals that matched the color of the dress perfectly. Her bag was trimmed by the same crystals, as was the case inside it, and her perfume was Vera Wang, which was a favorite of his. She was a knockout.

  And, even though she was supposed to be meeting him here, she was practically sitting in someone else's lap. The bad girl was back, he hoped fervently, licking his lips in anticipation. Or perhaps just the anal retentive good girl, since he had been unavoidably detained and was twenty minutes late.

  She outclassed him in every possible way, and he knew it—especially at this particular moment—when he was in the highly unusual position of being the worst dressed person in the establishment, but he put his head down and sauntered up to her, anyway, leaning down to drop a kiss on a velvety soft cheek that she turned away from him at the last minute, so that he ended up kissing air, saying peevishly, "You know the rules. You're lucky I'm still here."

  "This is a date, not a business meeting," he shot back.

  She gave him a jaundiced look. "No, it's not a date anymore. You missed our date. Now I'm spending my time with this other delightful gentleman."

  Lucas drew a deep breath and began to count to ten, like his Gramma had taught him to do when he got mad, but because of a glaring personal flaw, he rarely got to one, and this time he didn't even really make it there. Instead, he skirted around her seat to come to stand in front of the man who was very lucky that he had not yet decided to touch his woman, or the poor fool would have been withdrawing as many bloody stumps as was necessary to ensure that he never did it again.

  He hunkered down next to the man, putting his arm around the guy in what looked like a friendly manner, but was, in actuality, more of an agonizing vice grip on the back of his neck. Then he looked the man in the eye and removed his baseball cap. "Take a good look, friend," he ground out under his breath. "Do you know who I am? And if you do, do you think that it's a very healthy thing for you to do to get within a thousand miles of my woman?"

  The hapless man, seeing who he was almost immediately, practically wet himself trying to get away from them both.

  Then Lucas took his seat and turned his attention to the woman who had caused him to make that grown assed man run crying home to his mama
.

  "What do you have to say for yourself, young lady?"

  Allie crossed her arms over her chest, obviously not in the least impressed by him or his macho display of possessiveness. "Considering what I've let you do to me and as few restrictions as I've placed on you about that, the least you could do is to honor the one or two that I have left. You know how much I detest lateness."

  Lucas got up slowly, grabbing her by the upper arm and lifting until her toes barely brushed the floor, even in the platform heels.

  When he spoke, Allie's body contracted automatically. And not in a good way. Rather, it was in a way that made her remember every agonizing stroke he'd ever laid across her backside, and all of the other ways he'd reduced her to mindless howling and begging him to stop. "What this comes down to is the fact that you do not make rules for me, little miss. Considering that you have to know what your bitchy attitude means I'm going to do to you when we get home, I would have thought you would have thought twice about involving someone else. Not to mention what I'd have done to him if I thought he'd so much as accidentally brushed up against you." He pressed his nose up against hers. "You're mine, and I'm going to remind you of that fact every minute of the rest of our night together. Date's over."

  Allie, possessing what was admittedly an alarming lack of self-preservation, opened her mouth to remind him that they weren't on a date anymore, but he was already on his way out the door with her, after having set her roughly on her feet. And before she could get those choice words out, he popped her loudly on that luscious backside of hers, making her jump and squeal, and some of the patrons in the bar—who were ninety-five percent male—were assholes enough to laugh or snort at his audacity.

  At that, he changed his mind and whirled her around so that he could get a shot from the bartender, who eyed him up and down suspiciously until he laid a couple of crisp new hundreds down on the bar.