Trace of Fever
Page 57

“This.” Slowly, he stepped up to her. His right hand flattened on the door beside her head.
Eyeing his planted hand, she saw bruised knuckles and unshakable resolve. She inhaled a shaky breath. “This?”
He traced the fingertips of his left hand along her jaw, up to her temple and then flattened that hand on the door at the other side of her head.
His pelvis pressed into hers, and she couldn’t miss the tension surging through him. Oh. This. Sharpened awareness left her eyes heavy, her heartbeat rapid. She tried to focus on his bruised jaw or his black eye. But all her attention zeroed in on his mouth. “You’re going to kiss me?” ’Bout damn time.
“And other things.”
Oh, boy, other things. “Like?”
His mouth brushed the side of her throat, opened and sucked her skin in against his teeth.
Her toes curled and her stomach bottomed out. “Trace…”
Without haste, he worked his way up to her lips with hot, open-mouth, wet kisses. Every inch of his progress tantalized. All the while he kept her body pinned in place with his.
The fact that he didn’t use his hands only amplified his touch.
When his mouth finally met hers, she was so primed, so hungry for him, that she groaned aloud. That seemed to break him. The next thing Priss knew, he’d lifted her, helped her to wrap her legs around his waist, and he had one hand down the back of her jeans, the other under her T-shirt over her right breast.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“I WANT TO TALK TO her myself.”
Murray tangled his hand in Helene’s hair—and pulled. “Who are we talking about, sweet?”
She winced, but didn’t fight him. Her lip curled. “Priscilla.”
“Ah.” Murray loved how Helene always simmered near the boiling point, no matter the circumstances, no matter his mood or how rough or gentle he might me. “Jealous, much?”
Heat flared in her light blue eyes. “Jealous, not at all!”
“You’re a liar. I can see it.” He cuddled her big, firm breast. “You’re vibrating with hatred.”
Her lips parted as he found her nipple. “Hatred, yes. She’s trying to use you. I know it. I don’t trust her.”
Very softly, he asked, “You don’t trust me?” He applied more pressure to her nipple, tugged.
“Ah—God, I do, Murray. Of course I do.” She panted. “Always.”
“Then trust me to know what to do with little Priscilla Patterson.” Releasing her, Murray pushed her back and fumbled with his slacks. Submission always fired his blood. He loved it. He wallowed in his power. “It doesn’t concern you.”
Looking dismayed for only a moment, Helene stared at his crotch, then began working up the hem of her tight skirt.
She would willingly forgo her own pleasure in favor of blowing him. That attitude earned her a reward of sorts.
Murray stopped her before she dropped to her knees. “Raise your skirt more. Expose yourself.”
Confusion sharpened her features before she licked her lips and did as told.
A scrap of black lace covered her sex. With one hand Murray rubbed himself, and with the other he spread her blouse, exposing those magnificent tits.
Yeah, that look suited her. It needed only one more alteration…. “Drop your panties.”
Helene shook back her long, glossy black hair. “All right.” Slipping her thumbs beneath the waistband, she eased the material over her notable hips and down her thighs.
She would have stepped free of them, but Murray shook his head. “Leave them there, around your ankles.”
Getting into the game, she asked, “You like that?”
Yeah, he liked it. He stroked himself faster, harder. “Bend over my desk.”
Her extraordinary rack expanded as she sucked in a deep breath. Exhilaration scalded her cheeks.
“Well? Don’t just stand there. Get on with it.” He kept his gaze on her sex, already damp with wanting him. “I have shit to do before Trace gets here.” And no way in hell would he do any of it with a boner.
Not when Helene was kept around for this very purpose.
She let out a moaning, shuddering breath and hurried to obey. Making a show of it, she flattened her hands on the desk and slowly slid forward until her chin nearly rested on the surface. Arching her back, she spread her legs as wide as she could with the restrictive material hobbling her ankles.
Breathless, she asked, “Like this?”
“That’ll do.” Now that she’d positioned herself, Murray stood back to look at her. He could see her getting wetter, and it incited his lust. “So you want to talk to Priscilla?”
She went still, then began panting. “Yes.” Her flesh shimmered with excitement. “I could make her tell me things.”
“With your drugs?” Helene loved to test the effects of various narcotic blends on unruly women who dared to fight their fate. And he had to admit, it was usually more effective than beating or starving them.
“Yes,” she moaned. Her hands curled against the desktop; her thighs tightened. Now writhing, she whispered, “I have the perfect formula for her. She would be pliable, pathetically agreeable…”
Murray chuckled. Helene enjoyed anything and everything he did to her, and if she could be cruel to someone else in the bargain, that was enough to send her into an orgasm.
“I sometimes wonder, Helene.”
Eyes closed, she concentrated on breathing. “About what?”