Trace of Fever
Page 58

“What type of warped, abusive upbringing you must have had.”
“What?” Surprised, she twisted to see him, her lust temporarily abated. “Me?”
“Don’t move.”
She went still again, her body radiating heat. “No, it wasn’t like that, Murray. My parents adored me. Everyone adored me.”
And then her parents had died, leaving her alone, spoiled rotten, left to her own devices to find a way to remain pampered. Maybe that explained some of it. Not that he really gave a shit. Her sickness was her own, and it complemented his.
“You’re a f**king princess, is that it?” He stroked himself against her ass, teasing them both.
“Yes,” she whispered on a breath of sound. “A princess.”
All but begging for it, she wiggled her ass, and Murray gave in. He clasped her hips and with one hard stab, surged into her.
They both groaned harshly, and after only a half dozen strokes, he felt himself boiling toward release.
Helene didn’t realize it, but much of his lust stemmed from knowing things she didn’t know.
Things about Trace, about Priscilla.
He had a certain way of doing things, a way guaranteed to give him the perspectives he needed to judge loyalty. Helene would discover his true methods soon enough, but for now, she served her purpose.
He didn’t care about her pleasure, never had and never would. But when she cried out, her inner muscles clamping around him, it pushed him right off the precipice of control. He pounded into her one last time. Objects toppled, and Helene gasped at the pain in her hip bones as they connected with the edge of the desk. They both went quiet in that suspended moment of orgasm.
He collapsed over her, sweaty, limp, sated.
Done with her.
Already his mind moved on to other things. With his pants drooping and his c**k now limp, he stumbled back and fell into his chair. Kicking it around so he could look out the window, he let out a long lazy breath.
Helene understood the dismissal.
As silently as she could, she straightened her clothes and, wobbly on her high heels, slipped from the room.
He didn’t notice her satisfied, gloating smile—and he wouldn’t have cared anyway. To his mind, Helene posed no real threat. Not to him.
And no one else mattered.
ADRENALINE CONTINUED TO RUSH through his blood, obliterating common sense and sound reasoning.
Playing havoc with his conscience.
Filling his hand with her soft breast, Trace found her nipple with his thumb and knew he had to taste her.
Right now.
Pushing her shirt up and pulling her bra down, he bent and covered her taut nipple with his mouth.
On a soft moan, Priss sank her hands into his hair, trying to get him closer.
It wasn’t enough.
But what would be?
The second he’d seen the men in the slick car, he’d known who they were and what they wanted. The dressing didn’t matter—he always identified trouble. Years of trailing the most vicious society elements had honed his instincts to the point that he recognized a threat even before it got in range.
Still, he’d given the men a chance, offering the opportunity for them to state their names and their business without bloodshed.
Pulling a gun meant they passed on the pleasantries, and that gave him plenty of reason to pound out some frustration.
He assumed Murray sent them, either as another test for Trace, or because he’d short-circuited his plans for Priss.
But even pounding on the henchmen hadn’t expended enough energy to ease his ever-growing tension. Priss was the source of that tension, and only she could release him.
He wanted her. Insanely. More than he could remember ever wanting a woman.
It defied logic.
“Trace…” she whispered.
Needy. Ready. Willing, and oh, so ripe.
“I don’t know enough about you.” He growled the statement as much to himself as to her when he switched to her other breast. He plumped her up with his hand, circled her nipple with his tongue, and drew her deep.
“You…” She gasped and her body arched. “You know more than I know about you.”
True. All of it. Out of necessity, he had to deceive her. He had to use her.
So what the hell was he doing getting intimately involved with her?
Cursing, Trace shoved himself away and let her feet drop back to the floor. He turned to pace and, running both hands through his hair, put needed distance between them before facing her again.
That was a mistake.
The sight of her, limp against the door, shirt up and legs braced apart, nearly felled him. Her bra cups were beneath her br**sts, lifting them almost like an offering. Her ni**les were tight and wet from his mouth, her eyes glazed, and her lips parted.
He shook, when normally he was rock steady.
Getting involved with her would be a mistake, but given the level of his lust, how she affected him, he couldn’t see any way around it.
Making the decision helped to steady him. “As soon as possible, Priss.”
She drew in a shuddering breath. “What?”
“I need to be inside you.” He flexed his fingers, loosening his fists, reaching for control. “As soon as possible.”
“Oh, okay.” She licked her lips—and nodded. “When?”
Incredible. It would be funny, except that he felt like he suffered a thousand torments. “I don’t know. I have to see how things go tonight with Murray.”
Some of the daze cleared from her eyes. She swallowed twice. “Murray.” She said his name with derision. “What will happen tonight? You’ll be okay?”