J. Kenner - Heated

Hell, I simply wanted.

I breathed in. Once, twice. I needed to gather myself, my thoughts. I needed to maintain at least some illusion that he hadn’t completely destroyed me with nothing more than words.

“Wow,” I finally managed. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

His smile was slow and lazy. “As far as I’m concerned, time is the one thing too precious to waste.”

He stroked my cheek, my hair. His fingers twined in my curls as he played and stroked. Tighter and tighter, not enough to hurt, but enough so that I gasped in surprise when he tugged my head back and met my eyes. There was ice in the blue now. A cold, winter storm, the chill of which laced his voice as well. “Tell me the truth, Sloane. Are you wasting my time?”

I felt the blood pump through me, the rush filling my head. Not fear—not really. This was excitement. Challenge. And, yes, a bit of frustration, too, because the victory I’d so greedily claimed had apparently been premature.

“Let go of me,” I said, my voice matching the ice of his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He released his grip on my hair and took a step back. I used the motion of standing up straight to shake off my nerves. Despite my desperately pounding heart, right then, this was all about playing it cool. Just like in a suspect interrogation, I wasn’t about to let him see that he’d shaken me.

“I know what my game is,” he said. “I’m trying to figure out yours.”

“I’m not playing a game,” I lied.

“Everyone’s playing a game.” There was no humor in his voice.

I said nothing. I’d already denied. Repeating myself would get me nowhere.

“A lot of people want a piece of me, Sloane. What do you want? An introduction? A loan? I want to know why you’re here. I want to know what you want.”

Slowly, I shook my head. “I’m not gold-digging, if that’s what you think. And I already told you what I want. Hell, you’ve already told me what I want.” I took a single step forward, then pressed my hand over his cock, hard inside his tailored slacks.

I watched his face as I touched him, not moving, simply touching. “‘I want to feel you tremble beneath me.’ That’s what you said. That’s what I want, too. Christ, Tyler, isn’t it obvious what I want? Why I came here? I want you.”

Beneath my hand, I felt his cock stiffen. He glanced down, then back at me. His face was all hard lines and angles, as if he was fighting for control. “Don’t move,” he said. “Don’t even breathe.”

“I—”

“No.” His finger pressed against my lip before skimming downward. Over my chin, down my neck until he delicately traced my collarbone. Then lower, teasing my nipple with slow circles as I sucked in air and bit my lip in defense against the sounds of pleasure that wanted so desperately to escape.

The bodice was a halter, with two triangles of material attached to the waist, then rising up to tie behind my neck. He followed the material up, his finger skimming under the bow at the base of my neck.

“Shall I untie it? Let it fall? Shall I close my mouth over your bare breast right now, tease your nipple between my teeth? Tell me the truth, Sloane, would that make you hot?”

I swallowed. My mouth was so dry. I thought of the waitstaff. Of camera phones. Of the Internet and the image of us, his mouth on my breast, my head back, my lips parted in pleasure. I thought of it, and I felt the quickening in my belly. The clenching in my sex.

I thought—and I whispered the only answer I could. “Yes.”

“Good girl,” he said, as his hand sneaked down, leaving my dress intact. I breathed a sigh of relief, then gasped as he traced his way down my cleavage, his hand slipping beneath the material just long enough for his fingers to tease and for the heat of his palm to cup my breast.

“Tyler,” I moaned when he withdrew his hand, leaving me clutching the tables on either side of me, because if I let go, I would surely fall.

“Hush,” he said, as he moved closer. His hand snaked around my waist to find the zipper at the back of the dress, then slowly eased it down. “Now spread your legs,” he ordered as he slid his palm inside my dress, over my lower back, and then down to the curve of my ass.

I wore a stretchy lace thong, and he stroked my bare skin before finding the thin, damp strip of material between my legs and tugging it aside. I heard the desperate sound of my own whimper as he teased me, then sucked in a gasp as he slid a finger easily inside me and my body clenched tight around him.

He groaned in satisfaction. “Christ, you’re wet,” he said, his voice raw. “I don’t doubt you want me, Sloane. And god knows I want you, too.” He stroked my sex once, twice, then withdrew his hand, and I had to bite my lower lip in order to silence my protest. “But there’s something else going on in that pretty head of yours,” he added, as he zipped up my dress, leaving me wanting and confused and frustrated. “And I will find out your secret.”

He stepped back from me, then paused to look me up and down. I could only imagine what he saw. Clothes askew. Skin flushed. But I lifted my head, determined to hold my own.

He moved to the door, and pulled it part of the way open. The sounds of the party wafted in, echoing in the service hall. His eyes locked on mine, and for a moment I saw the true depth and power of this man who held so much of Chicago in his hand.

“I’ll give you what you want, Sloane,” he said. “What we both want. But think long and hard before you come to me. There are things that I like. Things that I want and expect from the woman in my bed. And I don’t play by anyone’s rules but my own.”

I waited as the door closed, then let myself sag until I was seated on the floor with my back against the wall, two tables laden with dessert refills on either side of me.

He’d rattled me—no doubt about that. Rattled me, intrigued me, enticed me. I may have set out to seduce the man, but I couldn’t deny the fact that he’d turned the tables on me any more than I could deny that I’d enjoyed it.

And I had. God help me, but I wasn’t simply playing a part. I’d enjoyed it. I’d enjoyed him.

How the hell was that possible? I knew damn well the man was a con. A thief. Possibly a whole lot worse. A man who gave the middle finger to the law and the system that I’d sworn to uphold. He represented everything I fought against. Hell, he was everything I’d run from. Everything I’d fought so hard not to be.

Brutally I shoved away the rising images. The ones I fought every damn day. The blood. The fear. The guilt. The crack of a gun echoed in my mind, and the sound swirled together with the scream of police sirens and the long, violent wail of soul-deep pain.

Tyler Sharp was the kind of man who would take the law and gleefully twist until it broke. And there I was trying so damn hard to put it back together—to fix everything I’d once broken—and yet I was ready to slide into his bed?

I couldn’t even fall back on the mission as an excuse. That may have kick-started it, but I was the one who was finishing it. I was the one who wanted it.

I drew in a breath and dragged my fingers through my hair. I didn’t trust him—not even remotely. But I did see him. Whatever else Tyler Sharp might be, there was a hell of a lot more to him than the slick facade. He was a man who was very much alive, who took the world as it came, and didn’t take shit from anyone.

Those were qualities I admired, and for one brief, shining moment I wished I was a girl without an agenda and without expectations. A woman, not a cop. A woman who knew nothing about all the black marks that marred his permanent record. Who wasn’t even now trying to figure out the best way to proceed in order to get close, get in, get the info.