Kate Hewitt - Bad Blood

“Wonder?” she echoed, as if she did not take his meaning, but she knew.

She wondered the same things. She wondered so much and so heatedly, so breathlessly, that she had barely slept in days. Even the invocation of her past, of what had happened to her, had not changed the wondering, the imagining. And that was only the physical part of this. The easy part. The only part she planned to acknowledge. The inn seemed to spin and tilt wildly at the corners of her eyes, but at the center of it all stood Lucas.

And an uncomfortably reasonable voice inside of her whispered, Why not?

Grace fought to keep her breath even. She had told Lucas the truth and he had not looked at her differently. He had not reacted like a long-ago almost-lover in college had: he had not looked at her in that calculating way and asked if, in fact, she had been seducing her mother’s boyfriend that day. If she had that scarlet letter blazoned upon her face, the way she’d always believed, Lucas had not seemed to see it. And if he already knew the worst but didn’t believe the worst of her —what was the point in denying herself the pleasure that might go with that kind of uncomfortable honesty? The spoonful of sugar to sweep away the taste of the bitter pill?

And who was to say that this time she couldn’t be the one to take control—to beat the player at his own game? Why not be the seducer instead of the seduced? Why not call the shots? Why not , indeed?

She blinked, dazed by her own trail of thought. And all too aware of the heat and sleek beauty of him, standing near enough to touch, watching her so closely.

If she’d learned anything from her mistakes, from her mother, from her own hard-won successes, Grace thought with a dawning sense of certainty, it was this: it was always better to be the one in control.

So if she was already doomed, she might as well dance.

It was as if a great weight fell from her then, and disappeared into the tense air between them.

“If you keep looking at me like that,” Lucas warned, his expression hard with hunger, “I will not be held accountable for what happens next.”

“I already know what will happen next,” she said. She faced him—and herself—head-on, clear-eyed and somehow completely ready for what had been, only moments before he’d walked in this room, unthinkable. He’d had no compunction about throwing those photos in her face, so why should she worry about using his own weakness against him now? She raised her brows at him in deliberate challenge. “I only hope that after all of this talk and all these promises, you can live up to your reputation.”

He was not in the least bit fazed. His eyes seemed to see straight through her, to all the places where she ached for him, yearned for him, dreamed of him at night. All the places where she was made of nothing save the want of him. And she would use that against him, she thought. She would get her own back. She would be the one to laugh when it was done, and leave, too.

He did not move from his position at the bedside, lounging there, watching her as if cataloging her every move, her every thought. It was almost too much. It was almost too real. He was quite obviously not a fantasy at all, as someone who looked like him should be—he was a man.

“I have to check in with the team,” she said, teasing him, feeling the tension and electricity roll through her. It made her feel powerful. As if it really was hers. To wield. To use. To enjoy.

But he only laughed.

“The team is in the pub, and the last thing they need is the intrusion of their ice queen boss to force them into tediously good behavior and stilted conversation,” he said. “The best thing you can do for them is give them tonight to blow off steam. You’ll be in one another’s pockets for the foreseeable future as it is.”

“Well,” she said, momentarily discomfited by his unexpected insight—not to mention the fact he knew the whereabouts of her staff when she did not. “That works out, then.”

For a moment she did not move. He was the only thing she could see, green eyes and that crooked smile, as if nothing else existed. She let that wash over her, through her. Then she stepped toward him, closing the distance between them with a single step.

Surprise warred with desire in his gaze, on his face, but his hands moved to her hips—anchoring her against him as she moved to stand between his legs. She rested her hands against his sculpted chest, tested the softness of his shirt and the muscles beneath with her palms, eliciting a faint, rough laugh from him.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” he asked, threading one hand into her bun and starting to pull the pins out, one by one, with an easy confidence, as if she was already his. His other hand tucked beneath the soft hem of her sweater, then moved hot and hard against the small of her back, urging her even closer.

She could do this. It might even be easy.

“Do you?” she countered. She leaned into him, pressing her heavy breasts against the wall of his chest, letting her body slide against his, bringing their mouths within a scant inch of each other.

She had the impression of scorching green fire and hectic color. Of exhilaration pounding through her like wine. And a sense of absolute rightness that might have scared her, had she not already decided to take him—on her terms.

And then, finally, she leaned up and kissed him, taking control , she thought, and everything burst into flame.

* * *

Lucas allowed himself to remain surprised for roughly three seconds, and then desire took over. He did not care why she was doing this, only that she was doing it.

Finally.

He slanted his mouth over hers, determined to make her his, determined to prove that she was no more than any other woman, no different, no matter what yesterday’s uncomfortable conversation had indicated.

He had been alone forever, and he liked it that way. It was simple. Easy.

But she tasted like honey, like her Texas drawl, warm and sunny and sweet. She went straight to his head, until he could not seem to care about protecting himself as he knew he should, as had always been second nature to him before.

He did not like the feelings she aroused in him. The need to protect her, even from her own past. Yesterday’s searing need to unburden himself. This obsession, this need, to lose himself in her. He hated it, he told himself, and so he kissed her again and again, deeper and harder and longer, surrendering himself to her exquisite taste, her scent, the sweet perfection of her body pressed against his.

This was sex, he told himself. Nothing but sex. And he happened to be particularly talented in that arena.

She pushed him back on the bed, and he let her, bemused by this sudden show of assertiveness. But who was he to argue? He lay back and watched appreciatively as she climbed up on the bed with him, straddling him.

He hissed in a breath as the core of her came up flush with his groin, making him harder than he could ever remember being before. More . He wanted more. He wanted to bury himself inside of her and lose himself entirely. He wanted to make her scream his name. He wanted to taste every inch of her body, every freckle, every moan. He wanted her in every possible way, all night long.

Only then, he told himself, could he exorcise her. Make these uncomfortable feelings disappear as if they had never been. Make her no more and no less than another conquest, indistinguishable from the rest. That was what he wanted. He didn’t know how to want anything else.

She settled against him, her wild blond hair falling forward, making her look like some kind of goddess. His goddess , he thought and stretched out his hands to test her hips, the indentation of her waist. He pulled a long strand of hair to his mouth, rubbing it over his lips. She smelled like rosemary and wine, and the feel of the long blond waves was like raw silk. But she batted his hands away, and then frowned down at his shirt as her fingers started to work the buttons.