All or Nothing Read online

  “You’ll get everything tonight, Belle.” He sucked in a ragged breath of his own, his forehead like a scorching blaze between her breasts. “Everything I am. Anything I can give you. It’s yours.”

  She felt a frisson of fear, of exaltation, because he sounded like he’d made a vow. Sounded as if this were supposed to mean something more than simple sex. But then his mouth was on hers and she lost the ability to worry or to think. All she could do was feel and all there was to feel was him.

  Buttons snapped and Lucas fit his big palms beneath her ass again, but then he started walking. They bumped into things, knocked some breakables down, but he kept going. When she expected him to drop her on her bed, he turned the opposite way and they stumbled into the walk-in shower.

  “Where are we going?” Like she cared.

  “Too hot,” he said between wet kisses. “We’re going to give ourselves heart attacks.”

  Trepidation invaded in a second. “Lucas—”

  “Trust me.” His white teeth gleamed in the soft yellow light of her nightlight through the clear shower curtain as he turned on the water.

  The showerhead burst to life, spitting cool water on her fiery skin. She shrieked until he adjusted it, laughing, spreading his big palm over her bare back to take the brunt of the water flow. Eventually, he had what he wanted, enough heat to keep it from being cold…but still cool, gaining warmth as it spilled over her body onto his.

  They were soon drenched, her hair matted wet, his shirt turning transparent and tightening its hold on his arms. Water flooded down her spine, into the valley between her ass and her pants, drops working their way to her molten pussy. She bounced in his hands at the pinpricks of sensation, cool droplets licking where she wanted his tongue instead.

  “Take these off, I need them off,” she groaned, tearing her hands off him to unbuckle her own pants. The zipper went down easily enough…but the fabric refused to budge off her skin. A yank did nothing. The leather had bonded to her, sticky and immovable. “Oh, you gotta be fuckin’ kidding me!”

  Twelve years of waiting and she was not going to lose this night because of a pair of pants, damn it.

  “How much do you care about those?” Lucas asked, frowning at her midriff.

  “I’m half-naked in a shower with you, Lucas, swearing at them. How much to do you think I care?”

  “Here, try standing.” Adding insult to injury, he set her down on her feet, taking care that her footing was solid before letting her go. It didn’t help dislodge the leather. “Take off your boots.”

  “I don’t see why—”

  “Take them off, Belle.” She watched him detach the wet dress shirt from his arms and sling it into a squishy pile in the corner of the stall. Then he reached for the hem of his wet white T-shirt. Before he pulled it up though, he lifted an eyebrow at her, as if to say, “Well?”

  Grumbling, she reached down for the zipper on her left boot and let him help her stay standing while she got her leg free with a disconcerting suction sound. The next boot came off and she was there in just the pants.

  For his part, Lucas was still in his slacks, but they were plastered to him. The thick erection outlined there told her in no short terms that he had no intention of giving in to a few pieces of wet leather, either.

  “I’m going to have to owe you.” He dropped to his knees and turned her at the hips so he was looking at one side of her speculatively, touching her exposed skin with his fingertips, faint as a feather.

  “Owe me for what?”

  “For this.” He put one hand on each side of the laces and ripped. The tiny strips proved little match for a determined man and after two good tugs, the pants gaped open around one leg. She stared, dumbfounded, as he spun her and made shorter work of the other side. Damn if he didn’t look proud of himself, kneeling in front of her, a smile she’d bet no one knew he could produce on those sinful lips.

  His hands caressed her calves through the open sides, sliding up her legs to the insides of her thighs. She shuddered when his thumbs massaged upward, searching out her sex. His eyes darkened and the smile fell away when he found nothing but her soft folds and the thick moisture of her desire. His thumb slid over her clit, once, twice, then a third time until she threw her head back with a cry. Not in orgasm. No, he stayed well short of that. This was just a taste of relief and sweet, honeyed torture.

  His hands came away from her slowly, then she felt the touch of his knuckles at her belly, working the pants slowly over her barely existing hips. Once past that, the weight of the wet leather made them drop all by themselves to her feet.

  “This is new.”

  Belinda looked down, now positive she was blushing, which she hadn’t done when she was dumb enough to get his surprising little find. At least, she didn’t think she did.

  “I didn’t know you could get tattoos here.” He brought a fingertip to the hand-sized design low on her abdomen, tracing the dark outline over her smooth mound where it ended at the very top of her sex. “This had to hurt.”

  “Well…I…wanted something pretty.” Actually, she was dead drunk for the first session and woke up completely unaware of what she’d done. After that it seemed a shame not to finish. But now was not a time for a lecture, which he’d give if she ever explained how it happened. She pulled on his nape, hoping to bring him back to the point.

  Being Lucas, of course, he wasn’t going to move until he was ready.

  His fingertip remained on the outer black edges of the pattern, tracing the wings with their blending colors of gold, purple and blue, to the tribal slash patterns that arced off of it into graceful pin-striping curlicues. She gasped, a shudder going through her from the outside in. Deeply in.

  “I like it,” he whispered, sounding hoarse. “It is pretty.”

  “I…” Well, shit, what do you say to that? “Thanks.”

  “And, you know,” he said, perversely matter-of-fact while his breath caressed her, making her tingle and moisten further. “I’ve never kissed a butterfly before.”

  She would have responded, but his tongue found her, parting her outer lips and caressing her clit. He was well south of her butterfly, the first kiss falling right between the dewdrop tips of the wings, but who was she to make a man feel bad about his aim?

  No one, she assured herself, when he parted her thighs so he could cup her bottom with his hands. She leaned back, presenting more of herself for him to taste. To lick and lave and dip into. Slowly, as if he were savoring every drop, he ran his tongue through her folds, flicking here and there just to make her buck and gasp. And then he sank that devilish tongue into her, rolling against the edges of her entrance, fucking her with a barrage of tiny thrusts. She’d never known being devoured felt so good, so very damn good. He moaned, or maybe growled, she wasn’t sure, but the sound vibrated through her and sent her tumbling right to the edge of rapture.

  But he pulled away.

  And smiled.

  “You bastard.”

  The smile only grew. “We go over together. Or not at all.”

  “Is that the deal?” she asked, pulling him up again, determined to be satisfied. He nodded and she pushed him against the back wall of the stall. She reached for his pants, undoing the button and smiling herself when she pulled down the fly with reckless speed. Unlike her, he was safe behind another layer of fabric, but it didn’t guard him long.

  She found him, pulsing and rigid, overflowing her hand while she stroked him tip to root. His head fell back to the wall and she heard him swear when her mouth replaced her hand. One deep swallow and he was hers, his clothing shoved away, leaving only his honey-colored skin and the dark, bristly hair that tickled the side of her hand as she stroked in time with the slide of her lips.

  She loved touching him, taking advantage in a way she hadn’t been able to that long ago night, drawing the pleasure out. She sucked hard, rippling her own tongue along the underside of his cock, loving his ragged groan at the turnabout. Her lips slid over the blu
sh-colored mushroom head as she released him, only to rub her wet bottom lip along the crest before taking him back in. He pushed deeper, his hips pumping for more. She gave, swirling her mouth around him, drawing on him every time he pulled back. The texture and taste of him, the power of him, in her hands, in her mouth, made her senses drunk. Nearly desperate. Unable to wait, she slipped her free hand down between her thighs, seeking out her clit to relieve the pressure.

  Then he snatched himself away.

  Before she could even yelp her dismay, he’d lifted her up, back to his kiss, her breasts pressed to his chest, his insistent cock nudging up into her pussy. His back met the tiles behind him and his legs shifted beneath her to keep them both upright. She lost all awareness of the water or the sounds of the city below the second his fingertips coursed underneath, opening her so he could slip himself through her folds. Her own hands found the ledge to the small window above his head, pushing a shampoo bottle to the floor so she could cling to the blue-green tiles and pull her weight high enough to lift her hips above the rounded head of his cock. Then controlling her descent, she took him inside until she was utterly full of him.

  They stared at each other, his eyes hooded, his mouth strained, while she maintained the stillness as long as she could. She wanted to absorb his fire and his need, memorize the silky smooth fit of him inside her. This was what sex was meant to be. Raw and powerful. Giving, taking, satisfying in its every moment. It was supposed to feel this good, even when you didn’t move. It didn’t have to be about love to be this good.

  But the hunger wasn’t satisfied. And it was in no mood to wait.

  His palms beneath her ass rocked her forward. She rocked herself back, clenching her legs around his waist. His smile this time could only be called…feral. He thrust into her, the sudden stroke sending her nerve endings screaming with pleasure. And he knew it, no doubt able to tell by the reflexive tightening of her muscles around him, because he did it again. And again.

  He lifted her, surged into her even as she pushed down on him for more, greedy for the feeling of him pounding within. Aching. Throbbing. She let her nipples abrade his chest, the sensation adding to the wildness of the ride, the pressure in her middle, the tension in her soul.

  Then the cresting began. She bit her lip at the first frothy burst of release. Her eyes were closed so tight she could only see the white of the pressure, feel the squeeze of his hold, the hot splash of him deep within while he groaned. But he kept moving…and she kept coming.

  “Lucas!” she finally cried, when she didn’t think she could take any more. He thrust once again and she fell over the highest peak yet, quaking and shivering, draped across him, unable to do more than lay her forehead on his shoulder and try to breathe.

  The aftershocks continued to wrack her long moments later, their lessening magnitude what she’d once thought the height of pleasure. He held her, soothing her now with a warm hand on her back, making sounds of contentment, kissing her shoulder with all the gentleness she thought he lacked. She might even have slept there, safe in his hold as she’d never felt before.

  Finally though, she came back to herself. He was murmuring something. She closed her mind to it. If she let herself listen, she’d know he was feeling something, trying to express something to her that she couldn’t bear. This night would not be about feelings. It was for sex. For taking advantage of chemistry, drowning out the hunger. The second he said anything about passion or love, the guilt would win out and she’d have to push him away.

  It might be stealing, but as long as he was willing to forgo his need for commitment, she’d take all of him she could get.

  He slipped from her body with little complaint from her, though she didn’t want to let him go. The cool water was welcome again, gentle and kind as it washed away everything dark between them. When she tipped her face up to look at him and he pushed her hair back, she was able to smile.

  He looked down, fingering the ends of her hair, his face unreadable but for the hunger still lurking, impossibly, in his eyes. Her heart leapt at the sight of it and she throbbed deep inside.

  “This is going to be a long night, isn’t it?”

  He took his time answering, lowering his mouth to hers to kiss her lips—graze them, really—holding her close in his embrace. Gentleness again. And peace. Sweet, wondrous peace.

  “Sweetheart, you have no idea.”

  But she’d find out. Very, very soon.

  Belinda with clothes on—no matter how tight or how scarce—was a sight to behold. Belinda without anything at all was proof there was divinity in the world. Inspired divinity.

  Lucas lay wide awake in her bed, running his fingers through the soft silk of her hair. He smiled to himself at the decadent abandon of her limbs splayed out across his body. Her head lay just under his heart and the rest of her was draped bonelessly around him, pretty much where she’d slumped after their final, tumultuous ride. One leg over both of his, the other pressed firmly to his side, one arm wrapped around his middle, the other hand under his shoulder, cupping him close.

  They’d used most of the small loft in some way or another—he now owed her for a flower vase and a lamp on top of the price of her boots and pants—but for the most part, he made use of every inch of this incredible brass bed.

  On nights when he liked to torment himself—most nights—he’d imagined what it would be like to be with her on a bed. To sink with her into a nest of pillows instead of the dew of grass. She’d deserved a bed that first time. She’d deserved so much more than a bed. But no matter what he wanted, he was not the man who would give those things to her.

  Last night he’d tried to fulfill every fantasy he’d ever had of her, knowing the memories would have to last him until he was cold in his grave. He’d washed her mask away, the harsh make-up, the plaster in her hair, until despite the color, she was his Belle again, scars and all. All night long, she’d cried his name, took his passion and returned it tenfold. He’d take solace in that. Curb the wanting with it.

  Set her free with it.

  His hand stopped moving in her hair, resignation finally taking hold. He hadn’t slept. He watched the sun sneak in through the bay windows of the warehouse, pulled her white comforter up over her shoulders and told himself he could take a few more moments, steal a few more seconds, before he had to go. But it was already eight in the morning. The night had long since expired and he had a promise to keep.

  Slight as she was, it wasn’t easy to dislodge her. She slept like a solid brick. One limb at a time, Lucas extracted himself from her hold, easing from the bed. He turned around, watching to make sure she slept on, undisturbed. She lay peacefully, facedown on her bed, her jet hair stark against the white pillows and white comforter, cuddled in them like a child.

  A really sinful child.

  He touched her hair once more, sliding it though his fingers like ribbons before stepping back. Steeling himself, he knew if he didn’t do this now, he’d never let her go. He went back to the bathroom, where they’d haphazardly hung their clothes over the shower rod. Only half-dry, but better than walking out in the buff. He held back the urge to swear by the skin of his teeth while putting on the frigid clothing. Finally, he had just about everything on, keys in his pocket, heart on the floor.

  This is what she wants, he reminded himself, looking in the mirror. But his face wasn’t reflected at him. Kyle’s was. Fewer harsh lines bracketed his mouth. A satisfied, sleepy look took the severity out of his eyes. There was light to them he’d never seen before. He scrubbed a hand over the short scruff of his hair, barely moving it, wondering if she would have wanted it longer, the way it used to be.

  But it didn’t matter anymore, did it?

  It was over.

  He took a last glance around the little floor plan, looking for clothes he might have left behind. All there was to see were the toppled toothbrush holder, the birth control pill dispenser she’d tossed over her shoulder in a show of feminine power and the remnants
of a midnight snack that had been shoved aside for more constructive activities. The loft was open on one side, guarded by waist-high rails before giving way to the internal stairs. They would have done more damage the night before if her living area hadn’t been so sparsely arranged—just a couch, the large brass bed, a small television and a tiny kitchenette tucked into the corner.

  She’d kill him for thinking it, but the room wasn’t the home of a dedicated goth queen. Her bedspread was white and fluffy. The curtains were Victorian-looking lace. Her bedside table had a doily beneath the lamp, for God’s sake. Everything was neat and had a place, filled with the light and sweetness she never allowed anyone to see.

  At its utter, basic core, this little room was where the real Belinda lived. Out there, in the city with her brash ways, over-the-top outfits and undying dedication to Kyle, was where she hid. He sighed, wondering if she ever gave a thought as to why. He certainly had. Twelve years of thoughts, of fears, of wondering if he’d been the one to make her that way. But if he were, it would mean she cared about him, which she vowed as loudly as possible would never happen. Still, he wondered. Sometimes, he even hoped…but not often.

  “Where are you going?” her voice asked from beneath the blankets, nearly making him jump. She hadn’t moved in the slightest. Bending down slightly, he could see that she hadn’t even opened her eyes.

  “Home.” The clarity and resolve in his voice was exactly what he knew they had to be.

  Her right eyelid lifted, then squinted at him. “You’re dressed.”

  “I know.”

  “I thought…” Both eyes opened now and she rubbed them with her hands. She yawned into a catlike smile before beginning a similarly feline reach of her arms.

  A stretch of her entire body was too much of a temptation to deny, so he watched her shoulders emerge from the bedding, each tiny muscle flexing as she rolled joints and shifted. His body leapt, imagining that sinuous movement over him, already hungry again. I’m going to want her even when I’m dead, aren’t I?