He tore his mouth from hers to yank his shirt over his head. “Tell me now if you don’t want this.”
In response, she removed her sweatshirt and tossed it aside.
His gaze raked over her nude form, lingered on the points of her breasts and the triangle of curls at the apex of her thighs. When he moistened his lips, she had to stifle the urge to put her hand between her legs, not to cover herself but to ease her ache.
Swallowing visibly, he jerked the buttons from the holes at the fly of his jeans, freeing his straining erection. While she watched, breathless with anticipation, he took a condom from his pocket and sheathed himself quickly.
“Tell me to stop,” he warned, positioning her against the wall again.
“No,” she said, all but begging him to come into her.
Still he waited, letting her feel the blunt tip of his erection at the cleft of her sex. “What do you want?”
She wrapped her legs around him. “You. In me.”
Stalling no more, he plunged forward, slamming her back into the wall and impaling her on his thick, hard length. She was so wet he penetrated her easily, burying himself deep. With a strangled groan, he slid his hand over her bottom, touching the place their bodies were joined, tracing her with his fingertips.
“You feel so…” He sucked in a sharp breath and gritted his teeth, biting back the words he wanted to say. Moving his hands to her hips, he held her in place for his thrusts, withdrawing as far as he dared and driving back into her, rocking her against the wall, filling her so completely she thought she’d never be empty again.
Why did he have to be so amazing? With Ben, even a fast bang against the wall was a transcendent experience. It should have been hard and angry and impersonal. It wasn’t. He was hard, all right, but sometime after they’d started kissing, he’d stopped being so angry, and the way he touched her was far from impersonal.
He paused, pinning her to the wall with the weight of his body and splaying his hands over her rib cage, framing her breasts. His roughened breath fanned her throat, sending shivers down her spine, and her nipples tingled with awareness.
The light coming in from the doorway fell upon both of them dispassionately, but the distorted glow from the street below her apartment painted streaks of color across her naked torso. Red hot brake lights washed over her skin.
She squirmed and tightened her legs around him, urging him on, so he dipped his head low and took the tip of her breast into his mouth, tugging gently. When she cried out, he picked up the rhythm, thrusting hard, his hands on her hips and his mouth on her breasts, assaulting her with the most exquisite friction and hot, delicious suction.
She was close, so close, but just before she exploded, he slowed, lifting his mouth from her breasts and tracing the line of her collarbone with his tongue. “Are you going to tell me you love me again when you come?”
At first, the meaning of his words failed to register. She was so filled with him, caught up in sensation, teetering on the edge of climax, that she almost nodded, going along with anything he said. Love. Come. Yes.
Wait…what?
Her eyes flew open. His face was a handsome mask, devoid of emotion. Clearly, he was still angry with her, and intent on taking a measure of revenge by proving his mastery over her body. “You bastard,” she panted. “I was faking.”
He slid his hand between them, strumming his fingertips over her clitoris. “Like you’re faking now?”
“Yes,” she moaned, throwing her head back and biting down on her bottom lip, refusing to cry out his name as the orgasm rocketed through her. She gripped his shoulders, making crescents with her fingernails and feeling her inner muscles convulse around him as she came and came and came.
She was vaguely aware of him coming, too, pumping his hips and grinding into her, seeking the deepest possible penetration on his last, most powerful thrust. Then it was over, and he withdrew from her abruptly. Letting her slide down the wall, he stumbled away from her to dispose of the condom before she was steady on her feet.
Like a wet rag, she sank to the carpet amidst their discarded clothes.
He came back from the bathroom with his pants buttoned and his expression flat, appearing as cool and unruffled as if he’d just been discussing the weather forecast instead of fucking her against the wall.
Picking up his T-shirt and pulling it over his head, he said, “Give Grant my best,” as he walked out the door.
CHAPTER 18
When Ben got home, Carly and James were sitting at opposite ends of the couch, pretending to watch TV. If Carly’s hair hadn’t been mussed and James didn’t have a pillow over his lap, Ben still wouldn’t have bought it.
“Say good night, Carly,” he said on his way to the den.
“That’s what I was doing, Dad.”
“Do it with words this time.”
The den was a large room beyond the kitchen, in a dark, seldom-visited corner of the house. It was a miscellaneous space, part office, part storage room. Carly sometimes used the desk and computer for school projects, but she preferred her laptop and the comfort of her own room. The den also housed a collection of surfboards, trophies, and memorabilia. There were too many magazine articles and photo spreads to display, but Ben had framed a few classics, some of the most reckless moments of his life, caught forever, like death wishes frozen in time.
For all of those reasons, and more, the room was rarely used.
Nathan turned from the computer as Ben walked in. “Find out anything?”
Ben muttered a noncommittal reply and sank into the only other chair in the room, a black leather chaise lounge that looked like it belonged in a psychiatrist’s office.
“Did she let you in?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
Groaning, Ben lay back and threw an arm over his face, shielding his eyes.
“You just had sex with her, didn’t you?” Nathan’s tone was scolding, and saturated with prurient interest. “How was it?”
Ben lifted his arm and quirked a puzzled brow.
“What?” Nathan asked innocently. “I’m gay, not dead.”
“I know,” he said, leaning back again. “It’s just that you’ve never asked about stuff like that before.”
Nathan pursed his lips together. “I wasn’t curious about the bimbos you couldn’t seem to get enough of in the nineties. And Olivia was your wife, so that was sort of off-limits, as far as casual discussion was concerned. But this is different. Special Agent Vasquez is pure intrigue.”
“Not anymore,” Ben lied.
“So dish details,” Nathan prodded, not believing him for a moment. “Did she handcuff you to the headboard?”
Ben gave him a wry smile. “You have a wild imagination.”
“And you are ruining my tawdry perception of heterosexual relations,” Nathan complained, smiling in return.
“No handcuffs,” he said shortly, “but it was good.” After finding out she’d been playing him from the beginning, Ben would have said she was as cold as ice. What they’d just done together proved the opposite was true.
If she’d been any hotter, they’d both have gone up in flames.
“What did you find out?” Ben asked, changing the subject.
Nathan turned to face the computer. “Ms. Vasquez has been on the FBI payroll for the past five years. She earned a degree in Criminal Justice and has attended the San Diego Police Academy, as well as the FBI Academy in Virginia.”
Ben grunted, unsurprised to discover that she was well educated and expertly trained.
