“Sage! Pay attention! That wanker is going to kill you!” he’d shouted as he began to test the strength of the barrier that divided them.
She didn’t hear his warning. The would-be assassin now had a handle in each hand and was pulling the noose tight. She brought her hands up to try to ward off her own strangulation, but appeared to be too late. He could feel her life ebb away, then heard her desperate plea for a hero of her own. Who better than the one she had created?
No sooner had the words formed in his mind, than he felt the barrier begin to soften. His resolve to get to her hardening, he’d shouldered his way through. The veil had given way, and he charged through, tumbling in a void until he’d been transported to the walkway not far from Sage and her assailant. He’d rushed toward the dueling couple, reaching into his pocket and finding his favorite SIG Sauer, his silencer already attached. Taking aim, he fired twice, hitting the man once in the temple and once between the eyes when the force of the first bullet spun him away from Sage to face Roark. Putting on an extra burst of speed and sliding under her like an American ballplayer at third base, he was able to keep her from hitting the ground. He disposed of the body before bringing her back to the Savoy.
Surprised to find she had the keycard to his fictional suite, he took her inside, ostensibly to ensure she hadn’t been hurt, but even Sage wouldn’t have written such a silly scene. It was a setup for a sex and punishment scene if ever there had been one—one he intended to take full advantage of.
Roark had no intention of passing up the opportunity to get his hands on her naked flesh. God’s teeth, she felt good, her skin smooth and delicate to the touch. He caressed her beautiful bottom and thought again how good it would look stained with his handprints, but to give her the spanking she needed, he had to wait until she was awake. He wanted her to know she was being spanked and why.
Then he remembered a scene she’d added to the third Roark Samuels novels. Roark liked anal sex, especially with arrogant women who needed a comeuppance. He chuckled when he opened the nightstand drawer to find his kit containing a set of graduated butt plugs as well as two kinds of lubricant—one a straight lube, the other with peppermint extract that could give a little girl’s bottom hole something extra to think about. He opted for the first and had very gently worked the smallest of the plugs past the ring of muscle guarding her dark entrance.
Now here they were—Sage’s nose pressed to the corner and her question hanging in the air between them.
“Who am I? As I said previously, naughty little girls are not the ones who ask the questions, and you, Pet, have yet to answer mine. The two most pressing ones are, first—what were you thinking, getting drunk and wandering the streets of London with someone you didn’t know? And second—who would want to kill you?”
Sage turned around to face him.
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
Roark closed on her, pressing his hand against her breastbone, gently but firmly forcing her into the corner with her back against the wall, his fingers wrapping around the back of her neck as his thumb caressed her throat.
“Such a willful, wild kitten. Do you have any idea how much Daddy is going to enjoy taking you and teaching you to purr just for him? Mine will be the only cream you lick from your lips.”
He watched her struggle to remain standing, much less find words to respond in her normally cheeky manner as her breathing became shallow and erratic. He glanced down between them—her nipples were as hard as diamonds, their pebbled texture begging to be suckled. Then there was the bulge in the front of his jeans that wasn’t getting any smaller. He’d wanted her from the moment he became sentient. There was no way of knowing if or when he’d be relegated back to the pages of her books, but he was beginning to believe he had escaped for good.
Before she could find her voice, he whirled her around so once again, she was facing the corner. He wrapped one arm around her waist, trailing his fingers from her belly button to the small bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs, stopping when he found her engorged clit. Inhaling sharply, he caught the sweet fragrance of her arousal. His fingers danced through the soft, silky, damp curls surrounding the tender bud, rolling it between finger and thumb. He might have to rethink keeping her bare. He rather liked the feel of her most intimate hair.
Sage moaned and braced herself against the fireplace. He’d never heard a more seductive sound, even when she was pleasuring herself. It called to the deepest part of him, the place where desire met libido, colliding until all that was left was pure lust. Thank God she hadn’t written him as a pasty-faced pantywaist, who was all about political correctness and getting a permission form signed in triplicate before proceeding to the next stage of intimacy.
He’d never wanted any woman the way he wanted Sage. Everything about her called to him. Couldn’t she see she needed him, not a one-night stand with no prayer of going anywhere? What she needed was what he wanted to be to her—partner, lover,
