"I'm not a thing. And you won't destroy me." I hesitated only a second, then took one step closer. The difference was only inches, but the air seemed suddenly thicker, as if my lungs had to work harder to draw in oxygen. "It's okay," I said again.
All around us, the party continued, but I'm not sure either one of us was aware. Instead, it felt as if we'd stepped into a vortex, and at least in our little corner of space and time nothing else mattered or even existed.
I held my breath, wanting his touch so badly I could taste it. And when he finally brushed the side of his thumb over my cheekbone, it was all I could do not to moan aloud.
All too quickly he took his hand away, leaving me bereft.
All too quickly he stepped back, forcing the world around us to come back to life.
"I just had to see if I was right," he said.
"About?"
"Your skin. It's like touching a promise."
"Is it?" I murmured.
"Tender," he said. "And a bit mysterious. With layer upon layer just waiting to be discovered."
My breath stuttered in my chest. "I didn't know you thought that," I said. "I didn't know you thought about me at all."
He was silent for so long I began to fear he wasn't going to answer. When he spoke, his words cut through me, sharp and sweet. "I think about you more than I should."
It was suddenly very warm in the gallery. Little beads of sweat gathered at the hairline on the back of my neck. I needed air, because it seemed as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room.
Somehow, miraculously, I formed words. "What are you thinking now?"
I saw the answer I craved in the lines of his face and the stiff control of his body. I felt it in the way the air between us crackled and sparked. I even smelled it, that warm and musky scent of desire.
The reality of his answer surrounded and enticed me, and yet when he spoke, his words denied me. Denied us both.
"I'm thinking no," he said, destroying me with nothing more than those three simple words. "And I'm thinking that I need to get back to my guests."
four
I watched him go, numb from the knowledge that despite being so close I had failed so spectacularly.
I couldn't even take any solace from the fact that when he denied me, he was denying himself, too. I wanted his touch, not just the knowledge that he wanted me.
Then take it.
The thought was so simple, so accurate and so compelling, that I actually took a step toward him. I'd seen the heat. Hell, I'd practically smelled the sulfur. If I pushed the issue, I knew damn well that I could force an explosion.
Determined, I aimed myself toward him. One step, then another. And then--with the crowd swirling around me and the voices meshing together like a discordant soundtrack--I simply stopped.
Did I want this?
I did, yes. Oh, god, I did. I wanted to feel Cole's hands on my bare skin, his naked body hot against mine.
And yet . . .
And yet I couldn't quite make myself go further. I could force an explosion, yes, but what then? If we burned together hot and hard, what would happen next?
Would we rise from the ashes like a phoenix?
Or would that fire simply destroy everything that already existed between us?
I'd told Sloane that I'd passed the point of no return--that I had to move forward even if that meant risking our friendship--and I'd meant the words when I'd said them. But now doubt and fear had crept into the equation.
I cared about this man, and in so many ways. Did I really crave him so much that I was willing to risk destroying everything else?
"Are you okay?"
I blinked, drawn from my thoughts by the woman's voice. "Yeah," I said. She was a tall brunette, and somewhat familiar. "Just distracted--and a little light-headed. Too much wine."
"Cole and Tyler know how to throw a party. I'm Michelle. I think I've seen you once or twice at Destiny."
"Oh, right." I took the hand she offered and shook it. Destiny was the well-heeled gentleman's club the knights owned. I didn't go there often, but I'd been a couple of times with Angie for drinks while we'd waited for Evan, and Sloane had actually worked there for a while. She'd even confessed to me that she still performed occasionally. "Tyler likes it," she'd said with the kind of smile that suggested that she liked it, too. And liked even more what happened after the dancing.
I tried to place Michelle, but couldn't manage it. With her body, she could have easily been a dancer, but I didn't think so. I had a vague memory of her at the bar. And, as the memory grew stronger, I started to see Cole there beside her.
"You're Cole's friend, right?"
Her eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. "Yeah," she said, with an amused lilt to her voice. "We're very good friends."
"Well," I said tightly, as green strands of jealousy started twisting in my gut, "it's really great to see you here."
She said a few more hollow words about the gala and I responded with equally hollow chitchat. Then she continued on her way. I waited a moment, then decided that those knots of jealousy confirmed that I needed to just get the hell out of there. I needed to think and to regroup.
And I needed to put distance between me and Cole.
I planned to make the circle, say my goodbyes, then go home and drown my lust and indecision in a bottle of Shiraz and a really sappy movie. With any luck, Flynn would still be at work, and I could have the entire bottle to myself.
I started to meander toward the door, but didn't make it very far. Instead, I ended up pausing just a few steps from my starting point, jerked to a stop by the sight of Michelle and Cole, her hand on his shoulder and her mouth near his ear.
True, she could have been telling him something mundane--I thought you should know your car has a flat--but my imagination was drifting more in the direction of why don't we slip in the back and I'll suck your cock.
Shit.
Yes, I was an absolute, indisputable wreck--and it was entirely Cole August's fault.
I steeled myself to continue toward the exit, and kept the thought of a glass of wine and a movie dangling in front of me like a carrot. But then I saw Cole's hand on the small of Michelle's back, and his face as hard as stone. And then, when the two of them stopped in front of the bloated, baby-faced man Cole had been talking with earlier, my curiosity got the better of me.
I couldn't hear the conversation, but I could tell that Cole was royally pissed off--and Baby Face looked pale and frightened.
Michelle said something to Cole, and from the way he took three long, measured breaths, I had to assume he was trying to control his temper. Then he and Michelle led a very unhappy-looking Baby Face through the gallery and into the closed-off section.
I debated for only a minute, then followed.
When I reached the velvet rope, I peered into the closed section, but didn't see them. The painting that had caught my attention earlier was to the right, and I knew that the offices were toward the left. Both were beyond the velvet rope, and I knew that if I slipped past it a second time, I'd be kicking good manners to the curb even while embracing my inner snoop.
I shrugged. Seemed like a reasonable trade-off to me.
I slipped into the gallery, took off my shoes so as to walk more softly, and made my way to the end of the hall and the large door that led to yet another corridor. This one ran parallel to the main gallery and housed the staff offices, studio space for Cole and the featured artists, restrooms, and supply closets.
The door was cracked open slightly, and since that was practically an invitation, I didn't even hesitate. I was almost to Cole's office when the door opened and Michelle slipped out.
I flattened myself against the wall, certain that the red dress was shining like a beacon and she would see me. But she walked in the opposite direction, continuing down the corridor until she reached the end and the door that led into the small front office that served as Liz's primary domain.
The moment she disa
ppeared through the door, I sagged with relief. Then immediately jumped when the sharp explosion of shattering glass echoed through the area, followed by Cole's deep, angry, and tightly controlled voice. "Goddammit, Conrad. Do you have any idea how easy--how goddamn fucking easy--it would be for me to kill you right now? What a goddamn pleasure it would be to snap your neck and put you out of my misery? Do you? Do you?"
I couldn't hear Conrad's reply, but I had the feeling it involved whimpering.
"If I ever hear that you've come sniffing around my people again, I swear to god I will rip your heart out. Now get the fuck out of here before I lose my goddamn temper."
Conrad must have taken Cole at his word, because he stumbled out of the door, as white as a sheet and moving so fast he jiggled. He turned toward me, then jumped even more when he saw me standing there.
He said, "Oh!" then jogged past me toward the door. I sagged back against the wall, relieved. And determined to follow Conrad out as soon as my heart rate slowed a tiny bit.
Determined or not, tonight no longer seemed like the best night for a seduction.
I drew in a breath, pushed away from the wall, and started to walk quietly toward the exit.
I'd gone only two steps when I froze, suddenly certain that Cole was behind me. I'd heard nothing. Seen nothing. But the air around me seemed to crackle, as if the remnants of Cole's anger were making him hum like a live wire.
"I'm sorry," I said, as I began to turn around. "I didn't mean to--"
But the words died on my lips. He was right there, his huge frame filling the hallway, his muscles tight, his expression ferocious.
His hands were clenched in fists by his sides. I could see the effort that was required to hold himself together, and I knew that all it would take was one wrong word to completely rip him apart.
I spoke anyway.
Maybe I was trying to soothe. Maybe I wanted the explosion.
All I knew was that I wanted to hear his name on my lips and see that fierce intensity in his eyes directed at me.
I was playing with fire, and so help me, I didn't care.
"Cole," I said, then stopped when my voice seemed to set him in motion. His long strides brought him right in front of me. Instinctively, I took a single step back, then felt his hand close around my upper arm.
I felt the brush of his breath against my face as he issued one single command. "No."
Heat seemed to radiate through me, spreading out from that spot where his hand remained pressed to my bare skin. I could practically smell his anger--that violent, wild fury. He was heated and unpredictable and if I had any instinct for self-preservation, I knew that I should be terrified.
I wasn't.
Instead, my whole body tingled in reaction to the undiluted sensuality of this man, and I wanted to close my eyes and soak it in. I wanted to feel it hotter, wilder.
I wanted everything he had to give--and it pissed me off that he wasn't giving it.
Deliberately, I turned to look at my arm. At that singular spot where he was touching me. Then I tilted my head back so that I was looking straight into his eyes once again.
"Yes," I said, and despite the deep, fathomless brown, I could see the way his pupils dilated in response to my words.
I held my breath, wanting the touch that I was certain would come, then almost screamed in frustration when he released me.
"Go back to the party, Kat," he said, then turned away from me and very deliberately walked back to his office.
What the fuck?
"Goddamn you, Cole August," I shouted, ignoring the irony that it was me--not him--who'd actually popped. I hurried after him, then reached out and grabbed a handful of his T-shirt just as he reached his doorway. "Do you think I'm scared of you? Of this? I'm not."
"You should be." His voice was as low and as ominous as his expression.
He was on edge. I knew it. I could see it. And I really didn't care. I was on edge, too. For that matter, I'd jumped headlong into the chasm, and now I was tumbling through space.
I didn't know where I would land. All I knew was that I wanted Cole to be the one to catch me.
"Maybe I should," I admitted. "But I really don't give a damn." And then, before I could talk myself out of it, I used my grip on his T-shirt as leverage, drew myself up on my tiptoes, and closed my mouth over his.
The kiss was like falling through hell to land in heaven. His mouth was hard at first, unyielding. Then his fingers twined in my hair and his other hand cupped the small of my back, pressing me forward until I was right against him.
I felt his erection like hard steel trapped inside his jeans, the swell of it pressing provocatively against my abdomen.
Had I really been thinking about dropping this quest? Of walking away from this man who could make me feel so incredible?
What kind of idiocy was that? And thank god I hadn't listened to my own foolish notions.
He shifted against me, and I released a groan of pure, self-satisfied lust. The sound seemed to break something inside him, and the kiss turned wilder, our mouths joined as I wanted our bodies to be. His tongue exploring, tasting, driving me crazy and making me spin just a little bit out of myself, because otherwise how could I survive this onslaught of sensation?
He broke the kiss, then leaned back, breathing hard.
I grabbed his collar and drew him back. "Don't you dare," I said, not the least bit surprised that my voice sounded more like a growl than spoken words.
"Christ, Kat."
Because I feared his words were a protest or a dismissal, I tightened my grip on his shirt and yanked him forward, unbalancing him. He barked out a curse, and I saw the mixture of irritation and heat and lust flash across his face.
There was power there, too, but the control I'd seen earlier was gone now, replaced by a wild, determined need.
For the flash of an instant I feared that I had pushed too far. Then he was on me, and there was no room for fear anymore. Just need and heat and lust and passion.
His hands closed over my shoulders, and I vaguely acknowledged the sound of the door banging shut. Then the room was spinning as he whirled me around and slammed me hard against the wall.
The gallery space had once been a warehouse, and he had me pressed against the original exposed brick. I felt its rough texture grating against my shoulders and bare arms, and each sting of that contact seemed to heighten the thrill of Cole's hands upon my body.
His fingers closed around the collar of my dress, and he yanked it down, ripping the material. I gasped, thrilled and delighted as he closed his hand tight over my breast, his fingers teasing my already tight, overly sensitive nipple.
With his other hand, he tugged my skirt up, and as his mouth closed over my breast, he shoved my panties aside, then moaned when he realized I was waxed.
"Christ, you feel good," he said, as he thrust his fingers roughly inside me.
I was wet and open and ready--and my body clenched around him, wanting to draw him in, to be as close to him as humanly possible.
"Kat," he murmured as he moved from my breast to my neck to my mouth. "Christ, the taste of you."
"Don't stop," I begged, as his fingers thrust harder and harder inside me.
"You make me--"
"What?"
"Feel," he said.
"Yes," I said, surprised that one word could convey so much. "Oh, yes."
His mouth closed over my breast again, and I writhed against the rough wall, each scrape of the rough brick against my skin like an underscore to our passion.
I wanted him inside me, and I silently begged for him to just take me, to fuck me, and not to ask or tell, but to just do. I wanted to be his--I wanted to simply belong.
There was a couch about three feet to my right, and he took my hand and drew me roughly toward it. His mouth covered mine, and as his tongue teased me, his fingers yanked my skirt up the rest of the way up to around my waist. Then he whipped me around, his palms on my ass as he bent me over to sprea
d me, to take me, and I moaned aloud in sweet anticipation, because wasn't this what I'd been wanting this entire night? Hell, this entire year?
I felt his fingers graze over the raw and sensitive skin on my shoulder. And I sucked in air, realizing for the first time how thoroughly the brick had abraded my skin.
"I hurt you."
"No," I said, as something cracked inside me. It hurt, yes. But I liked it.
I didn't know what that meant, but I knew that it was true. I liked the pain--not pain by itself, but pain that came from him. From our shared passion.
I wanted him to have that--the power to hurt me. I wanted him to keep it close like a gift. Because somehow that made me his.
I wanted to explain that, to make him understand, but I couldn't find the words.
"I hurt you," he repeated, and this time I heard the low, agonized tone of self-loathing in his voice.
"You haven't," I whispered, rushing to reassure him and cursing myself for not finding the words sooner. "Please, Cole, no."
But he wasn't listening, and I felt suddenly cold and exposed. I started to turn, to shift, to put my dress right. I couldn't, though. He had one hand on my waist and the other on my shoulder.
The one on my waist kept steady pressure, keeping me bent forward and helpless.
The hand on my shoulder grazed lightly over my newly raw skin. Skin that only moments before had burned with a pain that punctuated pleasure, but that now just stung, almost shamefully.
"Christ," he said, and this time his voice was so low that I almost couldn't make out the word.
"Cole," I said gently. "It's okay."
"Okay?" His voice was taut, a precursor to an explosion. He released me, and I stood up, carefully smoothing my skirt down even as I felt my cheeks burn. What had been one of the most erotic and exciting moments of my life had shifted totally off-kilter.
He held out his hand, and I saw that his fingertips were streaked with my blood. "I did that to you."
"You didn't," I said. I turned around, then tried to adjust my dress. "Cole," I said softly. "Please. I want this."
"What?" The word was harsh. "What do you want, Kat? What could you possibly want from me?" He held out his hand again. "Pain? Blood?"
"Maybe." I lifted my chin and met his eyes. "You said I owed you. Well, I'm willing to give whatever payment you want."
"You have no idea want what I want or what you're saying."