Overture (North Security, #1)

“What did you say?” he asks, his voice soft.

Anyone else would be wary to hear that tone. Anyone else would be terrified, but he had his chance to hurt me. He could have done so on the bed. And he could have hurt me worse, so much worse, if he hadn’t agreed to help me with Coach Price.

My voice still quavers as I stand my ground. “Rebels took the embassy in Jakarta. I was five years old, and I hid in the cabinets until they found me the next day.”

He makes a low sound of protest. “What’s your point?”

“The motorcade left me behind outside Moscow. It took my father two days to realize I wasn’t there. I hiked to the nearest village and begged them to let me stay in broken Russian.”

“So your father was a bastard,” he says, his voice flat. “I already knew that.”

“I grew up faster than anyone at St. Agnes, and you know it. I may not be experienced with… sex things, but I know what I want. And that’s you.”

He looks so alone standing there, a fortress that will never be torn down, self-contained and isolated. I let myself think that he might let me in, that he might trust me the way I’d brought myself to trust him. It’s enough to make my breath quicken, this hope. This longing.

When he turns away from me, it shouldn’t be a surprise. The weight of it shouldn’t crush me. I’ve had a brick wall around me since I was a child.

Only Liam has the power to tear it down.

“Let me stay,” I say softly.

“Why?” he asks, his broad back still and dark like a statue in the room.

“Because I have nightmares, too.”

He’ll leave now. That’s the only thing he can do. The only thing he’ll allow himself to do. I’m not the only one with a brick wall around me. He has his own, and I’ve never been able to breach it. Which is why I’m not expecting it when he pulls me into his arms. He carries me to bed, holding me tight through my tremors of shock and years-long relief.

That’s how I fall asleep—with him protecting me in the most elemental way, blocking out the bad thoughts with his body. I use him as a shield, but I do more than that. I shield him, too. When he’s holding me, the darkness can’t reach us.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN





Violin strings were originally made from dried sheep intestines.


LIAM

In the days that follow, I pay a visit to the club where I found Samantha and get the tape—using my reputation and intimidation rather than her precious violin money. I meet with local police and school board members. Coach Price is stripped of his position with the kind of expediency that can only come from a massive scandal. Or in this case the threat of one. A generous endowment to the school’s sports program means they’ll be able to hire a new coach and renovate the gymnasium.

I may have resisted this errand at first, but I find it gives me a sense of satisfaction to make this right, to do something for Samantha.

And in the nights that follow I’m confronted with the worst kind of temptation. I go to sleep alone, certain that I can smell Samantha, that I can feel her body heat left over.

She tiptoes into my room around midnight. I wake up wrapped around her small body, her soft hair in my hands, my nose pressed to her skin, my dick aching from being hard for hours with no relief. It’s an exquisite torture, wrong on every level, and I never want it to end.

On the fifth night I wake to find her legs wrapped around me, our bodies aligned in the most carnal way, my dick throbbing against the heat it can feel through the fabric of my briefs and her panties. Bad enough that I gave in and kissed her in that club. I’m not going to thrust against her until she comes. I’m not, I’m not. I repeat the words until they become a chant, a plea to a God I never believed in.

Carefully I pull her limbs away from me, untangling our bodies, until she clasps a pillow close and settles back into sleep. Then I cross the large bedroom to the bathroom and close the door. Christ.

Thinking of tactical formations isn’t going to help. The only thing that will bring down this erection is to jack off. I turn on the shower and set it to scalding hot.

Steam coats the glass.

I step inside and grasp my dick, which aches like a motherfucker. It doesn’t want the calluses on my palm or the rough, angry tugs. It wants to be encased in soft, wet velvet.

My eyes fall shut, and I imagine that she’s in the shower with me, her skin slippery, droplets running down her breasts. I would catch them as I suck on her nipples. I would drink the warm water in open mouthed kisses along the flat of her stomach. It would taste like nothing, nothing at all, until I’d slide my tongue between her legs, finding salt and desire.

Water trails down my body, and I imagine that it’s her tongue, finding the dips and rises of my muscles. She would get on her knees in front of me and lick her pink lips.

A little sound makes my eyes fly open.

Samantha stands in the doorway to the bedroom, her mouth parted in surprise, her eyes wide in unmistakable arousal. There’s enough steam coating the glass to make her hazy, as if she isn’t quite real, the sweetest dream I’ve ever had. I should stop, I should absolutely stop touching myself, stop fucking myself. Instead I squeeze hard from the base to the tip, punishing myself for how good it feels.

At the very least I expect her to flee the room, but she stands there, watching me with hunger in her dark gaze, with an innocent curiosity that makes my blood run hot.

And then she takes a step closer.

I plant my hand on the cool tile and use the other one to pump my dick. And then I still my fist, moving my hips instead, thrusting the way I want to do inside her body. I would hold her head as the water came down around us, using her sweet mouth until I came in a blinding rush. My cum would fill her mouth, and she would have no choice but to swallow it down. I’d catch clear water on my fingertips and feed it to her to wash me down. Then I’d reach down between her legs, make her climax as she knelt on the smooth tile of the shower, legs splayed and useless, arms clinging to my leg in surrender, the salt of my sex still on her tongue.

Every thought is in my eyes as I watch her, and she seems to know it—if not the exact contents, at least the spirit of it. She takes another step closer, and then another, until the only thing between us is the steamed glass of the shower door.

She puts her hand on it, her palm toward me, fingers spread.

I touch her hand through the glass, as if I can feel her.

My forehead rests on the glass, needing the connection, every part of me straining to break through the tempered glass and touch her, how soft she would be, how warm, as I come with a shout of forbidden pleasure, my whole body convulsing, hips fucking the air, my cock in agony as it comes in the warm, humid air instead of her tight cunt.

My head bows as I catch my breath, panting like an animal in the aftermath.

When I look up again, she’s gone. The doorway is dark. I can almost believe that she was part of my fantasy, not a real person who watched me come, except for the small handprint breaking up the steam on the other side of the glass.

God, she’s probably run back to her room—and no wonder. I should never have kept touching myself when she walked in. Then again this is my bathroom. My shower. The lines between right and wrong have blurred so much that I don’t know where to begin.

The only thing I know for sure is that I want to fuck her so bad it hurts.

Dressing quickly, pulling on a T-shirt and briefs over my wet skin, I head into the bedroom. I’ll have to find her in the house and make sure I haven’t scared her. Except she’s lying in bed where I left her, her dark eyes catching light from the bathroom and throwing it back to me in the dark.

“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice low.