Sweet Seduction Secrets (Sweet Seduction, Book 8): A Love At First Sight Romantic Suspense Series Page 7

  It didn’t matter where we were or what time of day it was; I had to have this woman.

  My hands slid down her sides, over the curve of her breasts under her jacket. Her t-shirt slipped out of her trousers and paradise became a whole lot better. Hot skin, smooth like silk, taut over well defined muscles. Fuck, this chick worked out. I gripped her waist and hauled her closer, crushing her up against my erection, letting her get to know my arousal.

  How’s that, baby? Like what you feel?

  Turning abruptly, I spun us around until her back met the railing and my body molded to the length of hers; trapping her, wrapping around her, getting as close to her as I could physically achieve while still dressed. Her leg came up and hooked around my hip, I slipped my hands down to the curve of her fucking fantastic arse and cradled each cheek. Then with an expulsion of air across kiss swollen lips I hauled her up my body, across my now straining cock, until both legs were around my waist and her butt was sitting on the railing at just the right height.

  I could fuck her here. Out in the open for anyone to see. I could take her and make her mine; even if for just this night. I could kiss away her screams of release, lose myself between her thighs, sink myself deep inside her hot, hot pussy.

  I wanted to. Fuck me, my dick was begging me to. But there was something about Charlie. Something more important than a quick shag on the beach.

  And it had nothing to do with her being a co-worker.

  I slowed the kiss down. She tried to ramp it up again. I smiled against her neck, licking her rapid pulse, rocking back against her inviting hips. Feeling like I was in charge of the universe.

  And then she bit me. Fucking teeth and tongue, full on love bite on the side of my neck, right below my ear where the skin is sensitive for more than one reason. I groaned. Pulled her closer. Felt the world tip and disappear. Felt my heart thundering inside my chest, the blood pumping through my cock; a fire of want and need and absolute, wretched desire.

  “Fucking hell,” I breathed, kissing along her jaw and melding my lips to hers. “I want you,” was said in amongst kisses and caresses and body shuddering rocks and strokes and mini explosions. Nerve endings firing. Or misfiring. It was hard to tell. Everything felt electric. Tingling. Bright sparks. Hazy vision.

  Jesus, standing next to her, being touched by her, it was almost as good as a fucking orgasm.

  And I suddenly needed to know how much better coming inside Charlie would feel.

  “Forty minutes back to the city,” she said, teeth scraping down my throat, mouth latching onto the hollow at the base, tongue lapping as she sucked; sending a shot of adrenaline straight between my legs.

  “Long way on the back of a bike,” I rasped as her hand slipped behind my belt - somehow she’d unbuckled the fucker and unzipped my pants in the process - and hot little fingers wrapped around my rock hard erection.

  Oh, fuck me.

  “Too long to wait,” she complained as she stroked and squeezed and kissed across my collarbone.

  “Fuck,” I panted, eyes rolling back, body shaking. “Charlie,” I warned. Not here. Not spotlit at the end of a fucking wharf for any cocksucker in the vicinity to see. “We need to head to my place,” I managed and then bit back a groan as her thumb danced across the head of my dick.

  I lifted heavy lids and stared down at her; this woman who threw caution to the wind, grabbed life and rejoiced in it, didn’t follow rules or was confined by expectations, just did what she pleased, when she pleased, where she pleased and with whomever she fucking well pleased.

  I felt astounded that she’d chosen me. I felt awash in a multitude of emotions; ecstasy, joy, pride, shock. Awe. I’d had my fair share of women before; I get by. But never had I experienced such urgent hunger and thirst for a woman as I did with Charlie Downes. Never had I met a woman who commanded attention just by existing, breathing, smiling.

  She wasn’t smiling now; she was focused, determined. She pulled back, slipping off the railing and somehow manoeuvring me until my back hit wood. And then she looked down at where her delicate hand fisted my cock, licking her plump red lips, lashes lowered over flushed cheeks; desire evident in her appraisal.

  “Charlie,” I said again, fuck knows what I was about to add. Maybe a reminder we were in the open. Maybe a suggestion we cool it and head back to the bikes. Maybe a plea for her to take this where I lacked the courage to go on my own, right then.

  I’d set out to have her. No denying. I’d pushed the rule book aside, ignored my conscience and decided she would be in my bed tonight. But we were forty minutes away from my bed. The sea breeze was picking up, clouds rolling in, rain heavy on the horizon. And there she was, eager, desperate, craving just like me.

  And here I was with my pants open, my cock in her hand, and a hickey forming on the side of my neck.

  Fucking hell, this woman was definitely lethal.

  She glanced around. It was almost cursory, but I could tell - God knows how, but I could - that one look had allowed her a complete assessment of our fucking predicament. I expected her to pull back, shrug her slender shoulders, bite her bottom lip and make a comment about bad timing. But she flicked those sexy as fuck smoky, grey eyes up to mine, tilted the edge of her lips in a wicked smile, and then…

  Fuck me, she was on her knees and my cock was in her mouth.

  “Jesus!” I all but screamed. “Charlie! What the fuck?”

  Oh, fuck yeah. That’s what the fuck.

  The wharf was forgotten. The beach and the row of houses across the road gone. The carpark not more than ten metres away and the possibility of late night park-ups watching through their own steamed up windscreens disappeared, as the most magnificent woman I had ever met sucked and licked my dick as she fondled my balls.

  Holy fucking shit was right.

  I forced myself to watch. Christ, if I was getting a public blow-job I sure as hell wouldn’t be the only one to miss seeing it. Her eyes latched onto mine as her lips, spread wide by my cock, slid up and down my length. It fucking gleamed in the moonlight. Spittle shining like fairy fucking dust; magical and such a freaking turn on.

  She hummed when I moaned. Her hand at the base of my cock sliding up in a tight squeeze that almost sent me shooting to the stars. And then with a twist of her wrist, a bob of her head, I hit the back of her throat without warning.

  I blame the sudden change of position and that freaky little unexpected spin through her hot palm for what happened next.

  My hands came out, unclasping from their desperate clutch of the railing at my sides, and tangled in the long strands of her hair. Fingers wrapped up in strips of honey and gold, ruby lips taking my very soul. She moved her own hands to my thighs, gripped tightly, dug her fingernails into my leathers, no doubt leaving marks there just as she was somehow leaving marks on more of me than my skin, my flesh, my body.

  I groaned. She hummed; the vibration sparking a tightening in my balls.

  And then she took me deep. Deeper than before. So fucking deep I felt beyond the back of her throat; it was her fucking tonsils I could feel massaging me for all I could tell, and I took it. What she offered. On the wharf at Maraetai Beach where any late night prick walking their dog could happen upon us and watch.

  Maybe that’s what made this whole experience extraordinary. I’ve had my fair share of public fornicating fun in the past; youth and booze mainly the sidekicks. And I remember them being good, special. So it had to be that. Because I only met this woman today. This morning. And tonight she was on her knees before me, sucking my cock, letting me fuck her mouth, humming as though it was me giving her something to be fucking ecstatic about.

  And I wanted more. Not just more of this moment. Not more titillation and exhibition and what was turning out to be the best oncoming orgasm of my life.

  But more of her.

  One day. One day Charlie had been in my life and I had the disconcerting feeling she’d altered it forever.

  One fucking day.

 
I rocked forward one last time. She took me, as though it was her sole goal in life to swallow me whole.

  Fuck. The orgasm blinded me.

  Panting and not just a little fucking dizzy, I looked down at her and felt the wharf tilt on its side. That, or I was about to pass out from lack of blood to the head. She smiled. Licked those fucking spectacular lips. And then smoothly came to her feet in a sensual cat-got-the-cream glide.

  “Race you back,” she whispered. What? I could hardly move.

  “Hey,” I said, before she got too far away. I pushed off from the railing when she spun around on her heels and started walking backwards toward the road. I followed. How could I not? The warm sea air against my damp dick interrupted my puppy dog routine and made me realise I was still flying free. I tucked myself back in and made myself decent.

  Ha! No such fucking luck any more.

  “Is that it?” I asked, communication skills misfiring like so much else this evening it seemed.

  “Hardly,” she said, moving farther away. Then she spun around and started to pick up speed, but I could have sworn I heard her say, “Just getting a head start, stalker.”

  Stalker. I shook my head, a grin forming on my lips.

  Then took off after the woman with every intention of hunting her down before the night was through.

  I always catch my prey.

  Besides, I had the keys to her limited edition Diavel Titanium.

  Unfortunately, I wasn’t entirely sure what keys Charlie held of mine. Somehow I didn’t think they belonged simply to my bike.

  Chapter 8

  The Shell Was Cracking, God Alone Knew What Would Fall Out

  Charlie

  I was several metres down the road by the time Adam started the Diavel. The urge to win the race this time should have been my only motivation, but that would have been an utter lie. I’d lost myself on that wharf. For that brief moment in time I’d forgotten who I was. Why I was there. What my current assignment entailed.

  This attraction was becoming inconvenient and dangerous. But I’d chosen my sub-target, my mark, well. I’d started down this path, turning back now would only delay matters. Or complicate them. And in all reality, who else could I target at ASI to get the job done?

  But something was wrong with me. Malfunctioning. Something was out of place. Because for the first time in a long time my mind was whirring but it wasn’t with plans of attack or intrigue and subterfuge. It wasn’t with my next move or play, or even the breakdown of what I was trying to achieve in relation to what I had already uncovered.

  There was no lethal assessment of the situation. No cold alignment of facts inside my head. No steely resolve on where to shift the pieces on the chessboard to exact my endgame. None of that was what was on my mind. None of what I had been trained to be was whirling and swirling and flipping and twisting inside my brain.

  No. Because I was too hung up on what I was fucking feeling.

  I shook my head, saw Adam’s headlights in my wing mirror, and gunned the engine on the Monster down the next dip. I took the bend in the road too fast; the rear wheel threatening to slip out from under me. I smiled to myself and urged the machine faster. Losing sight of Adam at the next turn.

  If I could have, I would have outrun my own demons just as recklessly. Instead I was outrunning what this man was making me feel for the very first time.

  But even at this speed, my past always catches up with me.

  I was recruited by the Department when I was nineteen. Two years into a Bachelor of Arts degree at the University of Wellington. I'm not sure what they saw in me, other than a penchant for languages. But it was enough for my professor to pass my name on to a group of people you never hear about and don't know exist. It was enough to sign my life away forever.

  If they take an interest in you, it's already too late.

  My life has not been my own for ten years.

  I realise now that my professor was a recruiter, ideally situated to vet potential candidates before they were approached by the Department itself. I was a loner, he’d told them. I belonged to study groups but never stayed for coffee afterwards. I had boyfriends who were fuck-buddies, not partners for life. I lived in a student flat with four other guys, each just as devoted to me, but none of them even a blip on my radar; only a cover for my life.

  At nineteen years old I lived the life of a spy. I was already hiding who I was, going through the motions just to survive.

  Once my professor handed my name over to the Department the real invasive shit began. My history, my past, was dissected. On my file, labelled top secret and classified, it mentions my father and his political affiliations. My mother and her philanthropic hobbies. It documents their deaths in black and white.

  The last line at the bottom of the dossier reads, Charisse Catherine Bryce is Class A qualified. No dependants. No attachments. No life.

  Class A. Code for “does not exist.”

  It was predicted I would leave university with my degree and disappear into the workforce without a backward glance. My fellow students and flatmates would forget me within months. There was no one else in Wellington, indeed in all of New Zealand, who would care if I vanished from the face of the earth.

  I’d made myself that way. It was a choice I don’t regret. At the time a necessity. But as I slowed the Monster down as the edge of the city approached, I wondered just how much of who I am today was me, or the me the Department had moulded. They’d taken a shell and filled it with what they knew would get the job done. Unemotional. Lethal. Alone.

  Ten years I’ve been this machine; designed to blend in and not be affected by what I see and do. Ten years I’ve done what they asked without question; I’ve never had reason to query a thing. Ten years I’ve not felt an emotion that wasn’t required to get the job done.

  Ten years.

  I pulled to a stop at a small suburban roundabout just inside Somerville. The Diavel purred as it slowly rolled up to my side, as though Adam somehow knew instinctively to approach with caution. To give me time to accept his company, his nearness. Him.

  No amount of time would allow me to accept the way my heartbeat fluctuated or the way my palms became sweaty or the way I had an urgent desire to look into those deep blue eyes. I was walking in new territory and for the life of me I couldn’t work out why.

  “You are one crazy woman,” Adam said almost conversationally, once his visor was lifted so I could hear his raised voice. “Some of those corners were completely suicidal.”

  Was I suicidal? It was a question that begged an answer, but I didn’t have one. Before today, I would have said I felt empty. But empty was not the emotion that prevailed tonight.

  “I won,” I replied, and a hint of that former emptiness invaded my mind. I forced myself to smile and look him directly in the eyes.

  I could do this. I’d done it for ten long years.

  “Now what are you going to demand as your prize?” Adam asked, all wicked intent and mischievous glint in those soulful eyes.

  I couldn’t do it. I wanted to. Fuck, that was an understatement. No one had forced me to go to my knees before this man on a wharf in a sleepy beach suburb. No one. I’d wanted to taste him, touch him. Command him. I’d wanted it and I still did. But I couldn’t do it.

  Too many emotions. Too many questions unanswered. Too many years being anything but who I was right in this moment.

  I could come to hate him for doing this to me. But one look at the laughter and light - and attraction - in his gaze and I knew I could never hate Adam Savill.

  I switched the Monster off and kicked the stand in place, throwing a leg over and standing to the side. He picked up on the change in mood immediately; I’d have expected little else from one of Nick Anscombe’s men.

  The Diavel fell quiet, the sounds of late night Auckland filtering in through our helmets. TV screens flickering in nearby house windows adding their own noir sheen to the street where we stood. Staring at each other over the seats of
two motorbikes. Saying so much in that one look and somehow not quite enough.

  “I live in Mount Eden,” he said, one last attempt to salvage the evening.

  “I live in Sandringham,” I replied, a concession he didn’t even realise I was giving. I’d already decided my base in Auckland would have to be sold when this assignment was through. It was never a home and now it wasn’t even a bolt-hole, what with the Department and Mal breathing down my neck.

  I had a moment of panic; drawing Adam into my problems with that one admission. But I quashed the guilt and worry, well aware he could handle himself in any given situation. But giving him a heads up to be on alert was one step too far, right now.

  I hated these frantic and conflicting emotions. I hated losing the emptiness even if I despised the shell I had become.

  “Mount Eden’s closer,” he offered, but I could hear the uncertainty in his tone.

  I glanced around the intersection we’d stopped at. No other vehicles were parked where they shouldn’t be. Not that that fooled me, even a car in a driveway could be a potential threat. But I couldn’t see one now. We were alone, as we should be. My Diavel was clean.

  But was his Monster?

  I looked down at the bike and frowned. How far would Mal and the Director have gone? Is that why Caleb was in town?

  Then why warn me?

  “Mt Eden it is,” I said, before I could stop myself. He was safer if I was with him, than alone and unprepared.

  Adam’s smile was blinding in its brilliance. My heart ached in a way it had never done before. I sucked in a breath of air and looked away from the light that shone in his eyes. He was so damn alive. And I was one misstep away from death.