Page 7 of Only For Your Touch
Chapter Three
Either the press was losing its skills, or Corrine was upping her escape game.
Of course, they’d been following a redhead in a Lexus to the movie theater. So when a blonde walked right past them and climbed into a waiting black Escalade, they hadn’t paid her the slightest bit of attention. Smiling, she stroked a palm down the platinum hair falling over her shoulder. The wig, leather pants, white halter top, boots, and the Escalade were all courtesy of Tara, her new partner in crime. And though Corrine preferred not to dwell too long on why her friend had a wig available for the asking, she appreciated the disguise and the ride. The last thing she needed was an annoying, greedy photographer catching a picture of her entering Lick… Or worse.
“Worse” would’ve been last night. She’d gone through all the efforts of shaking the press only to end up in an alley bound to a fire escape with a Viking driving her to orgasm. Not giving a damn about anything but exploding around his fingers. How stupid could she be? Thank God nothing had shown up in the tabloids or online about her, uh…indiscretion. She snorted. Indiscretion, hell. It was an instant of cray-cray.
But that lapse in judgment hadn’t prevented her from returning. It just made her come up with a plan and disguise that would keep her from being tagged by the media and turned away at the club door. Because after last night, she wondered if Ragnar had put her on the permanently banned list.
Ragnar. That’s what she’d been calling him in her head since last night because she didn’t know his name. She’d allowed a man to cuff her with his belt, kiss her breasts, and screw her with his fingers, and she didn’t even know. His. Name.
God, it was embarrassing. Shocking.
And hot as hell.
Striding to the bar, she exhaled a heavy, long breath. And yeah, it did nothing to calm her racing pulse or alleviate the kamikaze butterflies performing death-defying dives in her stomach as she reentered the club on a Friday night, with its deafening music, shadowy alcoves, and semi-erotic photographs hanging on the exposed brick walls.
Still, the woman who’d ordered a man to make her come “now, damn it” hadn’t been able to wait to get back.
She should’ve been working on her column that was due soon, but instead she’d passed away the hours since the night before reliving every sexy, erotic moment in that dark alley. For the first time since the Feds had pounded on the front door of her house at six o’clock in the morning and arrested her father for crimes that made bile graze the back of her throat, her thoughts hadn’t been consumed with her strange, frightening present and even scarier future. No, she’d been too busy examining every second in freeze frames, trying to pinpoint the exact instant she’d transformed from Ms. Toeing-the-Line to Madame Whips-’n’-Chains.
Okay, so she wasn’t ready to bust out any floggers or feathers. But if someone had told her she would be doling out commands to a big, stunning, intimidating Russian who turned dirty talk into an art form, she would’ve asked them what hallucinogenic they were on. But even more astounding than her new persona was…he’d obeyed her.
God. A shiver worked its way through her body as an image of his blazing blue-gray eyes and his fierce expression wavered in front of her. Since she’d been a girl, all she’d heard from her father was, “We have scholars in this family, not slackers.” And, “Success is paved by hard work.” And because he wanted his daughter to be the first in the family to finish college and become a lawyer or doctor, he’d determined what schools she attended, what clothes she wore, who her friends were, where she lived… Now that she knew who he was and the people he dealt with, she understood his edicts had been for her protection.
But, God, they smacked of hypocrisy. He’d demanded she walk the straight and narrow, and all the while his path had been crooked and wide, and littered with all the lives he’d destroyed. She’d hidden her career as a sports columnist for an indie online newspaper from him while he’d been hiding a whole damn life of crime from her. Back then, she’d been concerned about disappointing him. Now, she feared he’d probably have the editor-in-chief fitted for cement boots if he didn’t fire her.
That was so bad. Did the mob even still do that? Had her father ever ordered that done? Jesus, she couldn’t think about it…
She glanced across the warehouse toward the far wall and glowing exit sign, and as if a switch were thrown, her mind flew to that darkened corridor, the alley beyond, and what had occurred there. Out there, she’d experienced being in control. It’d been empowering. Exhilarating. Intoxicating.
She wanted it again. Wanted more.
And there was only one man she wanted it from.
So here she was, back at the club she’d been ordered out of. It was bottom of the ninth, two outs, and two strikes, and she was running her Hail Mary play. Okay, so she was mixing sports metaphors, but bottom line: this was her last chance.
Running her damp palms down her thighs, she approached the bar and slid into a free space. Lifting a hand, she signaled the bartender. If she intended to go through with this plan, she needed all the liquid courage she could get.
She smiled a thanks at the Vin Diesel look-a-like who handed her the Seven and Seven she’d ordered. But as she lifted the glass to her lips, a tingle set up at the small of her back and sizzled up her spine. She didn’t need to scan the room for the source of the sensation that had every nerve ending standing at attention.
And as a large hand cupped her hip and the other loosely banded her throat, she didn’t need to turn around to see who held her in an embrace that should’ve been intimidating. Should’ve been. Instead, it twisted the lust dial inside her from simmering to Human Torch.
“I thought I told you to stay away from here,” a dark, velvety, slightly accented voice murmured in her ear.
Oh, Jesus. Before she could stop herself, she tilted her head back, offering him more of her, inviting a firmer touch. And he took full advantage, his fingers spreading wide, covering more of her skin. Seconds. Just seconds in his presence and already she was ready for a repeat of the night before.
“No, you told me to go home,” she countered, striving for and locating a nonchalance she was far from feeling. “You didn’t say anything about not coming back.”
For a moment, the grips both on her hip and throat tightened, and she barely managed to stifle the shudder that tried to ripple through her. Yes, she’d loved giving this man orders the night before, but his dominant hold had her nipples beading and her sex doing its own happy dance. Her lashes fluttered as she exhaled a shaky breath.
“This is a dangerous game you’re playing. One you’re not equipped to handle,” he cautioned, his lips grazing the top of her ear. “Is that what this”—he slid his hand from her neck and flicked the white-blond strands of the wig—“is about? You think you can fool me by coming in here with different hair?”
“No,” she breathed. “It’s my way of convincing you to let me stay.” She paused, her heart pounding out a hard bass rhythm. “With you.”
He went still behind her, and she stiffened as well, bracing herself for his rejection. And when his hands disappeared from her body, a punch of disappointment almost wilted her. Almost convinced her this fool’s errand was just that—foolish. But as fast as the sense of defeat appeared, she slammed the door on it. No, she wasn’t giving up that easily.
“Look—”
