Controlled Response (Knights of the Board Room #2)
Page 4"And you're the type who wouldn't get out of the way."
"Not if the fight is worth winning."
I c an't say no to you. She'd had her twenty minutes, and that was all she could afford.
"I'm out of time. I've got to go." Moving away from his intoxicating proximity, she grabbed up her jeans, pulled them on while he leaned on her bike seat, watched her silently. She tied on the chaps, fingers trying not to fumble beneath his gaze as she performed the intimate task. When she found her T-shirt, she looked down, realizing she needed to tighten the corset laces. Her breasts were in danger of coming out entirely. It was possible she'd even given him a glimpse of her nipples once or twice in her haste.
Well, she'd call it just compensation for taking off on him.
"Allow me." He'd shifted when she'd been pointedly ignoring him, hoping he'd just vanish, and so now he was right behind her. "Stand still."
As she stiffened, uncertain whether to move away or not, his hand snaked around her waist and up, lifting the corset so the un-derwire was more fitted beneath her breasts.
While he almost impersonally ran his hand over the cups, her nipples hardened from the passing heat of his touch. The liquid pooling between her thighs increased. He adjusted the laces, tightening, tightening again, until a breath escaped from her, a hint of a moan to it.
"You like that, don't you? You like it when a man binds you." His voice had lowered, animal urgency to it, his hands starting to slide downward, taking her resolve there as well.
She jerked away, knowing if he pulled her back so she could feel the hard line of his cock, she'd be lost. She'd let him plow her like a field. Yanking on the T-shirt, she turned, found her boots, and yanked them on as well. A quick grab at the handlebars and she had the twist for her hair she'd left there, whipping it up into a tight bun on her neck.
"Transformation. All armor in place now."
She ignored him, pleased when she managed a flippant tone. "The room's yours. If you want to continue." Though she really didn't want the provocative image of him stripping off his shorts to lie naked in the grass as God made him, his hand pumping what appeared to be an impressively proportioned cock. All muscles straining as he thought of her, as come spewed from him, wetting his thighs, his smooth ball sac, that hard belly where she could lick it off. . . Sweet Mother Mary.
Finally, when she thought she couldn't stand his silent scrutiny another moment, he leaned in. His body pushed against the helmet, brought the pressure of it against the churning in her belly. Despite herself, her lips parted, her eyes seeking his. "My mistake was in giving you a choice," he said. "Next time I get you alone, I won't do that. I'll restrain you the way you wanted to be, and then I'll make you come so hard you'll think you've died. You won't run away from me again. And I'll have the truth about why you feel you need to run now."
Unclogging vocal cords glued together by aching lust was not easy, but she managed it.
"To the next time then," she said. A taunt, because of course they'd never see one another again. Moving around him, she strode to the bike.
She wished she could let him know how much she wanted to stay. She was sorry that she'd turned it into this. But he'd managed to kick in the door to her darkest needs in less than twenty minutes, and she couldn't afford to get lost there. It was for the best.
No, the best thing was to let him sate them both, spend another volatile hour together, and then go their separate ways as two strangers who'd enjoyed the novelty of an unexpected sexual encounter. Leaving a challenge in the air like this wasn't good. But he was right.
She was being a coward, because if she stayed, she might just want to take him home.
And she wouldn't embarrass herself, wouldn't reveal she was so desperate for this type of intimacy she would cling to a stranger. That was almost as pathetic as losing her perspective, making this about more than sex, and ruining it for both of them.
Because she wanted to apologize to him for that, she thought instead about clipping him, enough to make him stumble backward. She didn't, but he did something worse to her. As she passed him at a slow idle, her booted feet balancing her, his hand closed on her arm, so she released the handlebar. He didn't do anything to bring her to a halt, just followed the line of her arm down to her elbow, the tender skin of her forearm, and closed briefly on her fingertips before he let her hand pull free.
She could escape him, but not the irony of it. In his grasp, under the tantalizing hint of his control, she'd felt freer than she had in a very long time.
No, she definitely couldn't afford a man like him in her life.
Two
"Turns out they're sending over someone else to help us work out the final contract points this morning," Jon commented, setting his organizer on the conference room table. "Allan contracted the flu. Johnson called over to Pickard Consulting to send one of their people instead."
"They're sending Cassandra Moira," Jon added.
Ben whistled. "Big guns, that one."
When Peter lifted a brow, he chuckled. "And those aren't bad either, you complete tit addict."
Peter shot him a grin as Ben continued for Lucas's benefit. "She's one of Pickard's best, groomed right out of school. She's known for getting the job done and walking away from the table with more than you wanted to give away, but making you feel damn good about it. Be particularly careful about her, Lucas. She's hell on wheels on details. I think Pickard had her brain replaced with a CPU."
"We should cancel. We don't have to take this shit. Hell, let's make him think we're pulling out. Maybe he'll have a fatal heart attack and we won't have to deal with this crap anymore."
Jon lifted his brows, exchanged a look with Peter, but it was Ben who stated the obvious.
"Are you getting laid enough? You've had that stick up your ass since you got back from the Berkshires last month, right before the Mancuso thing."
"Some of us don't need sex every night of the week," Lucas retorted, but he waved a dismissive hand and turned toward the window, cutting off further comments.
Yeah, he knew he was out of sorts. And he was sick of being out of sorts, and not knowing what to do about it.
He'd thought about lying down in the grass where her clothes had lain, where the crushed grass suggested she might have lain, and jacking off to relieve the seething frustration in his balls. Instead, he'd pedaled another thirty miles at a cardiac arrest RPM and cursed himself for not memorizing her plate. But it was just fun and games, right? He'd played sex games enough to know the edge during was as serious and purposeful as it should be, to give the fantasy a sense of reality. But afterward, it was supposed to become a fond memory. Not a damn possession of his mind.
He could have called ten different women when he got back, but he hadn't. He was still thinking about her, the honeysuckle scent of her hair and skin, the enormous blue eyes that had shifted away from desire at the end, when he'd put his foot in his mouth, intruding on their fantasy with a too-close-to-home observation about her reality.
Damn it all, he had more finesse than that. If it was fun and games, you didn't poke at the underlayer. But she'd been so armored, not only in the corset but everything he sensed it represented to her. He believed in pushing a woman far beyond what she believed her capacity for pleasure was, because that was what brought them both the most pleasure.
Maybe that was what was bugging him. He didn't like leaving a woman unsatisfied, even if the retreat had been her choice.
My mistake was giving you a choice . . .
She was protective of something in her life, something that couldn't afford romantic entanglements. "I'm taken." That meant kids, though he'd seen no evidence of it on her body. Even on a fit woman, signs of childbearing lingered. Still, he was sure that was it.
She was also doing it alone. A woman who would take a Harley deep into the Berkshires, who could assess him and let herself go just that small amount, was a hell of a confident woman. On the other hand, that quick, guilty climax had nearly been strangled out of existence by her own will.
Kick-ass confident, but way too tightly laced. Literally.
All five of the K&A management team grouped in this room knew how to read people, but the other four acknowledged he was the best at it. His assessment, based on their short interlude, was that she was tough, determined, and wary of any perception of vulnerability, but she didn't have the weakness in her that many damaged women did.
She'd fought for respect in her world and won it, if he didn't miss his mark. She wasn't going to allow anything to derail the forward motion of that train.
"She might just be your soul mate," Peter observed.
Lucas struggled out of his thoughts. "What?"
"Cassandra Moira," Jon supplied helpfully, studying Lucas with midnight blue eyes that saw too much. Kensington's Archangel was what they called Jon. He had a side passion of studying ancient religious and philosophical texts, and a pacific personality that could calm any temper. His emotional radar was as finely tuned as a Star Trek empath's. He also held a dual finance and engineering degree that was merely a footnote to his genius-level mechanical skills. "Lady has a reputation a lot like yours. She could play championship poker. You'd have crossed her path by now if Matt hadn't had you scrambling all over the Central American start-ups these past couple years. When I met her at Pickard s last year, she reminded me of that Ginger Rogers' quote, modified. She goes balls to the wall with any of the guys, but she does it in a corset."