Driven By Fate, Page 2

  “Fine.” She sagged onto the table. “Just put me out of mine, too, please.”

  She came into sharp focus then. Not just her physical attributes, which were more than enough to keep his attention. It was the plaintiveness in her voice, though, that captivated him. He’d only been in her presence for minutes and he knew this wasn’t someone who begged, or revealed weakness if she could damn well help it. Not unless she sorely fucking needed it. That need demolished him. For so long, he’d been playing out scenes, but they never felt real. She was real. She was happening to him.

  “If you can’t do it, pal, I’ll find someone who will.”

  “Over my dead body.” He cupped her upturned ass in his hands, where it fit like a dream. “There is a way I conduct myself—my pleasure—to make sure I don’t go too far. Or I will. Do you understand me? I’m not your beginner course.”

  “I didn’t ask for one.” She looked at him over her shoulder, those silver eyes cutting right through him. “Everything, every time, feels like a beginner course. Give me the real thing.”

  Nagging irritation sliced through him at the mention of her having other experiences. Elsewhere. With other men. Absurd, that. But poignant as hell, nonetheless. “You want a spanking? Or should I use one of my tools?”

  Her back began to rise and fall rapidly. “Anything. You decide.”

  “Those are powerful words to someone like me.” He drew the zipper of her jeans down and peeled the denim over her ass. Jesus H. Christ. Her flesh was a meal waiting to be eaten, all but glowing in the dim, reddish light, curving in a manner that demanded a man take her from behind. Often. Even her basic, no-frills panties made him hot. Porter took a fortifying breath. “Give me a safe word.”

  “Um…” She blew out a breath. “Beetlejuice?”

  He gritted his teeth. “Just don’t say it three times. I don’t feel like sharing.”

  Her rich, feminine laugh made his stomach hurt, beyond the all-encompassing arousal he was feeling. Not in an unpleasant way. In an, oh fuck, kind of way. She was like a diamond being unearthed one sand granule at a time. God help everyone in the vicinity when she was fully revealed. “Who knew there was a sense of humor underneath all that black?”

  He swallowed hard. “You know nothing about me.”

  “Show me,” she whispered.

  “Will I be showing you about me?” He slipped her panties over the curve of her backside. “Or yourself?”

  As he waited for an answer he suspected wouldn’t come, he considered his tools. Why should they have the honor of landing on her skin the first time? His hand wanted that glowing skin all to itself. Wanted to make it glow hotter. Light as a feather, he let his palm glide over her supple bottom, closing his eyes to focus on her breathing, the way she pushed herself into his hand. A present wrapped in a bow. So he tore off the wrapping. He dropped his hand, shook it out once and flexed his fingers, before bringing it against her flesh in a biting slap.

  She caught her breath on a sob, held it, and released it in a rush. “Oh my god.”

  Porter wanted to lick the handprint he’d left behind. Another new, disconcerting urge he’d never experienced. God, everything about her, down to the sound his spanking made on her skin, was electric. He fought the sudden need to know her name, to say it, but he couldn’t ask because the jig would be up. “Is this your first time?”

  She dropped her forehead to the bed. “First time I’ve had it done right.”

  More irritation surged, but it was overshadowed by the desire to show her how right it could be. Leaning to the side so he could view her profile, he brought his hand down on her ass again, a touch harder than the time before. Her expression robbed him of logic, her beautiful mouth parting on a cry, eyes squeezing shut, fingers curling into the bed. “Finally came to the right place, is that what you think?” Her flesh reverberated with his next blow. “I’m sorry to inform you that this is most definitely not the right place for you. I have no patience for some wet behind the ears girl with a smart mouth.”

  His words were partially drowned out by the pounding in his head. Liar. When had he become a liar? He could stand there all day making her flesh sting, soothing it. Putting rapture on her face.

  “I won’t say another word if you keep going.”

  After her whispered plea, Porter couldn’t help himself any longer. He spread his hands wide on either side of her on the bed and leaned down to plant a kiss on her backside. Hot, smooth. Gorgeous. “Oh, I’ll keep going. If for no other reason than to show you what happens when you walk into my room asking for things you don’t understand.” He trailed his thumb down the center of her ass, stopping just before he reached the damp juncture of her thighs. “Spread your legs. I’d like to know the exact color of your pussy before I make it cry.”

  Her hips shook at the command, but she followed his instructions, tilting her ass up and widening her stance. He wished he hadn’t berated her for the way she talked, because when he expected her to speak and she didn’t, he craved the sound. Almost as much as his body craved her wet, rosy core, so sweetly presented for him. He rewarded her with a biting slap, right over the top of it. Another. Another. Quick, harsh smacks that caused that luscious button of flesh to swell with each strike.

  She came. Her smooth back twisted, legs shooting back together to press, press so tightly as she trembled, moaning into the bed. More than anything at that moment, he wanted to see her face. Wanted to…to kiss her mouth and soak in everything he’d made her feel. So easily. Almost no effort. The exquisiteness of her choked him, made him throb head to toe. He wanted the opportunity to do more, show her what he could do, but as soon as she stopped shaking, she was gone from beneath him. All he could do was step back and watch her, holding his breath. For what?

  When she finally faced him, Porter almost fell to his knees. She looked like she’d been tied up and ridden for hours, slack and satisfied with eyes that should be staring up at a ceiling. His ceiling.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, before stooping down to pick up her shirt.

  It took him until she’d pulled on her pants to convince himself of what she’d said. “Thank you?”

  She nodded, sending hair falling over one eye, but she shoved it behind her ears. “Yeah.” Both of her hands found their home in the back pockets of her jeans. “I should get out of here before the person you’re supposed to meet gets here, huh?” She turned toward the door, throwing him a wink over her shoulder. “Thanks for playing along.”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched. “You knew that I knew?”

  Unbelievable. She didn’t even stop to answer him. He didn’t want to examine the panic drilling into his skull when her figure disappeared from the doorway, which was immediately filled by someone else—the tall, curvy redhead he’d actually been expecting. She stepped inside and went down on her knees, bowing her head. “Sorry, I’m late, Sir.”

  No. Wrong. This was wrong. He wanted the girl back here. Now.

  “Excuse me,” he said curtly, leaving the room. Without his tools. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t packed them just right, made sure they were in a secure place. Right then, he didn’t give two shits about anything but catching up with her. There. Sliding into the elevator like a phantom, slipping right through his fingers. He had no idea what he’d do when he caught up with her, because frankly, he didn’t understand the way she made him feel. He didn’t do well with the unknown. The idea of never seeing her again was worse, though. Much fucking worse.

  He caught the elevator door just before it closed.

  “Not so fast.”

  Chapter Three

  Frankie hadn’t lost a staring contest in her life. Not once. But dammit if this uptight British dude wasn’t about to hand her defeat numero uno.

  She’d been stunned into silence when he’d followed her into the elevator, because Hello nurse, she’d seen the redhead about to take her place. Her scrawny ass didn’t even rate. Yet here they were, still not speaking, sitting
on a chaise lounge beside one another on the first floor of Serve while the crowd expanded around them. He’d ordered her a Coke from the waitress, which should have pissed her off. It would have, too, if she had any energy left in her body. He’d drained her of every last ounce. It was often theorized that people who were born blind didn’t know any better, so living without sight didn’t bother them as much as someone who’d lost their vision at say, age fifteen. An hour ago, she would have argued blindness was equally difficult in either case. Now? She had to admit there was some merit to the other theory. Because she couldn’t go back into the darkness. Not now, when she knew what it felt like to see.

  It appeared as if the brit was waiting for her to crack, justifying her initial impression of him. Her neighborhood was chock full of cops and she’d gotten this same look growing up, when one of them wanted to know who’d hit the baseball through their window. This guy had some sort of law enforcement background, but she wouldn’t put her money on a police officer. Something more…ruthless.

  “How long are we going to keep this up?” She drummed her fingers on her knee. “Not that I don’t find your company intoxicating, but I have to be back at work soon.”

  “Where is work for you?”

  “Ah, no. I conceded the staring contest, which wasn’t easy, by the way. The least you can do is answer first.” Damn. She’d never felt self-conscious about her job before. Something about the way he radiated disapproval and smelled like luxury made her hesitate. “British men are supposed to be polite, right? Don’t let me down.”

  He showed no reaction. “I’m an antiques dealer.”

  “And I’m Kevin Bacon.” She kept her gaze level as he reached into his pants pocket and drew out a business card, presenting her with it. Porter Evans. Fine antiquities. “What did you do before you sold antiques, Porter?”

  His upper lip tugged. “Security. Of a kind.”

  “Of a kind,” she muttered, tucking the card away in her jeans pocket. Not that she would be needing it again, but it seemed rude to return it. Before he could ask about her job again, she put out her hand. “Frankie De Luca.”

  He eyed her outstretched hand. “You really think shaking hands is where we’re at here?”

  “I have no idea where we’re at. I thought I was leaving.” Refusing to be embarrassed, she tried to snatch her hand back from where he’d left her hanging, but he caught it. Oddly, he looked as surprised as she felt that he’d made the effort. “Shouldn’t you be upstairs with Jessica Rabbit?”

  “Yes, I should be. Is Frankie short for something?”

  “Francesca.” He pressed his thumb to the center of her palm and sensation went rushing through her, centered between her legs. No way. She’d never been as satisfied as she’d been walking out of the room upstairs. It couldn’t be happening again already. “No one calls me that.”

  “Perfect.”

  She started to question that odd response, but the waitress set down a frosty pint glass of Coke in front of her and a tumbler of golden liquid before Porter. When she reached for the wad of bills she kept in her sock, he made a dismissive sound. “I’ve got a tab.”

  Frankie wanted to protest, but the waitress was watching her closely. The price of a soda wasn’t worth the argument, but it still weighed on her. As soon as the waitress left, she picked up his glass instead of her own and took only a small sip. She had more driving to do tonight, but felt a point needed to be made. When she set the tumbler back down, Porter was watching her as if she’d danced a hula on the table. “You might have a tab, but I don’t like owing money to people. It’s why I came here tonight.”

  His mouth formed a grim line. “You’re not working here.”

  “I didn’t say I was. But it wouldn’t be up to you.” She leaned against the back of the chaise and crossed her legs. “You know, this is the weirdest conversation I’ve had in a while and I have a lot of those.”

  “Right. At least I’m not alone in that respect.” He picked up his drink and took a healthy swallow. “Enough pleasantries. I want to know what you were doing in my room. Are you a member here?”

  “No. Are you going to turn me in?”

  He ignored her question. “How did you get upstairs?”

  She couldn’t help an uncomfortable glance toward the nearest camera, mounted on the ceiling. “I had a meeting with Jonah.”

  “Jonah.” A glint appeared in his eye. “I repeat, you’re not working here.”

  “We’ve covered your lack of say in the matter.” She gave in and took a sip of Coke, feeling a tickle in her belly when his gaze zeroed in on her mouth as she sucked the straw. “I’m not here to make money, I’m here to pay it back. I owe money to someone and Jonah is holding my payments for me.”

  “To whom do you owe money?”

  “’To whom’? Don’t you need a monocle to speak like that?”

  “You’re very funny for twenty-two.”

  “I’m twenty-four.” She glared at him when she realized he’d sneakily gotten her age out of her. “It’s really none of your business, but I owe a debt to Oliver Preston.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose, laughing without humor. “Unbelievable. I can’t get away from the son-of-a-bitch.”

  “You know Oliver?”

  “You could say that.” His entire demeanor changed, going from weary to rigid. “Why exactly do you owe him money?”

  Frankie sighed into her Coke. Her debts weren’t exactly her favorite topic. Furthermore, why did it feel natural to disclose personal details to this near stranger? Because as soon as he put his hands on you, the world started spinning the right direction. She swallowed the cold liquid, but it did nothing to dampen the fire. “I’m the recipient of a scholarship in his mother’s name. I don’t want it hanging over my head forever. The money could have gone to someone else. Someone that didn’t get the opportunity. I need to close the gap I left behind by taking it.” She shook her head. “I know that doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It makes perfect sense, except for the part about your leaving a gap.” He scowled at her. “What a dreadful way to think of oneself.”

  Dreadful? Oneself? “Maybe monocle should have been my safe word.”

  …

  Porter was a trained interrogator and yet as this conversation went on, his knowledge of the subject seemed to decrease, rather than increase. Odd, considering she didn’t seem inclined to hold back much information. Perhaps the feeling stemmed from him wanting to know more—and more—about her, this exasperating girl who appeared to be intent on making fun of him. When was the last time someone had made a joke at his expense? He couldn’t remember and had no idea whether or not he liked it. He only knew this conversation was far from over.

  Owes Oliver Preston money, does she? He didn’t like that at all. There was certainly no love lost between Porter and that tosser, although Porter rather thought Preston should thank him. If Preston’s now-fiancé, Eliza, hadn’t cozied up to Porter at Serve all those nights ago, Preston might have never found the brass to make his move. Porter found the grudge Preston continued to hold against him slightly amusing, considering he never would have spent more than one evening with Eliza. Or any woman at Serve, for that matter.

  The sound of Frankie’s straw sucking up the last remaining liquid in her glass with a slurp brought him back to the present. Her ability to knock back a Coke in under a minute shouldn’t have made his gut tighten, but it did. Bloody hell, it did. Ravenous little appetite, this one. Twenty-four. Jesus Christ.

  “Look, monocle man, this has been fascinating, but I simply must be going.” She said the last four words in an exaggerated British accent and stood, extending her hand once more. As if he had any intention of letting her go so easily, he took it, surprised when he felt crisp paper pressed into his palm. Money? He met her eyes. “For the drink,” she explained.

  Then she was gone, ducking behind a dancing couple and vanishing into the crowd. No, no. That wouldn’t do. He still had too many ques
tions. More than curiosity, though, there was the unquenched thirst she’d instilled in him. The sarcastic brat’s hands were tightening around his throat the further away she got from him. Porter let loose a string of vile curses and went after her, catching glimpses of her dark head as he attempted to catch up. He broke through the ocean of people just in time to see her reach the door and give an arrogant chin lift to the bouncer before exiting.

  Porter followed her out onto the sidewalk, hand flexing at his side. He didn’t like chasing women. He liked putting them in one place and keeping them there. This female didn’t suit him. Not at all. His feet ignored his logic, moving faster in her direction, catching her arm just before she slid into a cab. Wait. The front driver’s side of a cab. What the hell was going on here?

  Her head jerked around, silver eyes widening. Not nervous, thank god. Although he suspected if the sidewalks weren’t packed with passersby, she might be, and rightly so. What was he thinking, following this girl out of the club? But no, there were no nerves. Instead, she appeared mostly surprised that he’d come after her. How absurd. Yes, she happened to be annoying as all hell, but the fact that she had no idea how goddamn appealing she was…it made him wonder. Who’d let her come this far without telling her she was intelligent, stubborn, and yes…fucking beautiful? A woman that a man couldn’t simply let walk away.

  She lifted an eyebrow. “You need a ride somewhere?”

  He gestured to the automobile. “Don’t tell me you drive this thing.”

  “Well, I can’t fly it.”

  The nerve endings behind his right eye started to snap. “Francesca—”