Standing in the Shadows (McClouds & Friends #2)(123)

She shook her head. "It wasn't like that. I'd never even met the man, Connor, and I—"

"Bullshit it wasn't. Are you telling me that he didn't come onto you? In that dress? The way you look? Because I'll never believe it."

She hesitated, and licked her dry, trembling lips. "He didn't force himself on me," she said cautiously.

That wild, scary look began to burn in his eyes again. His fingers dug painfully into her waist. "Ah. Now there's a nice distinction for me to chew on," he said. "What did he offer for your favors, sweetheart? Ropes of pearls? Paris by moonlight?"

She gulped at the fiendish, pinpoint accuracy of his guess. He felt it, and yanked her back against him, hard and possessive. "Shit," he hissed. "He did. Didn't he? That f*cking bastard. He actually did!"

"Don't," she pleaded. "It doesn't matter anyway, since I refused."

"Ah. That's comforting. Must have confused the hell out of the poor guy. Talk about mixed signals."

She shoved against his implacable grip. "Be reasonable," she snapped. "That's enough of this macho power trip, please."

"Oh, I have not even begun the macho power trip yet, babe," he said. "This is all just the buildup." He cupped her breasts, tugging the fabric down until her taut brown nipples peeked out.

His skillful fingers caressed her breasts, and his unexpected gentleness made her vibrate with startled pleasure. She flung her head back, shivering. Completely unprepared for him to seize the neckline of the dress and tear it straight down the front with one vicious wrench.

She cried out. He held her struggling body fast, and ripped it again, baring her breasts. Another rending rip, and her belly was bare. She twisted against him, frantic. "Good God, Connor! What are you doing?"

He wrenched until the dress gave way around her waist. "This is called nonverbal communication. I want you to understand how strongly I feel about this. I want you to take me very, very seriously."

"I get the message, for heaven's sake! There's no need to—"

"I also want to make absolutely sure that you will never wear this goddamn thing. Ever again. I want"—he tore the skirt wide open—"to be dead certain." He let the ruined thing drop to the ground around her feet and stared at the black lace thong, the thigh-high sheer black stockings. The spike-heeled black shoes.

He plucked at the sheer lace of the panties. "You don't have lingerie like that in your underwear drawer, Erin," he said. "'You haven't been a bad girl for long enough. This is Mueller's stuff. Right?"

She pressed her quivering lips together. "I was wearing regular old cotton briefs when I went. Parity lines. A huge fashion don't. Tamara had ordered these for me, along with the dresses, and the stockings. And… the shoes." She braced herself for another explosion.

It didn't come. She opened her eyes. He was staring at her body.

"Take them off," he said He let go of her, and stepped back.

She slid her fingers beneath the strip of lace, tugged it slowly down over her hips, and let it drop to join the discarded heap of golden fabric.

"Just look at you," he said hoarsely. "I want to f*ck you right now. With the stockings and the shoes and the slutty makeup. Turn around, Erin. Slowly. Give me the full treatment."

Her heart quickened, her breath along with it, with primal female caution. Her body responded to his hunger, no matter how volatile the brew of passion was tonight: a wild alchemy of lust and possessive fury. She wanted to drink deep of that dangerous potion. No matter the cost.

She straightened her spine, and turned around for him.

She lifted up her hair over her head, arched her back so that her breasts jutted out. She spun on the balls of her feet in the fragile, sexy shoes, undulating for him. She flung her hair back so that the ends of it tickled her bottom. The air she moved through felt as thick as honey.

Connor unbuckled his belt. He wrenched the buttons of his jeans open and pulled his stiff, flushed penis loose of the constricting fabric. "Come here," he said.

Challenge followed escalating challenge. The feverish glow in his eyes sharpened the liquid ache of yearning that started between her thighs, rippling down her legs, up into her belly, her chest. Taking him in her mouth had always made her feel powerful. She started to sink to her knees, but he grabbed her shoulders.

"Wait." He shifted back so that his thick boots were planted squarely in the middle of the heap of torn golden fabric, and pulled her toward him. "Kneel on top of this dress. And suck on my cock."

Startled alarm jolted her out of her sensual dream. "Good Lord, Connor. What are you trying to prove by—"

"You know damn well. Me and my macho power trips." He shoved her down in front of him. The fabric was slippery and insubstantial between her knees and the cold, scarred linoleum. His penis jutted in her face, his hands dug into her hair. Protests formed and dissolved in her mind as she looked up into his ruthless face.

She'd never taken him into her mouth in this position, him on his feet, her on her knees. She'd never imagined doing this when he was angry with her. This was going too far, beyond the realm of games. This threatened the shining tenderness and trust that they had forged together. He could push her past passion, into fear and shame.