Overture (North Security, #1)(20)

I push up on my toes, pressing my lips against his in a blind, artless kiss. I’m off center of his mouth, kissing the corner. He stands still as a statue, letting me wobble on my heels, letting me fall against him, only my broken kiss to balance me.

Grief beats against my ribs. He’s going to make me do it alone. Of course he is. I’m always alone. A small sound escapes me. Loneliness. Pain. It vibrates against his mouth, sound made real.

He jolts as if I’ve shocked him. Something unspools inside him. I feel it in the inch of air between us. And then I feel it in my lips. He takes over the kiss with shocking possession, his hand behind my head, his body turning us so I’m against the wall. He looms in front of me, blocking out the view. There are no vinyl records on the wall, no bass thrumming through concrete and steel. There’s only him, only this. How is it possible that only a few minutes ago I felt powerful? I didn’t know what this would be. I couldn’t know the way I’d revel in surrender.

His tongue touches the seam of my lips, a pure electric sensation that makes me jump. I part my lips in surprise, pulling in the scent of him—man and earth, salt and sea. He tastes elemental. His tongue swipes the tender inside of my bottom lip. It’s more sensitive there than I could have imagined. I feel the slickness of the caress all the way in my core. My thighs clench together.

So careful. So wary. I touch my tongue against his. He’s the one who groans.

His hand fists in my hair, creating a delicious little ache. “Do you know what you’re doing to me?” he breathes, and I try to shake my head; it only makes him pull harder.

“Liam… I need…” It’s like the bedroom when he walked in on me, my hips rocking, mindless, hungry. Worse than that. My whole body is moving restlessly against him.

He tears himself away with a hard sound. Only an inch away. A rough tremor runs through him. It’s a small comfort, knowing that I’ve moved this man. Knowing how much control he has, knowing it’s eroded. But only a small comfort. He still leaves me panting against the door.

“I’m supposed to protect you,” he says, his voice taut with guilt.

“Against people like that?”

“Yes, against people like that. He’s more than a club owner, Samantha. At least that’s not all he is. He’s a loan shark. The dangerous kind. One who makes sure his debts are paid with money or with blood. He doesn’t give a shit about doing the right thing.”

A shiver runs through me. “How do you know him?”

“I run a security firm. It’s my job to know these things.” He cups my jaw. “Even if it wasn’t, I would make sure to know every single danger within a hundred-mile radius. You’re too important to risk.”

Determination hardens my tone. “You tell me you want me to make my own decisions as a woman, and then you take them away.”

He pulls back, and cool air rushes into the space between us. “Because you lied to me, Samantha. Something could have happened to you, and there’d be no one to protect you, no one to even know where you went. That’s not a grown-up decision.”

I look down where he’s holding my hips in place. It’s like prying metal, watching him lift his fingers one by one. Each loss feels like a chain link snapped.

He pulls his hands away with an audible groan. “I’m not going to touch you again.”

Hurt licks against my skin like flames, but I try to act casual. “Right.”

“If you want to go out, of course you can. I’ll send Josh with you.”

“Is that an order?”

“Absolutely,” he says with burning green eyes.

Despite the hunger in his voice, there’s no trace of vulnerability in his expression. He’s made of stone and water, as unconcerned as air. Gone is the man incandescent with desire. How am I supposed to be interested in the boys who are dancing in clubs when this man has kissed me? How can I be satisfied with warmth when I know how it feels to burn?





CHAPTER THIRTEEN





Violinist Lindsey Stirling has over 10.5 million subscribers on YouTube.


SAMANTHA

A message blinks on my phone when I get home from school.

The picture shows a mane of wild red curls, the kind I would have happily traded for my ordinary brown hair. I met Beatrix Cartwright many years ago, back when we were both children.

Our upbringings couldn’t have been more different.

She came from a wealthy family, her mother a famous pianist, her father a tech industrialist who doted on his family. Meanwhile my father had to be reminded that my Sergio Peresson violin was on loan from a music society, and we couldn’t sell it because they knew who had it. That didn’t stop him from threatening to whenever he was particularly broke.

Her parents invested in her musical education and were supremely interested in her feelings. My father only agreed to let me play in the London concert because the queen herself would be in attendance. He spent most of the concert on the phone in the lobby, coming up for air only to glad hand during the reception.

On the surface it seemed like we had very little in common, but Beatrix and I had something in common—we were both children with unusual talent in a world ruled by fierce, egotistical adults.

Somewhere between practice and performance we became fast friends.

Maybe it was fate, which knew we were both on the same dark path. The death of her parents changed the course of her life. I gave her what support I could over e-mail as I followed my father from desert to jungle to tundra, only to begin all over again.