“Did he bite you? Claw you?” He leapt up, one fluid movement, swift and purposeful, but obviously intimidating. She retreated into the hall, her eyes wide.
“No. He didn’t get the chance. Felipe came and scared him off.” Her frown deepened. “He wasn’t exactly scared. He actually was very confident. I don’t think Suma was the dominant between them. I think it was the other way around.”
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the dark blemishes marring her upper arm before taking her hand and leading her into the bedroom. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For having the courage to kill the man who murdered my mother. I know that wasn’t easy for you. And for braving a leopard in the throes of madness.” He turned up her arm to examine the four marks there. They matched the scars on his face, although they weren’t deep, more like scratches than lacerations. Still . . . He kissed each red streak, his mouth gentle.
Isabeau leaned into him until he was surrounded by her scent, until he surrendered to it and took her into his arms, holding her close to his chest. Her towel slipped a little, but that was all right with him. The feel of her breasts rubbing along his skin helped revive his body. Every nerve, every cell came alive.
“Marisa was my friend, Conner. But honestly, all I was thinking about was you.” She tilted her head to look up at him. “Well, you,” she hedged, “and maybe shooting boss-man Rio. Sort of accidentally on purpose. I think if he yelled at me one more time, I might have gone psycho on him.”
He took a step, forcing her backward toward the bed. “And then he had the audacity to threaten you with a syringe.”
“In front of everyone. He was lucky he didn’t try it,” she added.
His next step put the backs of her legs against the bed. He took the damp towel from her hand, gave her hair a slight rub as though he was drying it and then simply tossed it away.
“If I don’t dry my hair, it curls everywhere. Little ringlets.” She made a face. “And it’s so long and thick, it takes forever to actually dry.”
Isabeau made a movement as though to retrieve the towel, but he bunched her sarong in his fist and tugged until it slipped off her breasts, spilling them into his sight, before he took the entire towel from her. “I don’t really think it matters, do you?” he asked, and bent his head to her breasts.
Her nipples peaked and she gasped as his hot mouth closed over one tip and drew it deep. His hand drifted down to the junction between her legs. “I like your curls. All fiery. The way you are inside.” His fingers teased at the dampening entrance.
He sank down slowly until he was sitting on the bed, and tugged until she followed him. At the last moment he spun her around and bent her over his knees, yanking so that she fell over his lap, facedown, her buttocks exposed. He placed one hand on her upper back to hold her position while he surveyed her thrashing bottom.
“Very nice.” His hand rubbed and massaged her firm cheeks until she was squirming breathlessly, her breasts jiggling with every movement, an added enticement he hadn’t considered. His cock was being massaged with each thrash of her body, and her long, damp hair brushed like living silk against his thighs. “I could get used to this.”
“Well don’t,” Isabeau advised.
But he could tell his hands were already working magic. He could see the evidence of her desire, her receptiveness gleaming between her legs. He worked his hand down the curve of her butt to the crease between her thigh and buttocks and rubbed as well, inserting his hand to force her legs farther apart.
She softened more, became pliant for him. He bent his head to nip at the soft flesh, several little love bites, all the while continuing his massage. She moaned softly when his fingers slid through damp heat. Her stomach muscles bunched and her body flushed.
“Does this feel good, baby?” he asked, spearing two fingers into her hot core.
Her body shuddered, inner muscles tightening around him. She was so responsive, so open to him, always indulging him and any fantasy he had. He hadn’t started out thinking this was going to be anything but accomplishing an end, but now he couldn’t have stopped his explorations if he wanted.
His hands moved over her possessively, paying attention to her thighs and buttocks, and then plunging his fingers deep. He found her most sensitive spot and teased and circled until she was lifting her bottom and riding his hand.
“Does it feel good, Isabeau?” His fingers stroked and caressed, exploring every hidden secret recess and shadowed hollow of her body. “Tell me.”
Isabeau’s breath came in ragged gasps. “Yes. Everything you do always feels good.” She was truthful. The more she let him know what she liked, the better each time together was. She could never resist him. When he touched her, she felt alive. She’d thought to fall on the bed and just go to sleep for as long as she could, but the moment his hands touched her body, all she could do was want.
She never expected there would be something terribly erotic in lying over his lap with his hand holding her down and her buttocks being massaged and fondled, but there was a guilty thrill, a pleasure she had never considered. She could feel his heavy erection, hotter than a brand against her stomach. She knew this new position was arousing to him as well.
She wasn’t surprised when his hand lifted and came down experimentally on her bottom. The sting sent warmth coursing through her. The smack wasn’t hard, and she knew he’d test her response. She was as shocked as he was at the flood of liquid heat bathing his fingers. Every inner muscle clamped down around his fingers. His hand rubbed and caressed over the heat.
“What does it feel like?” He whispered the words, his voice a sinful temptation. “You have to tell me everything.”
“Hot. The nerves spread straight to my clit. I can’t explain it exactly, but there’s so much heat, like a fire building that I can’t stop.”
“Do you like it?”
“As long as it’s not really painful. I wouldn’t like that.” But she loved the massage and the way his fingers moved in and out of her—the way he explored her body without reservation, with his hands and mouth. He was cat, and it showed in his oral need to lap at her skin, to tease with the edge of his teeth and massage tactilely.
“Then I’m sorry, baby, but I have to do this.” He withdrew his fingers, reached behind him to get the syringe. He pulled the cap with his teeth, put the syringe in his mouth and brought down his hand a little harder, hoping the sting would momentarily numb her skin. He plunged the needle in and pushed the plunger to dispense the antibiotic.