Ironhand (Riders Of Tyr #5 - MC Romance)

17. Mission

Chiara

Abort! Abort! Abort! My brain looks like a control panel in an action movie. Sirens are going off, lights are bleeping and a sense of imminent danger is lingering in the air.

Mum's tricks – food and smiles – might be perfect for round, soft men or even hardened salesmen with balding heads, but they have no effect on a wild man like him. This was a bad idea and it's coming to bite me in the ass.

The same ass I caught him ogle with that hungry look on his face, making me feel I am indeed this man's prey and not the other way around. From deep within, down the depths of my soul, a yearning comes forth with a strong demand and a simple reasoning behind it: Give into this man unconditionally. Because...look at him!

"Uhm...How do you like it?" I need to break this suddenly comfortable silence.

He looks at me while his plate is hovering over the tray of pasta for a third helping. That gesture is an answer of its own accord and his look tells me the same. He hasn't thanked me or complimented me but he is eating with gusto and that's the only compliment I need. Great! Now you are a little woman, anxious to see if her lord will approve her cooking. Worse seductress ever!

But as I look at him dive into the food, I can't but smile and shrug. Name it what you like, there is something powerful in seeing someone eating the food you have prepared for them. It's you who yields the power, not the other way around.

"It would go so good with a Sangiovese," I talk mostly to myself.

"What?" he asks.

I turn to answer but when I do, I see he has sauce on the side of his lips dripping down. And it's official. The man is impossible to look ridiculous. Imposing? In his sleep. Threatening? Without even trying. Hot? Born that way. Cute? No, that's taking it a bit too far. But anyway, any other man would look ridiculous with his face stained like that. Not him. All I want to do is lick him clean.

"You got..." I point.

He scowls and tries to wipe it off, simply making things worse. I laugh and without thinking, I do the same thing my Mum did when I had food on my face. I grab the clean towel I have on my lap, lick it and then I reach over the table and wipe his face. And I freeze. I just licked a towel and I am wiping his face. Licked. As in with my saliva. Wiping Natural Born Killer.

"I...I..." am an idiot.

I dare a look up his eyes, close as I am bent to him and I press my lips together. There is amusement in those eyes, he is not quick enough to hide that. And lust. That he doesn't even try to hide. 

His eyelids fall heavy and his eyes dart to my lips. His breath caresses my face as we both stand still and it's spicy. All of him is spicy, sharp, hot. He can set me on fire by simply breathing on me. This was the worst idea ever! I move away, cowering from this intimate moment but he is faster. He catches my wrist and keeps me close.

OK, OK, OK, this is what we talked about, I pep-talk my crumbling self. He says nothing but he doesn't release me either. Not that I am fighting. Fighting to pull closer perhaps. I am going crazy here, navigating waters that I have never sailed before. I've had other relationships but those were mere boys. This is a man I am dealing with. A man and an animal and I am seriously out of my depth. My heart beats so loudly and in the stillness of the night that he may be hearing it.

"Stop it, woman," he warns me.

OK, he is onto me but though his voice has its usual icy quality, it's his eyes that betray him. He doesn't want me to stop. I don't want to stop. 

"What if I don't?" I say in a firm, low voice.

He releases my wrist but I make no move to pull away. And when I glance down at his lips not only don't I withdraw, I come closer. I've crossed the point of no return. One of the thousand warning signs that blare loudly tells me that he will simply pull away, that he will make a fool out of me, that he is toying me like a cat does with its food. 

I flick this one off. I see how his eyes take me in, I hear his breath getting heavier by the second, I see his body go stiff and not in anger. He wants this as much as I do. He may hate that he does, but he wants this.

"Chiara!" He gives me one last warning.

"Girard," I close the gap and I touch his lips.

Dio mio! I scream in my head. His lips are everything I thought they would be: soft, juicy, warm. The implications of what I have done wrings me by the stomach but I ignore it. My mind is so hazy I can no longer tell whether I am doing this as part of the plan or because I really, truly want this. And that is seriously messed-up.

But all this fades when I realize one simple thing. He is not reacting, he is not kissing me back. He is going to throw me on my ass and laugh in my face after all. Maybe not the laugh – he seems to be missing the proper muscles for that – but the throwing-on-my-ass is definitely on the menu. Not wanting to make a bigger fool out of me, I break the "kiss" and move away from him.

"Fuck," he mutters under his breath.

And then he gets up and grabs me. It's not a gentle touch, nothing on him is gentle. It is possessive and primordial, demanding and unyielding. There is no resisting it so I let myself be pulled to him, against his chest, every inch of my body touching his, my head level with his neck. I dare look up and I gasp for breath. I have seen that look before. It's the way that cougar approached me, ready to devour me.

And he does just that. He lowers his head, he falls on the crook of my neck, right where it meets my shoulder and he flicks his tongue over my flesh. This is so erotic, I moan loudly into the night. His response is to add teeth to the equation making my limbs weaken and my knees give. He's there to catch me, his strong arm around my waist, picking me up as if I am a child.

I throw caution and shame out the window along with a few more things and I rub my body against his with need. He doesn't move away from my neck, doesn't take my mouth in his, doesn't say a word. Just sucks on my flesh, licks it and pushes me against him, enough for me to feel the big bulge of his against my stomach. That escalated quickly.

But once more, life comes to punch me in the face and shows me the true meaning of words. Escalation is exactly what he does after that. Without any warning, he picks me up and pins me against the wall. I lose my breath by the sheer force of it. His hands go behind my knees and he pulls my legs so they are wrapped around his waist, his big member grinding against my core. God, we are doing this!

He growls into the night loudly and curses under his breath making me gasp at the need I hear in his voice. His lips move from my neck to my jaw and he stops, lingering over my lips. I long for his kiss, I shiver at the thought of those lips on mine, I shudder with need. He glances down at my lips and then into my eyes. Yes, I scream as loud as I can in my head. I can see he is barely holding back and I want to squeal with joy.Yes, yes, yes, I am a begging mass of want right now. And then he stops.

His look turns hard, his hands go rigid and he moves away. As he puts me down with haste, I try to hold his arm, not minding if I look that desperate but he frees himself easily.

"No," it's the only thing he says.

He reaches into his pocket and moves to the table. With one loud bang, he places a set of keys on the table and keeps his back to me.

"The truck is a couple of hours that way. Flashlight under the sink. Follow the creek," he points.

Then without even looking at me, he goes down the stairs and walks to the lake. After a while, he vanishes behind some trees. I look at the keys. Mission accomplished. Then why do I feel anything but triumphant?