Hostile Takeover Hill, W (thriller books to read .txt) 📖

it smelled like Ben. These fibers had the enviable job of stroking that superb upper body all day long.

When she moved out into the hallway, she saw the French doors on the second level open to a narrow balcony. There were several potted plants there, as well as a couple outdoor chairs to view the enclosed alley below. When they arrived, she’d stolen a quick glimpse of it. She remembered a statue of a laughing child placed under the rush of water from a fountain. Thick greenery had swayed around it, a cobblestone path and a single chair suggesting a perfect nook to read and dream the lazy New Orleans day away. She wondered if he ever used it, or if it was his neighbor’s space.

Ben was leaning against the rail, but he wasn’t looking down at that scene. He had his head turned as if studying the nearby street, but there was a lack of focus in the green eyes that suggested his focus was internal. All he wore was a pair of faded jeans that rode low on his hips. It was so carelessly sexy it made her mouth water, despite the fact her body felt as if it had been through the sensual equivalent of being drop-kicked by the entire New Orleans Saints team.

There was also a loneliness to him. The moonlight gleamed on his hair, reflected the brooding look in his eyes, the wooden quality of his expression. It tightened her heart, made her go to him.

She stepped over the threshold. Since the balcony was so narrow, it brought her right up behind him. He tilted his head, aware of her, and she dared, laying her hand between his shoulder blades. She hadn’t buttoned the shirt, so when he reached back, took her hand beneath his arm to bring her closer, she pressed her bare breasts against him, her mound against the firm flesh beneath denim.

Laying her cheek on his back, she heard the strong thump of his heart. He held her hand against his abdomen, stroking her fingers and studying the night sky in silence. She touched those ridged muscles, traced them, and when she angled for more, he let her hand descend. Teasing the arrow of silky hair, she pressed her lips to his spine. He didn’t move, but she didn’t feel rebuffed. She thought he might be holding his breath.

Earlier, he’d clearly been Master to slave. It was what he’d wanted, what she’d wanted, and she’d reveled in the fact he loosed that desire upon her, given her the chance to prove she could match it. But this was different, indefinable. Something moved between them now, something that was part of it and yet even deeper. Holding her breath now, she reached the waistband of the jeans. She traced that, back and forth, aroused by the beauty of his fit body, the power of it he’d demonstrated so capably, again and again. Under her other palm, his heart was thumping a little faster. So was hers.

The jeans were loose, so she maneuvered beneath the waistband, found the trimmed pubic area, then lower, to the heated base of his cock. She was able to partly circle it with her thumb and forefinger. Her intent wasn’t arousal, not exactly. She was gripping him, marveling at the heat and virility of the organ, at how much she could desire it inside her.

She explored the velvet skin stretched over the steel of it, because he was obviously hardening under her touch. His stomach muscles contracted as he shifted his hips, and she helped guide his shaft out of a folded position, letting it stretch up more comfortably beneath the zipper. It let her stroke her fingers more fully up and down its length, though the diminishing space was allowing less maneuvering room.

“You don’t have any photos,” she whispered. “Jon, Matt, any of them. Not even of my brothers and sisters. Or of you.”

“No. I don’t do photos.” He sighed, looking up at the sky again as she let the other hand descend so she could use both. It required opening the jeans, but he didn’t stop her as she did that, took a two-handed grip, started to explore more aggressively. Her nipples had tightened against his back, and she rubbed her mound against his ass. The jeans slipped a little lower. She wanted to go to her knees, kiss her way down his spine, tease that dip between his buttocks with the tip of her tongue, see if she could make him shiver as he’d made her shiver.

“You’re messing me up, Marcie. You’re just a baby.”

She stilled, the rough quality of his voice bringing her heart into her throat. “I’m your baby,” she said against his skin. “All yours. Love me, Ben. Love me in the dark, let me be whatever you want me to be. Stop worrying about me. Take what you need.”

I am a baby. I’m scared to death, because I rely on your strength and your knowledge, but if I have to, I’ll lead.

He turned in her arms, dislodging her hands. Gripping her wrists, he studied her. His expression was brittle stone, those eyes measuring. Old. Ancient, even.

“If my Master is lost,” she said, her voice shaking a little, “I’ll find him. I’ll lead him back to himself, because to serve doesn’t always mean to follow.”

As he stared at her, she pushed against his hold. He didn’t relent immediately, but she insisted, and then he let her put her hands on his face. Lifting on her toes, she brought her body up against him, laid her mouth softly on his. Teased his lips, touched them with her tongue, playing with him, coaxing him to respond. His head moved, his lips starting to answer her flirtation, and when he nipped at her, she smiled against his mouth.

He came to life then, summoning a pleased purr from her throat. His arms slid into the shirt and around her, one around her waist, the other dropping so