Losing Control (Kerr Chronicles #1) Read online

  I realize my hands are free and that I’ve been holding them above my head while he rubs all over me. When I drop my hands to his shoulders I find I don’t want to push him away. Instead, I use his shoulders as leverage to grind down on his thigh.

  The nerve endings of my sex are hypersensitized and I swear I can feel every thread of his superfine wool pants. His leg moves, a tiny hitch, but it interrupts the rhythm and removes the pressure. “Don’t you stop,” I threaten him, all the heat turning from anger to throaty desire.

  “Shh, bunny, I got you.” He lifts me completely and spins me around. I have no option but to wrap my legs around him. A few quick steps and we’re in another bedroom with one giant bed and nothing much else. He tumbles us onto the bed and then lowers himself over me. There’s nothing in my field of vision but the hard planes of his face and the ruddy flush of desire on the high points of his cheekbones. He looks fierce and hungry.

  Before I can capture another thought, his mouth is on mine and his hand is pushing aside the lace of my soaked panties. I’m moaning from both the feel of his thick tongue inside of my mouth and the sensation of one and then two of his fingers thrusting inside me. Sucking hard on his tongue, I lift my hips to grind against his hand.

  His free hand spears my hair and tugs my head back as if he can’t get his tongue deep enough inside me. He tastes of spearmint and earthiness, of true desire. My whole body is alive and it’s straining toward him, toward completion. I brace my feet against the mattress, seeking more pressure. Breaking away from his mouth, I pant, “Harder. Fuck me harder with your fingers.”

  He shoves a third finger in and I cry out in surprise, but it ends in a deep groan as he begins thrusting relentlessly. “Oh, I’m going to fuck you hard. I’m going to shove my thick cock inside you, and you’ll be feeling it for days after. Is that what you want?”

  “God, yes,” I cry.

  “Your greedy pussy needs me, doesn’t it?” he demands.

  “Yes.” It’s the only answer I can give.

  “Next time, it won’t be my fingers inside you. Next time, you’ll be riding my cock, squeezing your tight pussy around me, and coming all over me like you’ve never come before.”

  Instinctively I know that this man, for all his faults, can bring me to higher plateaus than I’ve ever visited. And I want to go there. Right now. I grab his wrist and squeeze my thighs around his hand so tight I can feel the bones in his wrist between my legs. “Make me come, Ian,” I order. He’s not the only one who can demand things.

  He gives a hoarse, dark laugh and bends down to bite my nipple, right through my T-shirt and the cotton of my bra, and that’s apparently all I need because the first tremors of my release start shaking my body. He sucks harder until I swear half my breast is in his mouth. The left breast is being squeezed and tormented while his other hand continues its relentless fucking of my pussy. He doesn’t stop the sharp, hard movements of his hand even after my thighs fall open and I collapse, shuddering, on the coverlet. No. He continues to work me. He’s covering me with his body, and his mouth is over mine again.

  “You’ve another one in you,” he growls against my lips.

  “No,” I say weakly, and try to push him away. “I’m done.”

  He’s immovable. “You’re done when I say so. Your pussy still wants me.” His long fingers are still stroking my post-climactic nerve endings, more gently now but still firm. His thumb caresses my clit lightly, and I shudder with each pass. “You’re so wet and hot and fucking beautiful right now, and I want you to come. Now.”

  And somehow he’s right. I come again as he commands. The white heat of my second orgasm overtakes me, and my body bows against the mattress. My toes curl as the power of my release draws all my attention inward, coiling my spring and then exploding outward.

  He slips his fingers out of me but presses them flat and tight against my sex to soothe the ache left there. In my ear, he whispers how beautiful I look and how sweet I’d sounded during the height of my pleasure, and how he can’t wait to taste me—all the while, I’m trying to gather myself.

  “I’m still mad at you,” I mumble as I lie like a beached starfish.

  He chuckles and leans down to pull off my panties and leggings that are still attached to one leg.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Cleaning you up, bunny. Stay here.”

  “I’m only staying because I want to,” I call after his disappearing back. “Not because you tell me to.”

  “That works.”

  I hear the sound of a faucet running. Moments later, he returns with a washcloth in one hand and a towel in the other. He ignores the massive hard-on that is tenting his wool pants as he tenderly cleans me down with one and then dries me with the other.

  “You confuse me,” I whisper as he ministers to me, but I can’t deny how good it feels to be taken care of instead of the other way around.

  “I’m pretty simple.” He tosses the towel and rag aside and then begins to pull up my bike leggings.

  “Yeah right, and the Eiffel Tower was built in a day. Hey, what about my underwear?” I protest, finally sitting up and taking over for him.

  “They’re damp. You sure you want them?” He dangles them from one finger, and when I move to grab them, he closes his fist around the pink lace and tucks them into his pocket.

  “Fine,” I huff. “Be a pervert. Keep them.” Pulling up my pants, I notice the time on his wristwatch—a large black leather-banded one this time. “Shit, I’m going to be late.”

  Running out the door, I scoop up my shoes and socks. I’ve got to catch a cab across town to my apartment and get my bike.

  “Whoa, your bike’s right here.” Ian takes me by the shoulders and points to the bike mounted right by the door. I missed it when I came in. Its presence and the mount itself give rise to so many questions that I don’t know what to say.

  Pulling it down, I check the air in the tires and am happy to see they are both fully inflated. I pull out my headphones from my pack and settle the helmet over my hair. I’m a mess and likely stink of sex, but the city will air me out.

  “You’re not a toy to me,” Ian says.

  Buckling my helmet and then pulling on my gloves, I give him a quick once-over. His suit is ruined. He never even removed his coat when he finger-fucked me, and I’m guessing the fragile wool wasn’t meant to be worn during any intense physical encounters. There are creases in the arms and shoulders where I clutched him, and was that a . . . stain on his thigh? I duck my head to hide my embarrassment. “You owe me a lot of explanations.”

  “I’ll be here when you’re done. Come back and we’ll talk.”

  I give him an absent nod, but it’s not a sufficient response for him. He strides over and tips my head back. “I’m having this suit bronzed, you know.”

  My cheeks heat up because I know he’s referring to the mark in the wool made from my arousal. He leans down and gives me a hard kiss. “Come back here tonight.” It’s a demand and not a question.

  Sighing, I give in. “Only because my mother is here.”

  He strides to the door and holds it open as I wheel the bike out into the hall. “If it makes it easier for you to return, then yes, by all means use that excuse.”

  CHAPTER 14

  I’m still late—should definitely not have given in to Ian—and my supervisor isn’t happy.

  “Two deliveries on the West Side,” Sandra orders. I pick up my radio control unit and shove my phone in my backpack. “By the way, Neil is going through some hormonal crisis. If you’re late again or miss another day, he’s going to fire you.”

  My heart thuds heavily but I manage to give her a nod of acknowledgment. “Thanks.”

  I work extra hard that night to make sure my deliveries go without a hitch. I wonder where Ian’s company is. I don’t remember delivering anything to a Kerr office.<
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  My phone stays mostly silent, which is rare because I usually field at least one phone call from my mother during my early evening runs. She doesn’t like that I do them because she’s convinced someone is going to hurt me. I tell her that there’s more traffic in midday Manhattan and, therefore, a greater likelihood of getting hit by a bus or taxi in the sunlit hours than at night. She’s my mom, though, and part of her job is to worry over me. At least I know someone out there’s thinking of me.

  As my shift winds down and I deliver my last set of documents to a law firm in Times Square, the ringtone for Malcolm thrums in my ear. It plays for three measures before I’m able to maneuver out of enough traffic to answer. “Yo, big bro,” I yell into the phone.

  “Thanks for the eardrum-breaking hello, Tiny.”

  “No problem. Got a job for me?”

  “Three packages for a.m. delivery.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Midtown. Be at your place in thirty.” I press the release button on my headphones and head over. I’m a sweaty mess by the time I get to Malcolm’s. It’s a good thing he has an elevator because I don’t feel like carrying my bike up eleven flights of stairs.

  Music is pumping outside of his apartment, and I wonder what the neighbors think of his rowdiness at nearly ten at night. It takes three hard poundings on the door and a kick before it opens. Stale smoke wafts out, smelling like someone’s been doing bong hits all night long. Malcolm himself abstains from all liquor or addictive drugs. He told me early on, the only way to stay alive in the game was to never partake of the product.

  Good for him, I guess.

  “God, it reeks in here.” But I shoulder my way inside and find a spot next to the entertainment center for my bike. “A.M. deliveries, huh? So people are taking hits of Molly in the morning? It’s like the name of a morning show.”

  Malcolm takes my arm and drags me away, even as I’m pointing at two girls and a guy who look like overdone hot dogs on an outdoor grill—puffy and burnt around the edges. “Any of you bud heads touch my wheels, I’ll come after you with a crowbar.”

  Malcolm glares at me. “Don’t try to be funny. It’s not your thing.”

  “The other day some dude opened the package right in front of me. I’m trying not to know!” I protest, following him down the hall into a bedroom he’s made into an office, complete with a big wooden desk that he likely picked up off the side of a street, and two leather chairs. I think in another life Malcolm would have liked to have been . . . well, Ian. A wealthy investment guy who had a big office overlooking the Hudson River and lots of lackeys. Malcolm would totally get off on being driven around the city by Steve.

  I slump into one of the leather chairs as Malcolm picks up three packages and throws them on my lap.

  “First thing,” he says.

  Ordinarily I would jump up and leave, but this time I linger, running my finger along the edges of one of the envelopes. I need answers, and Malcolm might be a person who can provide them.

  “How do you know Ian Kerr?” I finally ask.

  The question takes him by surprise, and he looks over his shoulder as if expecting someone to swoop down and crush him. “Why?”

  “He’s holding my mom hostage.”

  “What are you talking about?” His voice is full of disbelief, as if I’m a silly child making up some silly story.

  “I ran into him during a delivery the other day and—”

  Malcolm interrupts me. “Wait.” He closes the door and then sits in the leather chair next to mine. “All right, go on.”

  “He showed up when Mom and I were leaving for the zoo yesterday. Apparently someone even told him our apartment number.”

  Malcolm isn’t ashamed of this at all but simply motions for me continue.

  “This morning he sent a car over to bring us to NYPH. When Mom’s chemo was done, the car was there again. Only this time it doesn’t take us home. Instead, we went to that new Century development over on Eighth and—”

  “—Midtown Mini Mansions, yeah, I know,” he interrupts.

  I roll my eyes. Malcolm knows everything. Always. “Do you want me to finish the story?”

  “Whatever.” He motions for me to continue.

  “Mom isn’t feeling well, and it’s not like I can pick her up and carry her off, so I put her to bed and then—”

  “What’s it look like?”

  “What’s what look like?”

  “The view? The apartment?”

  “Malcolm!” I snap my fingers in front of his face. “Are you even listening to me? He has my mother. Now tell me what he wants from me.”

  He sticks his knuckle in his ear. “I’m right next to you. Do you have to shout?”

  “Yes!” I give a little scream and kick him in the leg. “Because you aren’t listening to me.”

  Malcolm shoves me back and I feel like we are adolescents again, living in a tiny two-bedroom apartment in Queens, not too far from his current place, arguing about who gets to play the next game of Sonic. It was usually Malcolm because he’s always been bigger and stronger and meaner than me.

  “Hasn’t he told you?”

  “No. If he had, would I be here, talking to you?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. He contacted me asking me if I knew someone who could handle a delicate situation. I sent him a couple of people, and they didn’t fit whatever idea he had about who he wanted. You were kind of a last-ditch effort.”

  “How much are you getting paid?”

  He looks down at his shoes, but not before I see the flash of greed in his eyes.

  “How much?” I ask again.

  “One hundred,” he mumbles.

  “He’s paying you a hundred thousand dollars to find someone to fulfill his little job? There must be more.” Folding my arms, I glare at him. “Malcolm James Hedder, you tell me the truth.”

  He slouches down in his chair until his head is resting on the back. Blowing a big stream of air out, he gives up the rest of it. “And I have to make sure you never tell.”

  “We both know I won’t.” It still doesn’t all make sense. Why Malcolm? His specialty is small packages, as far as I know. Not people. “Your mom’s in that much trouble?”

  Malcolm exhales heavily and shakes his head. “When is she not? Don’t you think we’d be better off without our moms sometimes?”

  “Bite your tongue,” I cry. “I love my mom.”

  “So that’s a yes.”

  “It’s not.” She’s not a burden to me at all. “Besides, she’s going to get better.”

  “I don’t know if it’s good for you to keep lying to yourself about that or not.”

  Furious at the direction of the conversation, I spring from my chair, but Malcolm’s there before I’m able to wrench the door open. His hand presses the door closed again, and he murmurs into the top of my hair. “I’m sorry, Tiny. I need the money. I knew you’d be the right person for the job because you needed it too.”

  “He’s got us by the short and curlies, then?” I rest my forehead against the door, feeling drained and not a little frustrated. “You need the money to pay for some bad gambling debt that your mom racked up, and I need it to move to an apartment with an elevator.”

  “Yeah, tell me the rest of it.” Malcolm leans against the door, and it’s clear that I’m not getting out until I give more detail. So I tell him everything. The zoo. Lunch at the Boathouse. The private room at NYPH. Everything except where Ian finger-fucked me twice. I leave that part out.

  “I don’t know much about him,” Malcolm admits. “I’ve never done any work for him in the past. His kind only come to me for one or two things and whatever his vices, currently I don’t have the goods to meet his demands.”

  “Until now.”

  “Right.” H
is face shows something darker than greed this time. I don’t really want to know either. Ian’s game with me is confusing because he can’t just want me. He must need something from me, but I’ve offered to do his job. Maybe he doesn’t trust me. Tonight I’ll try to convince him that no matter what it is that he wants done, I’ll never tell.

  As we walk out, the three in the living room are engaged in some heavy petting. Malcolm’s eyes grow hooded. Time to go.

  After I put on my helmet, he chucks me under the chin. “Be as safe as you can.”

  I head across the river toward Midtown, each revolution of the pedals getting heavier and heavier as I get closer to the Central Towers. Guilt bears down and so does insidious want. Would it be so terrible to stay in that posh apartment, I wonder. Until my mom gets better? It’s not like I’m so full of morality. After all, I’m nothing more than a drug mule for my second job. Can’t I suppress my pride to allow my mom to sleep on a bed with a view of Central Park and ride an elevator every day?

  But at what cost? What does Ian want from me? The vague details provided by Malcolm don’t give me much peace of mind. And the man himself? He’s been infuriatingly closemouthed.

  CHAPTER 15

  When I get up to the apartment complex, it’s late. I’m wondering if he’s gone by now, but the door at the end of the hall swings inward as soon as the elevator doors slide open. Ian stands framed in the doorway, fists at his sides and a muscle jumping at the left side of his clenched jaw. His anger confuses me.

  “Why are you upset?” I push past him.

  He follows closely and kicks the door shut. “Your mom said you’d get home at ten and it’s half past midnight.”

  He grabs my bike and we struggle a bit before I decide I’ll likely end up on my ass if I don’t let go. Giving in, I release the metal frame and watch as he lifts the bike onto the wall mount.

  “What business is it of yours? You kidnapped my mother, but you aren’t the boss—” I pause because he is kind of my boss now. Trying for a more restrained tone, I ask, “How is she anyway?”