Secrets and Sins: Malachim (A Secrets and Sins Novel) (Entangled Ignite) (12 page)

Chapter Seventeen

Danielle’s nod was slow in coming, but when it did, Malachim smothered a grateful groan. Though the urge to crush her to him rode him like a bad habit, he eased closer, granting her time to become accustomed to his body, the weight of him. His abdomen pressed against the outside of her thigh. He gently cupped her chin, whisking the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone.

Her breath tickled his palm, and he hungered for that same wash of air to brush his lips. His face. His chest. He closed his eyes. Slammed a club over his caveman hunger and dragged it back under the sharp eye of control and compassion.

He wanted Danielle. Wanted her with a ferocity that superseded the admiration and passion he’d had with his ex-fiancée and the bright flash of lust with the rare one-night stand. Even the knowledge that the secrets in her eyes might devastate him worse than Tara’s duplicity and treachery couldn’t stem the flood, now that it’d crashed through the gates of reason. He ached to dust kisses over all that golden cinnamon-and-sugar skin. Longed to sip the taste of her mouth and then savor the more distilled essence of her between her legs. Yearned to cover her petite frame with his larger one, shelter her within his body even as he slid deep into the welcoming, damp heat of hers.

A shudder coursed through him.

And yet, he admitted, as the pulse beneath her jaw increased and the blasts of air on his hand quickened, all he might ever have were those fantasies and needs.

Back off
, a voice whispered.
Don’t push her
.

Malachim even nodded, heeding the cautious warning in his head, but he slowly—so slowly—grazed the tip of his thumb under her bottom lip. Paused. Did it again. The full, sensual curve trembled, but Danielle didn’t pull away. Didn’t avoid his eyes.

He imagined replacing his thumb with his lips. Of drawing the soft skin between his teeth and tenderly scraping it. Of feeling her shiver beneath him and rejoicing that the reaction originated from desire, not trepidation.

Though his body shouted a vociferous objection, he dropped his arm, rose from the floor, and shifted to an armchair next to the couch. He scrubbed a palm down his face and then over his head.

“Why did you want to keep that from Detective Rider, Danielle?”

She didn’t immediately reply. Instead, she closed her eyes, turned her head away from him. “It—the break-in, Pat’s death—it was my fault,” she whispered.

Stunned, he shifted to the sofa, sitting beside her. “Don’t say that,” he ground out. “Don’t even think that. Whatever the bastard’s motive was, the blame belongs with him, not you.”

She met his gaze—for that, he was thankful. But the shadows in her eyes didn’t disappear.

“I answered your question,” she murmured. “Your turn.”

The objection rose in his throat—and died there. He’d allow her to switch the subject.

And then he opened up to her as she’d bravely done for him.

“A year ago, I was engaged to a woman who’d come to work for me as an associate,” he began, his stare fixed on his hands that hung between his spread thighs. To his own ears, his voice grated like sandpaper over stone. He didn’t relish reminiscing about the time in his life he’d been played like one of Yo-Yo Ma’s cellos. But maybe he needed to remind himself why desire and trust didn’t translate to the same thing.

Thinking with your dick could get the damn thing chopped off.

“Her name was Tara, and she’d come highly recommended. Beautiful, intelligent, fun—it wasn’t long before we were dating, even though I had a personal policy of not becoming involved with anyone I worked with. She seemed perfect. And with her poise and connections, she would’ve made a wonderful wife, hostess, and business partner. So after six months, I asked Tara to marry me.”

“Did you love her?”

Malachim glanced up at Danielle’s quiet question.

“I admired her. Respected her, could hold a conversation that didn’t make me feel like several brain cells had died after five minutes. We were good together as lovers.” Danielle’s gaze dropped, and he stopped. Waited for her to look up again. “But love her? No. She came the closest though. I trusted her.” His voice lowered on those last three words. “About a month after we were engaged, I returned to the office late one night to pick up a file I’d forgotten. The light in my office was on. I didn’t know what to expect. But it wasn’t Tara going through my computer, transferring client files to a thumb drive.”

Her shocked gasp did little to assuage his pride, his heart. He released a bitter bark of harsh laughter and shook his head.

“That’s not the worst of it. Initially, she tried to convince me I was wrong. After she tried and failed to worm her way out of it, she shrugged and admitted it. Since she’d started at the office, she’d been funneling information about the firm to Christopher. From the moment I’d taken over the firm from my grandfather, I hadn’t lost one client. But after Tara came on board, two suddenly left. I then understood why and how. Turns out, after we’d started dating, Christopher had bribed her into passing information about my firm to him. He paid her to wreck my business from the inside out. But they hadn’t been satisfied with my career. By her agreeing to marry me, my so-called father and fiancée had conspired to ruin me emotionally and financially, too.”

“God,” she breathed.

A corner of his mouth tilted in a humorless half-smile. “Christopher likes to think he is.”

“What did you do?” she asked.

“After I ordered her ass out of my office and life?” he asked. “I drove to my parents’ house, grabbed the bastard up, and told him I’d found out about his little plan. And that he could go fuck himself. Unfortunately, we both knew he’d scored a direct hit. His smug smirk said it all, and it took everything in me not to beat the hell out of him. If not for my mother, I would have.”

“Did she know?”

His head jerked back, her question clipping him on the jaw. “Mom? Of course not,” he snapped. “How could you ask that? She loves me and wouldn’t have put up with it if she’d known.”

“And yet she stayed with him when she found out.” He stiffened as she turned more fully toward him, lifting her leg onto the couch and curling her foot under her thigh. She shifted closer until her knee almost brushed his hip. After a brief hesitation, she leaned forward and clasped his hands between hers, shocking the hell out of him, cutting off the rebuke in his throat. “And,” she continued softly, “you resent her for it.”

“The hell I do,” he snarled and tried to tug his hands from her grip without hurting her. But her surprisingly strong grasp prevented the motion. So he fought with words. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know what it feels like to wonder why you weren’t special or loved enough to be chosen first over a drug or a man. I know how it feels to desperately love someone even when you’re so angry they didn’t put you first, place you above their own happiness and comfort. Just once.”

His chest rose and fell on harsh bellows; the air whistled in and out of his flared nostrils. She didn’t know shit, his mind raged. His mother and hers were two different women. His mother had never neglected him; she’d never cheated him of her love and offered it to drugs and men instead. She’d been tender, affectionate, kind…

And she’d remained silent when he’d needed her most.

Christopher and Tara’s betrayal had nothing on the shame and guilt his admission brought.

Because he loved her. God, did he love her. And he’d often wondered if not for his birth, would she have the happiness, the loving husband and son she deserved. As a child, he’d blamed himself for her misery.

Yet the truth remained… His mother hadn’t protected him. She hadn’t sheltered him from Christopher’s abuse and scorn. Even still, every year on her birthday, she insisted he spend time in that bastard’s company for dinner, remain silent in the face of his targeted barbs. How many times had he—silently and not-so-silently—begged her to leave that oppressive, hateful house?

Yes, the boy he’d been had loved and resented his mother.

And the man he’d grown into recognized she’d had reasons for staying. Yet the same man had never released—or admitted to—the anger. The bitterness. The fucking loneliness.

“I don’t know about your mother’s predicament back then, Malachim,” Danielle whispered, her gentle tone a beacon he homed in on, clung to in the emotional squall he’d been tossed overboard into. “Nor do I pretend to understand it now. But one thing was evident when she came in here today—her love and pride in you. And her desperation for your happiness. Some women go into marriage with stars in their eyes and dreams in their hearts…” Her voice deepened. “And when those stars are dimmed and the dreams shattered, they’re trapped. Whether by wealth, duty, pride, or even love—they’re bound, powerless, and to them, there isn’t a viable way out of their situation. Especially when another’s welfare depends on their decision.”

She inhaled, slightly rolled her shoulders back, but didn’t release him.

“Let it go, Malachim,” she murmured, caressing the back of his hand with her thumb. “Give yourself permission to be angry with her decisions, and then forgive her. Because everything she’s done past and present, every choice, was out of love for you. Right or wrong. She sacrificed her happiness for love or security—hers and yours. Honor that and let go. Because the bitterness doesn’t go anywhere; it festers whether you acknowledge it’s there or not. And then Christopher truly would win, and without a Tara or another hurtful scheme or deceit. You’d hand over the victory to him.”

Then she lifted their clasped hands and tenderly placed a kiss to his knuckles.

Something inside him shattered; it cracked wide open down the middle and splintered in so many pieces he wondered that slivers of his soul and heart didn’t litter the floor around them. The immense, agonizing pressure inside his chest swelled and throbbed for an instant before slowly unraveling, loosening. And the healing balm of her lips against his skin ignited a cauterizing flame deep in his spirit, clearing away the resentment, pain, and anger whose existence he’d denied.

She lifted her head. He slid a hand free and threaded his fingers through the hair over her temple. He shifted forward, drew her closer, and returned the gentle kiss to her forehead.

“Thank you,” he whispered against her skin.

She moved first. Her head tilted back and her wide, soft mouth brushed his. And stole the air from his lungs. Captured his heart and squeezed until it ached.
Oh, Jesus
. His pulse stuttered, and he froze. Afraid to startle her. Afraid she’d back away. Afraid she’d lift her dark, thick lashes and regret would darken the chocolate gaze. With more strength than he believed himself capable of wielding, he tethered the greedy beast inside him demanding he crush his lips to hers, to devour this unexpected and precious offering. His breath rasped in his chest as he waited. And hoped. Longed.

In the space of two lifetimes or two seconds, her eyes opened, and a rush of delight and satisfaction swelled and crashed in him. No regret. No fear. Wonder. Pleasure. Triumph.

Again he battled the primal urge to haul her into his arms and consume. The need was there, twisting his gut into aching knots, but instead of giving in, he lifted his other hand and stroked the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. He pressed it, tested its resiliency, and thrilled at the fullness of the sensual curve.

“More?” He prayed his low, hungry growl didn’t make her shy away or reconsider her actions. God, he hoped not. That one, simple graze of her lips had been sexier than the most erotic, debauched encounter he’d ever had with a woman in his thirty-five years.

She nodded, her palms resting on his knees. “Yes.”

Grasping her chin, he angled her head farther back and lowered his until their breaths mingled and danced.

With a low moan, he captured her lips, tenderly molding them, learning them. Her fingernails dug into his denim-covered skin, but she didn’t draw back. Instead, she leaned into him, silently requesting a deeper possession. He gave it to her. And when he slid the tip of his tongue over her lip, he pleaded with her to take him, too. And she did.

Their mouths explored, tangled, played.

His heart thundered like a spooked horse, out of control and unruly. Desire clenched his muscles, tightened each tendon, and poured into his erection. His cock pulsed with every beat of his erratic heart, insisting on a deeper conquering.

Damn it, he groaned, withdrawing from her moist lips and tantalizing taste. The martyr trait in his family tree must be on his unknown father’s branch. He craved nothing more than to lay her out on the coffee table and worship her until no inch of her body remained unfamiliar with his touch.

He lowered his hands from her face and head, reclined in his chair. Either he inserted space between them, or he followed through on the vivid, erotic images playing a dangerous game of peek-a-boo in his head.

She lifted trembling fingers to her mouth. He didn’t speak, allowing her to take the lead, make the next move. Tell him to leave her alone…or to stay. He closed his eyes and relived the sweet surrender of her mouth. The kiss hadn’t been the most practiced he’d ever experienced. But damn, it’d been the hottest. The most…important.

He hadn’t been prepared for the hunger, the panic—for her. But he wanted more. And he hoped like hell she did, too. Yet, if she turned him away, he’d leave her.

Whatever she wanted.

Whatever she needed.

Chapter Eighteen

Her mouth tingled with the echo of his kiss. Wonder, delight, and a sliver of fear vibrated in her chest, clenched her stomach.

Desire—hot and pure—pulsed in her veins. The intensity was startling, frightening…magical.

She lowered her hand from her mouth, her attention riveted on the sharp planes of his face, the contrasting hedonistic curve of his lips. And the intensity of his hooded scrutiny. Tension seemed to radiate from his taut shoulders and thighs. He was motionless except for the heavy rise and fall of his chest.

He waited.

For her.

She stood on the edge of a cliff. One foot was planted on the earth—solid, steady…safe. The other foot hovered over air, the unknown where she could tumble head-over-ass into something that could be exhilarating or horrifying...

She stepped off the cliff.

Slowly rising, she held her trembling hand out to Malachim. Without hesitation, he enfolded her fingers in his but remained still—permitting her to take the lead.

Her heart raced, almost as if the organ could sprint right out of her body. She swallowed, but the moisture in her mouth had fled, and nerves constricted her throat. God, she wanted the courage to do this—to conquer her fear, to discover if she was whole…to take back herself.

A gentle caress brushed over her cheekbone, her jaw, and finally her bottom lip. Nerves and something much darker, hotter, fluttered in her stomach. If she were honest, they’d been headed to this moment from that initial meeting at his brownstone, when the first stirrings of arousal had quivered inside her. He’d been the only man to cause those long dead embers to kindle. The only man whose touch didn’t make her cringe away but want to draw closer. The only man to offer her hope that maybe Alex hadn’t broken her.

She turned, led him to the bedroom he’d pointed out to her as his the night before. They entered the room, then, after several steps, she paused. She stared at the large bed with its dark blankets, and it seemed to loom larger than life.

The kiss across the nape of her neck was whisper-soft, the glance of fingertips over her cheek even softer.

Malachim shifted from behind her and crossed to the bed. Without releasing her from his captive stare, he settled on his back and stacked his palms behind his head. He didn’t say a word, just laid himself open for her scrutiny…for her touch.

Desire, excitement, and curiosity coiled deep in her belly, hurtled through her body, keeping pace with the wild gallop of her heart. He wasn’t the first man she’d been with. But no other had been
him
. She was a virgin when it came to tracing
his
skin, exploring
his
hard planes.

He stared at her, waiting. For her decision. For her choice. Because that was his message. She was in control; she possessed the power in this bed. And he was hers to do with—or not do with.

Danielle sank her teeth into her bottom lip. This gorgeous, strong male animal was hers, if only for a few hours. If she was courageous enough to take him. If she was brave enough to prove the past didn’t have a manacled hold over her here, in this bedroom, with this man.

She moved to his side, lowered her fingers to his mouth, brushed the tips over the soft, full skin.

His lashes shuddered but didn’t close. And she was grateful. His purple, fixed gaze kept her grounded in the here and now; it refused to let her drift to a dark place.

A sigh escaped her, and she surrendered.

She drew a path from his mouth down his inflexible jaw and over the muscled column of his neck. Then, because she could, she retraced the journey. With her lips. His breath quickened, but he remained still except for the parting of his mouth to accept her kiss, the inquisitive quest of her tongue. She cupped his face, angled his head, and took the exploration deeper. His low hum reverberated in her mouth and tossed kindling on the fire simmering inside her.

Lifting her head, she studied the effects of their kiss. And delighted at the flush high on his cheekbones; the slumberous, hooded gaze; and the swollen, damp lips. She’d done that to him.

“More?” she whispered, mimicking his question from earlier in the day.

A corner of his mouth kicked up. Slowly, he nodded. “Yes,” he said, voice as rough as a gravel road. “More.”

She complied, taking him with no hesitancy, no uncertainty. Their tongues flirted, danced, mated. He moaned, and she swallowed it, enjoying the sound of pleasure as much as his taste. With a groan of her own, she trailed a caress down his throat to the small bowl at the top of his collar bone. She sipped from it, earning a shiver.

But the caress wasn’t enough.

Rising to her knees, she plucked at the hem of his black sweater.

“Will you take this off?” she asked, mouth dry. But not from fear. A bit of nerves but more anticipation. Need. Desire.

Instead of answering, he levered up and, with a questioning glance in her direction, reached for the lamp next to the bed. She shook her head. No, she needed to see him—she needed to
know
it was him, here, with her. Dipping his chin in acknowledgment, his fingers grasped the edge of the knit. In seconds, the sweater cleared his head and was tossed over the side of the bed.

Miles and miles of golden skin stretched taut over toned muscle. With his blond hair and gorgeous body, he reminded her of a Norse god. The only thing missing was a hammer and helmet. As he shifted back down to the mattress, his abdomen rippled with power, and the delineated bones of his hips were bared by the low-riding waist of his jeans. Good God, the man was perfect.

And that quick, the nerves returned full blast. She hadn’t been with a man in two years. For so long, she’d been ridiculed for being too fat, too skinny, too curvy, too boyish. She’d never been quite beautiful enough for Alex, and her confidence in her femininity had taken a brutal hit. What if Malachim didn’t think she was so…perfect?

“Hey.” His low murmur penetrated her panicked thoughts. “Look at me, sweetheart.” He waited for her to comply. “We go as far as you want. If we stop here, we stop. Just stay with me. Don’t leave me.”

Stay with me. Don’t leave me
. She didn’t pretend to misunderstand his meaning. He wasn’t referring to her physical body, but her mind, her attention. Stay and don’t leave for a place he couldn’t reach her.

Finger by finger, she released the tight, twisted grip on the bottom of her shirt, and slowly drew it over her head. The warm air in the room drifted over her bared skin, leaving her feeling exposed in the plain white bra. She crossed her arms.

“Please,” Malachim said. “Let me see you. I’ve tortured myself with images of you like this. Let me see if my imagination comes close.” The hoarse plea in his tone caressed her, smoothed the ragged edges of her anxiety. Slowly, she lowered her arms, and his soft gasp and muttered curse were sweeter than the loveliest compliments. “Not even fucking close,” he growled.

His low rumble rolled over her, through her, and drew her back to him. Emboldened, she leaned over him and stroked her palms over his hard chest. Her fingertips followed the silky path of hair arrowing beneath his jeans. She tasted his skin, delicately licking his small, flat nipples before roaming to the ridged wonder of his abs. His water-and-air scent was garnished with his unique flavor, and she sipped it from every inch of skin available to her. Rough, throaty groans and pleas urged her on, appealed that she enjoy more of him, touch more of him…take more of him.

More…more…more. It echoed in her head like a sensual mantra.

Maybe she uttered the thought aloud. Maybe he read her mind. Either…or…it didn’t matter. When he raised his palms to her silk-covered breasts and murmured, “Can I?” she readily gave her assent.

She arched into his hands, whimpered. He cupped her flesh, tenderly molding and squeezing. His thumbs whisked over her nipples, and she cried out at the pinpricks of pleasure that stabbed her belly, between her thighs. She didn’t need his encouragement or prodding to remove the bra. With hurried movements, she rid herself of the material preventing him from fully contacting her skin. When he pinched the hard tips, rolled them between his clever fingers, she trembled. The hot core of her pulsed, quivered, pleaded.

Hands shaking, she clasped the button on his waistband and after a fumbling attempt, released it. Her breath soughed in and out of her parted lips as she slowly tugged the zipper down. Her knuckles grazed the hard ridge beneath, and her heart thumped. Her sex clenched.

Gently, he pushed her hands aside and, raising his hips, finished divesting himself of his jeans and underwear. Oh…God. She skimmed the taut strength of his calves, the solid columns of his thighs, but the thick, long, intimidating length of his cock ensnared her attention. It was as beautiful as the rest of him, but—she swallowed—he would press all of him inside her. The flash of worry stemmed from more than feminine alarm. Sex hadn’t always been…comfortable. And he was larger than any man she’d been with before…

“Danielle,” he said, lifting a hand to her face. She turned into his palm, closed her eyes. Shutting out everything but the tender timbre of his voice. “Kiss me.”

She loved tasting his mouth. And when she lowered her head and pressed her lips to his, he opened for her, once more flooding her senses with pleasure so need overrode trepidation. Desire engulfed anxiety.

“How slow you want—how much you want,” he reminded her, his breath bathing her damp mouth. “It’s all up to you.”

She nodded, losing herself in him once more. How long their lips and tongues melded, she didn’t know. Didn’t keep track. But when she finally rose from the bed, shoved her jeans to the floor, and waited as he leaned over, removed a small foiled square from the drawer of his nightstand, and sheathed himself in clear latex. Passion pummeled her, rode hot and demanding in her blood. She wanted him—needed him.

The heavy length of his erection throbbed against her palm as she straddled his hips and positioned him at the mouth of her sex. It’d been so long.
I can do this. It’s Malachim…not…

“Danielle.” His large palms were pressed to her cheeks, cradled her head. Her eyes lifted to his, and the gaze burned with an inner fire that mimicked the heat licking her from the inside out. “Keep your eyes on me. Don’t look away. You and me, baby. We’re the only two here. Understand?”

Tears pricked her eyes. An emotion she didn’t dare dwell on swirled under and around the bindings squeezing her heart.

“Yes,” she whispered.

And staring into his unwavering, reassuring gaze, she pressed down.

He gripped her hips, steadied her, coaxed her to accept more of his cock. Her hands flew to his strong shoulders, dug her nails into his taut skin

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he praised softly. “As much as you want.” He groaned, the skin over his cheekbones taut and flushed, his lips fuller, more sensual. “You’re so tight. So beautiful.”

With a low moan, she took all of him. Inch by inch with several starts and stops, she enveloped him, welcomed him. It was so…good. So different. He filled her to capacity—almost past it—but instead of invaded, she was completed. Connected.

“Malachim.” She said just his name; it was all she could manage, and yet in her heart it said everything.
Thank you. I need you. Make me whole again
.

With sure hands, he guided her hips in a timeless rhythm that swept away everything but the pleasure, the hunger. He stoked it higher, his cock nudging virgin places deep inside her that had never been reached. She cried out with the desire that spiraled from high in her sex to every limb, awakening every nerve and sense. Dimly, she caught the wet sound of skin to skin, his low growls and groans of pleasure, her keening whimpers. They were the perfect sonata to this sensual dance. And they proved too much. He undulated between her thighs, and his firm, insistent strokes catapulted her into orgasm.

She soared, exploded, and shattered.

And then he was there, gathering the pieces, and holding her close.