Valentine's Billionaire Bad Boys

  That seemed to be what he wanted, her riding him, for the second time she started to move more determinedly against him, and the hand clutching her hip gentled, sliding down to cup over her thigh as he rocked up to meet her every move.

  Sweat stung her eyes, rolled down her face while her breath sawed raggedly in and out of her lungs.

  Mesmerized, she stared down at him, the way the tendons in his neck stood out as he arched his head back, the way he gritted his teeth, the soft sexy growl that slid from him as she moved.

  “Yeah,” he muttered as she convulsed around. “Just like that.”

  His spine bowed, lifting his hips off the bed, driving the throbbing length of his sex so deep inside her. As he pulsed within her, she sobbed out his name and then he made a slight, circling movement, the head of his cock brushing over the notch buried by the mouth of her womb and she exploded, flying blindly into orgasm and screaming.

  Through the convulsions and tremors that racked her body, Emory vaguely felt his cock jerk inside her pussy, and the hot splash of his seed spill deep inside her.

  “Damn it, Tracy…”

  She stiffened at that name, pulling away from him and retreating to sit at the edge of the bed.

  “I’m not Tracy. Not anymore. She’s gone,” she whispered softly.

  He pulled back and as he pulled out of her, she winced a little. “Sorry, baby…Emory.”

  At the sound of her new name on his lips, she looked up at him.

  He crooked a smile at her. “Been following Emory Hughes for about six months now…I’m awful damned glad to know it’s really you. You’re you…doesn’t matter what your name is. I’d know that taste anywhere…”

  He pressed his mouth back to hers and she moaned, opening for him, feeling hunger stir in her belly again…even though she was still trembling from the climax.

  Joel pulled back and lifted her against him, carrying her over to the bed. As he lay down behind her, she caught a glimpse of the smile curling his lips. “Changing your name, the way you look, you did good, Emory—very good.”

  She pouted a little. “Not too good. You found me.”

  There was an odd note in his voice. “Did you not want me to?”

  Wriggling around, she turned in his arms, staring up at him with a sad little smile on her face. “Joel, I almost gave up waiting for you…”

  His face spasmed and she watched something move in his eyes. “What is it?” she asked, arching up to him, pressing her lips to his chin while her fingers moved down to slip the buttons loose on his shirt. His hand caught hers before she could free them though.

  Slowly, he lifted his eyes to look at her. “You’ve been keeping track of what’s going on with Grainger,” he said quietly.

  Her lashes flickered. “How do you know?”

  Joel smiled. “You’re a smart woman, Tr--Emory. You wouldn’t have taken off without keeping track of him. You’d know that he’d come after you if he lived. You set up a new identity—you had a contact. Somebody who watched him.”

  Slowly, she nodded. “A lawyer. It was the lady who helped me become Emory. Tracy’s gone, Joel. She calls me…” her voice faded away and a frown darkened her face.

  “What?” Joel asked quietly.

  Emory turned away, reaching for the small blue cell phone on the bedside table. “She didn’t call me back. She’d recognize my number. Aleisha would call…damn it, I called yesterday morning and this morning. I was going to call her house when I got home. That’s always the last measure, but…”

  Joel reached up and closed his hand over hers before she could punch in the number. “I’ll have somebody look into it. Just give me her name. Don’t call her house. That’s too dangerous, you know that.”

  Dark gray eyes lifted and stared into his. “Aleisha would have called by now. I…I think I was trying not to think about it.” She licked her lips, looking around her. “I bought a house, Joel. This is mine. The first thing that’s been mine in forever. I can’t lose it.”

  Reaching up, Joel wrapped his arms around her, pulling her down. She cuddled against him as he threaded a hand through the thick weight of her hair.

  I’ll take care of you, Emory. I will.”

  She lay there. “I know you will.” Long moments of silence passed and then she pulled away. Joel released her reluctantly, feeling the silken strands of her hair sliding away as she sat up, staring down at him, her eyes wide and dark.

  “You said you’d been in prison.”

  Joel closed his eyes. “Yes.” He heard her harsh intake of breath and looked back at her.

  “Why?” Her eyes narrowed as she stared down at him.

  He reached up and cupped her face. “Do you really want to know?”

  “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked.”

  Joel sighed and averted his face. “Your husband came to me because I’m a man who had power. You don’t get to be that way without doing a lot of unpleasant things, Emory. I’ve stolen, lied, cheated…killed.” Now he slid his gaze back to hers. “I’m not much better than he is. My past caught up with me.”

  Slowly, Emory knelt, putting her face level with his. “You can really be a dumb-ass idiot…” she whispered, shaking her head slowly.

  Sitting back up, she arched a brow as she studied his face. “Vincent’s pleasure in life is taking from others, causing them pain. The making of money is a hobby. He’s good at it—but that’s just a plus. He really gets off on the pain.”

  She looked away from him, her lashes lowering to hide her eyes. “And I know more about you than you think, Joel. A nice white-collar man isn’t going to willingly do business with Vincent. Not if he knows the man. He might do it unwillingly—or blindly. But you weren’t blind or unwilling. That means you were willing to break the law. I knew that. From the beginning, I knew you weren’t a knight in shining armor.”

  Then she looked back at him, shrugging a little. “I don’t need a knight, Joel. Maybe I needed one a little…then. Now I just need you.”

  Chapter Seven

  He heard footsteps. Squeaky, rubber-soled shoes, a sound he hated. Damned nurses.

  He was surrounded by them.

  His mind was slowly getting back into gear and he was figuring out what in the hell was going on, but it was slow. Thinking was slow.

  It had taken a few days to even get past the thick gray fog that had obscured most of his thoughts. A few more days to figure out where in the hell he was.

  A hospital.

  He was at a hospital and he was either ill or injured.

  Somebody passed in front of him. White…she wore white. Another nurse, a safe person. It was the people who didn’t wear white that he had to worry about.

  He processed the information even as she dabbed at the drool he’d let dribble out of his mouth.

  Disgusting, but there was a wariness about the way these people treated him that made him even more careful. Even the nurses.

  Those who didn’t wear white bothered Vincent the most. Feds. They came in wearing dark clothes—his eyes still bothered him too much to see but he knew they’d be wearing poorly made suits and they’d ask too many damned questions.

  When the people in the suits showed up, he drooled as much as he could and acted even more disgusting.

  It helped that he could finally figure out why he was here, and why the feds were watching him like hawks.

  It seemed like forever had passed since he had been able to think clearly—but in the past week or so, things had been getting clearer.

  His memory of that last day was incredibly clear now, not that he had let on. Even as the damned therapy people worked with him, he lay there like some slack-jawed yokel.

  It was paying off though. Every day, his body got stronger and the muscle cramps that plagued him faded little by little.

  For the past twenty minutes, he had lain with his eyes closed while the nurse checked his vitals and a doctor argued with some damn feds that he was completely incompetent.

>   Good doctor…he smirked inwardly, even as he wondered where in the hell the man had gotten his medical degree. Was it really that easy to mimic a catatonic state? Just sit there, stare straight ahead and drool a little?

  Disgusting, yes, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to jail and he was too damned weak yet to try and run.

  “There has to be a test, something you can do to check for coherency.”

  “We’ve done them. There’s brain activity, but he’s spent years in a coma—he has to learn everything over again. Give him some time!”

  Years? How many years? Damn.

  Now, as everybody left, his mind whirled and danced. Memories spun through his mind. Watching from a rocky cliff as a woman fucked a man…a man he wanted.

  They’d been so vague at first, but now they were crystal clear. Too clear.

  That woman…Tracy…his hands closed into fists as he said her name silently to himself. Her face flickered in his memory, that exotic face and sleek body so many men had wanted. That was why he had wanted her. Because others looked and wanted and knew they’d never have. But he could.

  He could have any damned thing he wanted…almost.

  The memory of Tracy with that man…Joel. Joel Lockhart.

  Vincent could remember one thing, clear as crystal. Joel, sitting across from him, wearing a black suit that fit that perfect body damned well. Vincent had been entertaining a fantasy where he moved to Joel, unbuckled that expensive Italian leather belt, slid the zipper down, and took Joel’s cock in his mouth…

  But then Joel had said words that had shocked the hell out of Vincent. He wasn’t shocked easily.

  “I want your wife.” The man had stared at Vincent with emotionless, dark blue eyes, set in a face that was too harsh for true male beauty, but so damned sexy, so male.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Joel’s voice was cool, flat, almost disinterested as he had responded. “You heard me. You understand, too. You asked what it would take to get me in on some of your business ventures. Well, I have the answer for you now. I want your wife. Otherwise, I’ll take my business elsewhere.”

  Vincent had forced out a laugh, lacing his fingers loosely across his belly as he’d leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “No piece of ass is worth gambling a fortune on, Joel.”

  “Well, since you like dick more anyway, you probably wouldn’t know. It’s not like she’s exactly your type. She can still be your little trophy wife—but I want her in my bed.”

  Those words had infuriated Vincent. Infuriated him and frightened him. Being gay was not something that was welcomed in his world. Too many of the sharks he swam with would see it as a weakness. Weakness wasn’t welcomed in his world.

  Joel Lockhart knew his secrets. Vincent didn’t know how—but he knew.

  Yet while Joel’s words had infuriated him, scared him, they had made him hot, too…made him wonder if he could show Joel the pleasure to be found in…liking dick, as Joel had put it.

  Not that it would ever happen. He’d learned to recognize those who could be tempted, bribed, or forced into his lifestyle.

  Joel wasn’t one of them.

  And the fuck had wanted Tracy. Tracy.

  Gnashing his teeth, he fought the images that flooded his mind. Too powerful, too strong, and he still felt weak. But he couldn’t fight them off, so he fed off the anger they instilled in him.

  How many times had he watched Joel fuck his wife?

  Enough so that whenever he started to look at her, it was with jealousy. Then that day…yes. That day.

  He’d fucked her, good and hard, and he could still remember how sweet that had been. Fuck, he could feel his cock jerking even now, and getting a hard-on wasn’t good when a man had a fucking catheter in his dick. The humiliation, the indignity of it made him seethe.

  They had put him in here. He was suffering this indignity because of them. And they were going to pay for that.

  As soon as he could get the hell out.

  * * *

  Joel came out of sleep with a vicious, sudden start. Staring up at the ceiling, he held his breath as memory swam back up through the dark fog of sleep.

  Against his side, there was a soft, warm weight, and a scent he hadn’t ever forgotten, sweet vanilla and woman.

  Tracy…no…Emory. She called herself Emory now. Damn, she had changed. She’d always been fey, like a slender pixie, exotic, with that short chopped hair and that wide mouth in her heart-shaped face.

  Now, though, she looked ethereal, like something too damned beautiful to be real.

  He’d known that pale hair on her head wasn’t her natural color, although it had looked amazing on her. The curls between her thighs were a soft, pale brown. He remembered in detail how she’d reacted the first time he’d parted those curls—with his tongue. He hadn’t even taken the time to do that yet, too desperate to feel her cunt squeezing his dick.

  The shiny, soft brown hair suited her. It framed the softened curves of her face, falling into gentle waves to her breasts. And damn it, those breasts. Hell, she’d always had nice tits—he had loved cupping them in his hands, plumping them and sucking on her pretty little nipples.

  But now…damn it, she was so soft and ripe. As he remembered how it had felt to take her, resting his hips in the soft cradle of her thighs, again and again throughout the night, his cock started to throb.

  It went deeper than the surface though—there was strength inside her, confidence. He didn’t know if it had always been there, although he suspected it had. The hell she had lived in had required strength—a weaker woman would have taken the easier way out. God knew, plenty of people walking a road not so difficult had done just that.

  But that inner core of strength that had kept her going wasn’t a quiet, hidden strength now. It shone in her eyes, in the way she walked, the way she talked.

  Joel would be damned if that strength wasn’t every bit as appealing as the frailty he still glimpsed in her eyes.

  He still wanted to cuddle her, promise her that she’d never know another instant of pain or fear. But he also wanted to fuck her brains out—ride her hard, rough—the way he hadn’t dared touch her.

  His lids drooped as that image burned itself into his mind. That edgy hunger was one he had kept under control before. It had been easier. Tracy Grainger had been fragile. Most men didn’t want to bruise somebody already so delicate—and Tracy had been just that.

  But Emory—the woman she had made herself into—was a different story.

  That hunger burned just under the surface of his skin, sizzling through his veins.

  Clouding his mind.

  Damn it. He had to focus.

  Had to remember what was going on, because the last time he had lost himself in thoughts of her, that bastard Simmonds had dared to pull a gun on her.

  Simmonds…he’d died that day, massive cerebral hemorrhage. The official story—the old man had pulled a gun on him and in the fight that followed, Simmonds had fallen back.

  He’d never mentioned Tracy, although they had asked about her in the days that followed. His story was that he hadn’t seen her since before he had left on his business trip days earlier.

  They hadn’t bought it—and more, Dowling had even been tracking the elusive Mrs. Grainger, maybe even from the beginning.

  If he hadn’t had that dossier, it would have taken a very long time to find her. Well, unless Carly had decided to shed some light on the subject.

  He smirked a little at the thought. It wasn’t impossible. There had been other odd things.

  Emory sighed and he turned his gaze back to her, stroking one hand up and down her arm. Pressing his lips to her shoulder, he whispered, “I love you…”

  The soft murmur that escaped her had him stiffening. He wasn’t ready to tell her that just yet. Not when she was awake.

  She arched and pushed back against him, stretching as she started to wake up. The ripe feel of her ass against him had him groaning. He rocked against her
, pushing against her until the soft cheeks of her ass cuddled around his dick. She hummed, a soft little purring sound of pleasure as he stroked his hand up her side, cupping her breast and pinching the nipple gently as he lowered his head, scraping his teeth along the soft pad of flesh on her shoulder.

  “Mornin’…” she murmured sleepily.

  “So, Tracy’s gone,” he whispered. “And Emory…is Emory afraid of anything?”

  She slid a look at him over her shoulder, her lids still heavy with sleep. “Depends on what you have in mind.”

  “I want to take you…like this…” he rasped, rising to his knees, tugging her onto hers. He pushed inside, watching as her spine stiffened. If she told him to stop…I can stop. For her…I can…

  But fuck, she was tight. Staring down, he watched as he pumped back inside her, slowly, fighting the tight, resistant grip of her flesh. “I want to fuck you…I don’t want to have to worry about looking in your eyes and seeing fear. I want to make you scream, and I don’t want to be gentle.”

  “Joel,” she whimpered, and she shivered as he pushed back inside her. The tissues of her pussy were slicker, the scent of her sexual honey rising to flood his head.

  Splaying his hands wide across the dip in her spine, he jerked her back against him, forgetting the gentleness, the care he had always used with her. Plunging his cock inside the snug, wet well of her pussy, he groaned as she clenched around him.

  She sobbed as he pounded against her, hearing the slap his hips against the round curve of her ass. Using his thumbs, he spread the cheeks of her ass apart, eying the dark rose of her anus greedily. He’d never touched her there, not even the softest caress—that wasn’t a gentle way to take a woman, and she had needed gentle care.

  But the hungry cries exploding from her mouth made him hot, made him careless and he licked his finger, probing the tight pucker, watching as he slowly breached the tight muscles.

  She stilled, her head dropping low to the mattress as her arms collapsed. “Joel…?” she whimpered.