Feint and Misdirection Read online

  “Paul,” the redhead said, “and my friend over here is Jaime.” He leered at Desiree. “That’s a sweet name.”

  “Thanks, my mother gave it to me.”

  “That’s not all she gave you,” Paul sneered, unabashedly sizing her up. His cheeks were nearly as red as his hair and Imogen felt a surge of sympathy for her roommate overwhelm any desire to make small talk with Jaime.

  He anticipated her. “Ease up, man,” he muttered to his friend. “You’re coming on a little strong.”

  Paul frowned, bushy eyebrows knitting together snugly. “I’m just admiring a fine specimen of womanhood. What’s your problem? Desiree doesn’t mind, do you, Desiree?”

  “Actually—”

  “See?” Paul asked, looping an arm around her shoulders.

  Desiree stiffened.

  Imogen set down her glass. “You’ve got five seconds to get the hell out of my face,” she said, meaning every syllable. She watched Paul turn his wide, glassy eyes to her and knew what he saw—a short, stocky chick with barely any cleavage and arms like a pair of tree trunks. She squeezed her right hand into a fist to make her biceps swell, the better for Paul to get the message.

  He did, gingerly removing his arm from around Desiree’s shoulders and taking a chary step back.

  “You too,” Imogen said, albeit reluctantly, to his dark-haired friend.

  “I’m sober,” Jaime protested.

  “In that case, you need to call your friend a cab. He’s had enough.”

  Paul went livid. “Hey, you can’t throw me out. Who do you think you are, you little b—”

  Jaime slapped his chest with the back of his hand. “Dude!” Better for him to do it. If Imogen raised a hand, Paul would be doing more than wincing. “You’re not yourself, man. Why don’t you call it a night? Your wife must be worried.” Jaime placed heavy emphasis on the word, like it alone might snap his pal out of his inebriated trance.

  It seemed to do the trick. Paul staggered away with a smack of lips, as if put off by their presence. Imogen followed him with her gaze. If he so much as veered toward another woman, she’d send him packing. It was almost disappointing when he didn’t give her an excuse.

  “Sorry about that,” Jaime said, clearing his throat. “Are you all right?”

  Imogen glanced at her friend. Desiree’s good mood seemed to have slipped by the wayside and for that alone, Imogen felt the bloodthirsty yearning to ram her fist into Paul’s throat resurge.

  “Eh, happens a lot in my line of work,” Desiree sighed. “And I don’t always bring her with me to help out.” She bumped her jean-clad hip against Imogen’s, smiling with half a mouth. “My hero.”

  “Better my bare fists than your knuckle dusters,” Imogen shot back, feigning indifference.

  “Knuckle dusters?” Jaime repeated. “You girls don’t mess around…”

  He had a sweet face, all almond-shaped blue eyes and a soft, wide mouth, but Imogen didn’t spare him her derision. “You try being a woman in this neighborhood for five minutes and then we’ll talk.”

  “Point taken. You mind if I keep you company or would you rather be alone? I can take a hint, but—”

  Desiree caught her gaze and offered a minute nod. Imogen deciphered it easily. “No, you can stick around. We’ll see if we can’t find Des someone more appealing.”

  “Maybe someone in a short, tight skirt,” Desiree quipped, turning to survey the crowd with a critical eye.

  Imogen worried for her sometimes, because her job forced Des to interact with all kinds of sexually frustrated men—many of whom didn’t know when their insistence turned creepy. She’d never been assaulted, insofar as Imogen knew, but there had been near misses in the past. Desiree prided herself on her ability to bounce back quickly from a bad experience.

  It was the case tonight. “Oh, how about her?” she breathed, sizing up a leggy blonde with a pin-up tattooed on her right biceps.

  “Just what the doctor ordered?” Imogen mused. She didn’t know how to tell Desiree that she could stay with them if she wanted, so in the end she said nothing and Desiree shortly departed to make a new friend.

  Imogen reminded herself that her friend knew what she was doing—perhaps better than Imogen herself.

  “So…do you work in security?” Jaime asked.

  That got Imogen’s attention. It didn’t read like a line. “What?”

  “You were very convincing, before…” Jaime shrugged, smiling a little sheepishly. “I’ve never heard a woman threaten to beat up a man and look like she means it.”

  “I did mean it,” Imogen clarified, in case there was any doubt in Jaime’s pretty little head. “And the offer’s still on the table.”

  He was pretty, God help her. His whole face lit up when he smiled, his eyes narrowing to slits. “So, not security. Cop?”

  Imogen shook her head, smiling despite herself. “Not even close.”

  “Athlete?”

  “I wish.” She was too old and she only had a year’s worth of training under her belt.

  “A boxer?”

  The guessing game could go on in that vein for a while. Might as well bite the bullet. “Um, do you know what mixed martial arts is about?”

  “Sure,” Jaime said. He paused, eyes widening as he put the two together. “Really?”

  “Really. Not the UFC, though,” Imogen hurried to add, like that might sweeten the pill. Baby oil and clever nicknames weren’t for her. Besides, they wouldn’t have taken her on account of the fact that she liked to make her punches count.

  Jaime snuck a glance at her buff arms. This was usually the part where Imogen lost whatever small interest she’d been able to cultivate in a guy. Her mother wasn’t wrong about that—being slightly on the masculine end of the spectrum didn’t entice many straight men. And when it became clear that Imogen wasn’t afraid of getting her hands dirty, fragile egos often seemed to get the better of them.

  Jaime smiled into his beer.

  “What’s funny?” Imogen asked, bracing for rejection.

  “Just remembering Paul’s face for a minute, sorry… Do you want to dance?”

  Was he kidding? Imogen narrowed her eyes at him, trying to puzzle out his play as if she might’ve tried to decipher an opponent’s strategy in the ring. His expression gave nothing away. He seemed utterly sincere.

  “Okay,” said Imogen, setting her glass down and slotting a couple of mangled bills underneath.

  “That was paid for,” Jaime pointed out, bemused.

  She shrugged. “Then that’s a big fat tip for the minimum wage earner. Come on, Casanova. Show me your moves.”

  He had a few, as it turned out. It probably helped that Imogen had imbibed before taking to the dance floor because for once she didn’t feel all elbows and knees when he put his hands on her waist. There was no mimicking the pace of the music, it was too fast and Imogen had exhausted herself bounding on the mat earlier. The other couples around them were gyrating to a far more primal drumbeat, the kind of music that dwelled deep beneath the skin, coiling and purring like something feline.

  Jaime pulled her close, but he did it slow, by increments, so that Imogen only noticed when she felt the cold tip of his nose brush her cheek. “Is this okay?” he murmured against the shell of her ear, his warm breath gusting over her skin as he exhaled.

  “Yes,” Imogen answered. “Yeah, it’s fine.” Why was her voice suddenly so thin? She hooked a hand around his nape, but let the other hang freely at her side—free in case he got handsy and wouldn’t take a message.

  Fortunately, Jaime proved a perfect gentleman. His hands never strayed from her hips, his lips never veered in to try to steal a kiss she wasn’t sure she wanted to grant him. There was something strong in his reedy body, a core of steel that Imogen found herself drawn toward like a magnet. She pushed aside all thought of why he might like her, if he’d spotted Desiree first and was only making nice with Imogen because her pretty, blonde friend had turned out to bat for the other tea
m. It didn’t matter. For the space of a song, Imogen felt desirable and sexy. She had found her rhythm and heat spread through her body, helped along by liquor and fatigue.

  She felt Jaime walk his fingers to the small of her back and knew he meant to press their hips together. She moved first, arching against him as she straddled his thigh. Her hem rode up a few inches, but not enough to be indecent.

  “Still good?” he whispered, brushing his lips against her neck.

  Imogen nodded, robbed of speech and completely uncaring of whether or not she ever got it back. She scratched short nails into his shoulder when she felt his upper thigh press against her mound, knowing there was nothing accidental about that. She hadn’t thought to prepare herself for higher stakes. A soft sigh spilled free of her lungs as Jaime went still against her body.

  “I’m good, I just—”

  “Too fast?” He sounded a little breathless, too, like this was turning him on. Only one way to find out.

  In a flash of wholly atypical daring, Imogen slid her hand over his fly, grinning when she found him sporting a semi. “Too slow, for some people… Do you want to maybe find somewhere more private?”

  Imogen could barely believe the words coming out of her mouth.

  “What I’d like,” Jaime said, “is to take you home and bend you over my knee.” He pulled back, meeting her gaze with his own searching eyes. “But that might be—”

  “No,” she breathed, cutting him short. What the hell. You only live once. “No, I’d be good with that.”

  The smile he offered her was so enthused that she had a hard time reconciling it with the deep, dark promise in his voice.

  Chapter Three

  Desiree had been adamant. “If you’re not home tomorrow morning and you haven’t called me, I’m going to the police.” She’d said it loudly enough so Jaime could overhear.

  Fifteen minutes later, it was still hard to talk around.

  Imogen fidgeted, trying to do away with the swell of embarrassment lurking in her belly. Eventually, it became too much to smother. “About what Des said—don’t take it to heart, okay? She means well, even if she can be a little heavy-handed…”

  This, coming from the woman who had threatened to sock a guy because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself was hypocritical at best.

  She felt Jaime glance her way, his body a long, blurry line of dark suede and black cotton silhouetted against sparkly chrome. “Oh, I’m not offended,” he assured her. “I usually advise my partners to let someone know where they are when they come to see me. I’ve found it helps dispel certain fears.” The corner of his lips tugged up into a rueful smile and Imogen struggled not to leap up and kiss him. It was hard to do.

  “Oh. Right. That’s very…” Strange? Sweet? Sinister?

  She was still hunting for the word as the elevator doors slid open.

  MTV Cribs had prepared Imogen for reckless opulence, but actually setting foot into an apartment that must’ve cost millions was a whole other experience to a glimpse into the lives of the rich via her TV screen.

  “This is me,” Jaime said, slotting their hands together and giving her a welcome tug.

  Imogen took one step into his apartment, then another. She should have known he was loaded when they’d started east and kept going. She didn’t know where to look first—at the marble tile floors or the high ceilings, the lights flickering on in a sumptuous living room or the curved staircase leading up to the next floor. She had always told herself she wasn’t intimidated by wealth, but this—this was something else.

  “So…you’re well-off.” It wasn’t a question. Imogen couldn’t pretend to be in doubt when the evidence was laid out before her in gleaming mahogany and gold-leaf picture frames. The stylized horses were probably originals. What to her uncultured eyes seemed like a Van Gogh was probably not a reproduction.

  Jaime gave her fingers a light squeeze. “I am the one percent. Is that going to be a problem?” he asked, inclining his head.

  It took some effort to smother an incredulous laugh. “I don’t think there’s any woman who’d take issue with this.” Imogen waved a hand to encompass the chandelier and the orchids as well as the long dining table with its twelve high-backed chairs, visible through wide, white-framed glass double doors. He could probably fit her whole apartment in that dining room.

  “You’d be surprised,” Jaime breathed, stepping forward. He tipped her gaze to his with a brush of his index under her chin. “I can show you around afterward…if you’d like.”

  After what? Imogen almost asked, but the breath was robbed from her as Jaime pressed a kiss to her mouth. There was no hesitation in it, no whisper of self-doubt. And Imogen didn’t fight her way to freedom. Her panties were already soaked, thighs pressing together to slake that itching hunger deep at her core. She needed more, so she let her lips part and her tongue slip against Jaime’s, tasting scotch and rum and something else, too—a hint of peppermint? She wondered if she tasted of rum and coke and almost thought to stop and ask.

  This wasn’t the club, though, and Jaime’s manners saw a sudden shift as he slid his hand to the curve of her ass.

  Imogen shivered, moaning approvingly against his mouth. More, she wanted to beg. Touch me, I need—but there was no need to worry, because Jaime gave it to her. He had her pressed up against the wall in a few short steps, gentling the impact of her skull against the plaster by cupping her head in a careful hand. That gentleness didn’t translate to the cold grip of his fingers around her wrists or the way he pressed her hands above her head, pinning them with his own.

  Only his voice betrayed a sliver of uncertainty. “Is this—?”

  “Yeah,” Imogen panted, trying to brush her lips against his. He had such a lovely mouth and kissing him, while not enough to slake her desire, was enough to temper the flood of heat pooling in her belly. “Wait—do you pluck your eyebrows?” Her voice rose with the question. She must’ve missed that salient detail in the shadows of the club. “Not that I mind. I’m just—” Imogen felt her cheeks heat. “I think you’re my first metrosexual.”

  Jaime eased off a little, his smile somewhat pinched. “Does it turn you off?”

  “What?”

  “Some women…”

  She had been with men who thought two showers a week was the epitome of grooming, men who thought denim on denim was classy—plucked brows and smooth-shaven cheeks were not going to be a problem. “I’m still willing if you are,” Imogen quipped, drawing in a sharp breath as Jaime leaned his weight more fully against her body. “No objections to what you were doing before, either…”

  “What about this?” Jaime asked and dropped one hand to her hem, roughly jerking her skirt up to cup her mound.

  His touch left her gasping, because she hadn’t seen it coming, but it couldn’t have been more desired. Imogen nodded, licking her lips as he stroked his fingertips over her puffy labia. It was strange—to not be in control, to let someone else fondle her while she shook and panted encouragement—but not unpleasant. Jaime hooked a finger in the elastic of her underwear and soon there was no barrier between his touch and her slick flesh.

  Jaime huffed out a hot little breath, smirking. “Look at you…so wet for me, just begging to be fucked.” His confidence seemed restored.

  Imogen had seen enough pornos that she didn’t flinch, but she couldn’t remember the last time a man had talked to her like that. Maybe they never had. She rolled her hips against his questing finger, trying to force friction where she needed it most.

  “Say it,” Jaime growled.

  “What?”

  Her confusion didn’t faze him. “Tell me you want me to fuck you,” he commanded in a voice that brooked no opposition.

  “Yes.” Imogen let her head drop back against the wall. “Yes, I—fuck, I need you inside me.” She knew she could fight him off if she put her mind to it, but why would she? Her cunt ached to be filled, insides squirming as she felt anticipation tip over into frustration.


  She whimpered, sure that if she’d been able to think straight the sound never would’ve passed her lips, but only because Jaime had seen fit to remove his questing fingers. What if he changed his mind? What if he left her hanging?

  “Open your mouth,” he ordered.

  Imogen was powerless to deny him.

  She read his intentions half a second before she parted her lips and licked shamelessly at the pad of his finger. She tried not to think of where they had been before they’d ended up in close quarters. She’d had worse things in her mouth—perks of a misspent youth. It was worth it to hear his harsh inhale and know that Jaime’s self-control wasn’t nearly as seamless as he pretended.

  He let her suck and lick at his hand for only a moment before he growled, “Turn around.”

  When Imogen didn’t move fast enough to comply, he helped her along with a hand on her shoulder and the other reaching past the buttons at the front of her black dress. He cupped her breast in a rough hand, over the padded bra, but there were too many competing sensations for Imogen to cling to anxiety about her body.

  Jaime was hard against her backside, his cock tenting the soft material of his slacks. He didn’t try to hide his arousal as he hitched up her skirt and pulled her panties aside to plunge a wet finger into her cunt. “You feel that?”

  Imogen nodded, scraping her cheek against the wall. She could think of six ways to throw him off using only her upper body to do it, but there was no drive behind it. She was clinging to sanity by her fingertips, clenching around Jaime’s long digit like that might be enough to quench the fire licking at her insides.

  It wasn’t.

  “Please,” Imogen moaned, flexing her fingers into loose fists. “Please, Jaime—”

  The pressure around her wrists desisted and Jaime pulled away completely. Fear that she’d said something wrong surged in Imogen’s breast, but it didn’t last. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed him ripping a condom wrapper open and hastily unbuckling his belt. Heat flooded her face and she staggered, instinctively spreading her legs a little wider.