“Watch how you move,” he said, “match it with…how you feel, so you can…find the rhythm again…when you need it.”
He transferred both her wrists into one big hand, pulling tight. But the stress was forgotten when his free hand cupped her breast and his head came forward, his mouth covering her nipple.
Heat and suction filled her breast and pumped straight to her pussy. She dropped her head back, deepening the curve of her spine and forcing him deeper. So damn deep his cock hit some hot button of pleasure with every stroke. Her mouth dropped open on a cry, their rhythm picked up speed, and a deep, full-body orgasm spiraled toward her.
And it was beautiful.
Absolutely. Goddamn. Beautiful.
“Ah God,” she cried.
“Bring it, angel,” he rasped, and increased both his speed and the power of his thrust. “Bring it.”
“Oh my G-” the intensity coalesced, her orgasm cutting off her cry as it peaked.
She broke, splintering into heat and light and pleasure, rocked by wave after wave of wicked ecstasy that wiped her mind of everything but the intense fulfillment infusing every cell of her body.
Only when the thrill quieted did he release her hands, grip her hips, and ride her to his own completion, first shouting pleasure, then pressing his face to the hollow between her neck and shoulder and growling like a deeply sated animal.
Giselle let her fingers slide through his hair until their breathing regulated, and when her devil finally stirred, Giselle's mind floated back from fluffy clouds and white light and blissful perfection to her far harsher immediate reality, one she'd now have to find a way to live with-she'd just screwed a total stranger.
Yet Troy continued to drift into her mind. To the way he'd called her angel. To the way he'd said, “Bring it, angel” during sex. To the way he'd loved to press his face to her neck and breathe her in after he'd come.
A sudden and intense wave of profound sadness came out of nowhere, swamping Giselle with loss and regret, filling her mind with Troy while another man still filled her body.
The wrongness of that only deepened Giselle's confusion. And the hope she'd experienced just moments before dimmed. It wouldn't matter if she found another man she could enjoy if she couldn't find a way to put Troy behind her.
And when the devil finally leaned away, he dropped his head back against the lounge, flopped a forearm over his eyes, and muttered something that sounded a lot like, “Satan, here I come.”
Troy hung midair in the largest cave at Red Rock Canyon just outside Las Vegas. Light from the crews above had faded soon after he descended into this cavern, and if it weren't for the headlamp on his helmet, he would be surrounded by a setting that mirrored the state of his soul-utter darkness.
Now, his lamp illuminated the rusty hue of rock as sweat slid down this neck, his chest, and soaked into his tee. To think the caves were a dozen or more degrees cooler than the desert floor outside made him grateful, even if he did feel like he was basting in a giant oven.
Voices and movement from the crew above echoed down to him. Lifehouse's Smoke & Mirrors album bounced through the cavern. Normally, the music would have layered a light atmosphere to the set, but again, he wasn't in a normal state of mind. And as Jason Wade sang “All That I'm Asking For,” Troy felt the lyrics heavily in his heart. Wishing, more than anything, for the chance to go back in time and do things over with Giselle all those years ago. But based on what he'd done only two nights ago with her, he knew nothing would change, because, where that woman was concerned, he always seemed to make the shittiest decisions.
Raucous laughter overhead forced Troy's mind back to the job. Keaton and Duke had been in rare form on this trip. And Zahara's famed pranks had been instigating one hilarious incident after another, often to the detriment of filming. No one could act when they were laughing their asses off, and this movie had more retakes than any he'd ever been involved in.
Every movie had a feel of its own. An atmosphere, a cohesiveness, a personality that developed from the combination of cast, crew, and location. Under normal circumstances, this film would go down in Troy's book as one of his top ten favorites, but from the moment he'd stepped off the plane to Giselle's face on a billboard, he'd been a flaming pile of shit.
He pulled a bottle of water from his harness, downing half. Then pulled out the radio and asked the engineer on the other end, “How deep is this thing?”
“Looks like…” Paper rustled over the line as Ed Miller turned pages of the map graphing the cave. “Sixty feet.”
“Nope. I'm at sixty now.” He tilted his lamp to shine below him where the shaft narrowed like an ice-cream cone. But the bottom of this thing dropped out of sight. “Doesn't matter. I'm going to take some measurements.”
He traded his radio for his tape measure, stretching it toward the wall, but the space was too wide and the metal bent, falling away. He reeled it back to try again.
He could guess at the distance, but he wasn't the estimator type. He was a perfectionist. He had to get all the numbers out on paper, had to do the math, then put that math through the app Rubi, the genius girlfriend of another Renegade, created for the same purpose-to keep them all safe.
Too bad he didn't plan out all his decisions this carefully. If he did, he wouldn't have a knife of guilt through his gut now.
Easing the tape toward the wall again, he rehearsed an explanation for his impulsive and degenerate behavior at the club with Giselle. Only no excuse he'd created over the last two days justified the way he'd pushed her. And pushed her. And pushed her.
None other than the fact that he'd been expecting her to break and back out.
But that wouldn't go over well with Giselle when he faced her.
If he faced her.