Endgame (19 page)

“No more Sir. And I read somewhere that you’re to shave—you know.” He gestured to her pussy. “I don’t want you to shave, unless you want that. If it’s humiliating, then don’t. I want you to be proud and kick-ass. I don’t know if kick-ass women have pubic hair or not, but whatever. I like you as you are.”

“Okay.” How odd that he didn’t want to change her, to mold her into something else.

He nodded and ran a finger down the length of her nose, then lifted her chin upward so she would meet his conflicted gaze. “I want you to be my Danger Girl. Can you do that, for me? I want you to be dangerous, hot and girly, and if ditching the panties sometimes makes you hotter and more dangerous, then go for it. That’s what makes me horny as hell, when you’re hot and ready to kill me, all at the same time.”

And he was horny as hell, his cock lengthening, jutting out from his crossed legs. Her breath caught in her throat, and she struggled for understanding. Clarity. She met his gaze, the pupils widened with lust, every breath shallow. If she touched his throat, the pulse there would be rapid under her fingers, just like hers.

She’d never thought of Charlotte as attractive. How could she be, to any man? She was an assassin. Her training had taken over and had made her something unlovable. Until now.

Aaron wanted her to be…Charlotte.

Need slammed into her, the desire so great if she didn’t have him inside her, she’d burn to a crisp on the duvet. Her pussy creamed, aching to be filled, hard and fast. Her skin and breasts tingled, needing him over her, touching, sucking, caressing. He wanted to be the one to make her ready, and he had with his gentle demands and needs.

She rose on shaky legs, set their empty plates on the tray on the bureau, the pan of brownies on top for later. Then she returned to the bed where he sat, looking confused and expectant, more gorgeous and hornier than a man had a right to be. She would have tackled him, straddling him, but he probably wasn’t ready for that yet. Not with his past.

Instead, she flopped on her back and dragged him on top of her, reveling in the hardness of his body, his weight between her thighs. “I’m hot and ready to kill you. Right now, punk.”

His eyes flared with excitement. “How?”

“Death by sex. You game?”

“Hell, yes. Kill me.”

“If you survive, maybe you’ll earn another blow job,” she growled and kissed him, hard and demanding, his Danger Girl until the power shifted.

Then she would only be his girl.

Chapter Ten

Aaron rose the next morning, surprised to find Charlotte gone, the tray of paper plates and other picnic sundries gone. He’d swear it was all a dream except the room smelled of pizza and sex, and her panties hung over the arm of the chair. He felt mighty sore, like he’d fucked an army of Charlottes, every muscle on fire and stiff and his cock unable to muster even a little wood.

It was the best feeling, ever.

He pulled on some pajama pants, rifled through his drawers for clothes to change into after a shower—his water bill would break the bank, all these showers—and went out.

To see his Danger Girl dressed, sitting on his brother’s lap—sidesaddle, not astride. Jake sported facial hair again, his long hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. Charlotte whispered something, then tugged him close and kissed him. Not slow, not fast, not intimate. She pulled away, wrinkled her nose, and stood.

Those violet eyes met his, and she smiled, one of delicious delight. Aaron didn’t know if he should yell or just wait, because she could still kill him. He waited. She approached, rose on tiptoe, kissed him a lot longer and more intimately than she had kissed his brother, and whispered, “No facial hair. That’s a deal breaker.”

She sashayed down the hall and into Jake’s room, the door banging shut.

Aaron turned to stare at Jake.

His brother flung his hands in the air in immediate surrender. “I didn’t instigate that. I asked her about date night, she gave me a smile and plopped down. Honest.”

“Should I be mad she’s making moves on you or just let it go.”

“If she wanted me, she could have had me by now. She kisses me for work purposes. We’ve lived together, but she has always felt like a sister. I wouldn’t worry.” Jake cocked his head, studying Aaron with intensity. “Why was she crying?”

Sure, asshole, turn this back on him. “We had a…misunderstanding.”

“Charlotte doesn’t cry. Not in eons.” Jake hesitated. “Did she have a nightmare?”

“Nightmare? No.” He’d done this all on his own. Aaron glared, knowing now why she did it so much. “This is really awkward and weird.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I fucked up, but I made things right, okay? And that’s all I’m going to tell you.”

Jake assessed him for a long moment and then nodded. “I am regretting giving you children a ball to play with. I should have known she’d try to shoot it, and you’d question the thing to death until there was nothing left to play with. Oil and water, you two, and they don’t mix. Maybe she’s vinegar. She’s awful acerbic at times.”

“Give us time to learn the rules, dude. She hasn’t shot me yet.” Aaron didn’t agree about the not mixing. If you shook oil and vinegar really hard, it became salad dressing. “You knowing we’re sleeping together is weird. So can we just pretend it didn’t happen, and if she comes into my room, we’re just playing cards or something?”

“Yeah, no.”

They both sighed. Jake finally said, “She ate all the brownies, didn’t she?”

“Yep.” She had devoured them after he’d made her come again, this time unbound, her ordering him to fuck her harder. He hoped he got used to her wanting it that rough, because the thought of hurting her scared the hell out of him, and not because she could snap his neck.

“Shit,” Jake said. “I’ll have to learn how to make a cake. That’s my next chore. God damn that woman of mine, making me cook for the bottomless pit. Tia doesn’t get that a pan of brownies is not going to make Char fat or happy.”

Aaron’s head snapped up as he remembered something from the night before, that Jake had said. No, Charlotte couldn’t be happy, not when something in her future loomed, all dark and scary. “What is she training for?”

Jake sucked in a breath. “What?”

“Her endgame. What is she training for? I sort of listened in on your private conversation, which sort of led to her crying.”

Jake stood and gave him a stare that vied Charlotte’s for frosty. “Don’t ask, Aaron. Don’t ask her, don’t ask me, okay? It’s just easier. Don’t fall in love with her, don’t do anything more than just enjoy this moment in time. I took a big risk in pushing her in your direction. Don’t make me wish I hadn’t gambled.”

“Okay.”

“Are you sure you get it? This is sex only, something we Anderson men get all too well. She knows this, too. Wrong of me, wrong of her, but there it is.”

“I get it.” But he didn’t. He wasn’t so sure he wanted just sex anymore, and no one had asked his opinion.

“Good.”

Charlotte came back down the hall, glowering, holding a shirt Jake must have pulled from the dryer this morning. She shoved it in Aaron’s face, pissed as hell. “You washed my shirt.”

Aaron waved away the now nice-smelling shirt that had been stinky when he’d scooped her up from Jake’s bed. The shirt had practically begged him for washing. “Yeah. I did a load last night. Jake put it in the dryer. Why?”

“Oh, Jesus, don’t do her laundry, man. Just don’t,” Jake muttered, a hand on his brow. “I should have told you sooner. Don’t touch her stuff.” He said a little louder, “Char, you can sleep in my bed if you want.”

“I’ll be fine.” But she chucked the clean shirt at Aaron, stormed back down the hall, and slammed Jake’s bedroom door.

“Really? Because the shirt needed washing,” Aaron hollered after her. Then he turned to Jake. “She’s not sleeping with you, pervert.”

“Don’t touch her stuff,” Jake warned. “Look, don’t talk to her about this, either. Just let it go, say you’re sorry when she’s not so pissed and don’t touch her laundry again. If she’s not sleeping with me, then you’ll have to sleep with her. Not sex, sleep.” He stood. “I’m off to work. Don’t forget what I said. Sex only, don’t touch her shit, don’t do her laundry. Your balls will thank me later.” He slapped Aaron on the shoulder and walked out.

There was no way in hell Aaron was letting this go. All this fucking nonsense over a shirt. And he didn’t appreciate being used for sex only. He stormed down to the back bedroom, opened the door, expecting her to be tossing stuff around. Instead, she was on the floor doing push-ups, the guy way, and she wasn’t struggling.

“Okay, tell me why I couldn’t wash your stinky shirt? Because that sucker reeked of some other man, and granted, I dragged you back to my bed, but you smelling of another man is a deal breaker.”

She glared and did push-ups faster. Good lord, he knew she was fit, because there wasn’t a single soft spot on her entire body. Her ass flexed, and he swore he could have bounced quarters off of it. It made his cock as hard as a rock.

“Answer me, damn it. Whose shirt is it?” Aaron thought for a moment, digging deep, because her baggage seemed to rule everything. “Your husband’s?”

“No.” She glared harder and went to one-handed push-ups, her left hand behind her back. Aaron broke out in a sweat, watching her, knowing if she were on her feet, he’d be on his ass, wishing he could see straight to do push-ups.

He glanced around the room. Her bag was on the floor, and one of his T-shirts was on the top, draped over the side. He leaned over, tugged, and gestured to her with it. “You stole my T-shirt, too. Thief.”

That got her attention. She leaped to her feet and yanked it out of his hands. “I’m not a thief.”

He grabbed it back. “Are, too, this is mine.” He sniffed it. “And it’s not a clean one.”

“You can have it back.”

“Damned straight.” He thought for a long moment, staring at her, her floral scent washing over him, overriding his own smell. So familiar. He knew her, but from where, and it was more than the wedding. He glanced at the shirt, and then back at her. “I was missing T-shirts in England.”

“So?” But she looked rattled and turned away a little too late. He saw a flicker of something. Not fear—Danger Girl didn’t do fear. But it was something that made him wrack his brain. Why did he remember the tattoo, her scent… Which was why when she rescued him, she wasn’t so scary, like most women. He knew her, damn it. He just had to place where.

Missing shirts, England, cute gofer girl he had tried to ask out… Bingo.

“You were in England, weren’t you? Shit, yes. That’s where I know you from. The set.” He spun her around and stared at her. “Eyes were lighter blue, carrot red hair, different accent. Glasses, right?”

“No.” But her eyes were wide with actual, real fear. Busted. So busted.

“Don’t lie to me, baby. You were on location, spying on me. Stealing my T-shirts. You going to sell them or what? They’ll be worth something after this weekend. You should toss in a used condom, too. You’d be surprised what the girlies will buy.”

She backed away, her eyes wide. “Aaron, no. It wasn’t like that.”

Aaron sighed. He honestly didn’t think she’d sell his stuff online, but once judgmental, always judgmental. It rattled him more that she was there, in England, watching him. Stealing his shirts. “Then enlighten me, Ma’am.”

She tossed her hands in the air in surrender and started pacing. “Okay, yes, my job was to watch over you. Celia mostly, because Chase had this feeling that she was up to something besides wanting to screw you senseless. I was there, and my job was to not speak to you at all, which was hard, because you kept trying to corner me and get me alone.”

“I wanted to ask you out.” He’d been drawn to her, but she had avoided him like the plague.

“Yeah, I know. Do you know what Chase would have done to me? I got in enough trouble over England. I didn’t need that, too.” She tugged at her ponytail. “The first night we were here, I overheard you whining to Jake that I didn’t know who you were. I know everything about you, Aaron. I have a dossier on you. I know you’re AB negative, you had your appendix out when you were twelve, and you’re allergic to cherries.”

“Helpful.” And creepy.

“Oh, that’s not all I know. I know you like whisky, like Jake, and during that movie, you snuck shots whenever you could. You showed up buzzed to more than one scene. When Jason Smythe asked you to do lines, you thought he meant script lines. To your surprise, he offered you coke instead. You said no, but you were so tempted to get high. What will happen on the next movie, Aaron? What will keep you from going down that path?”

“You’re going to turn this back at me?” But she was right. He’d wanted to get high in the worst way but had been afraid. He’d never even smoked pot. His brothers just drank and whored as teens—no drugs. He worried like hell about the next movie because he wasn’t sure what would keep him from temptation.

“Truth hurts, doesn’t it? You are going to end up hooked on drugs and dead in ten years. So as fucked as my life is for stealing your shirts, I think your life is more fucked.” She turned to leave.

He grabbed her arm, her bicep firm under his fingers. “Not so fast. I want to know why.”

Her frosty glare slid along his fingers, chilling them to the bone. “When I return to D.C., I’ll mail your fucking shirts back.”

He had no clue why he couldn’t stop this. He should let her walk away, calm down. Not kill him. But he couldn’t. He wanted her, lust nearly blinding, the blood raging through his veins, straight to his dick. “Then whose shirt is that? The clean one? Tell me, Char, or I’ll punish you.”

“What? Fucking punk. You’re not punishing me.” But her breath caught and turned shallow, matching his, and he could smell her arousal, sweet and beckoning.

“You stole my shirts and you stole some other guy’s shirt. You deserve a good spanking.” Challenging her was like the best aphrodisiac, and though the words were flowing, his mind was thinking of how wet and tight her pussy would be when he fucked her senseless.

“Judgmental punk. On your knees.”

Fuck, yes. But he wasn’t giving in. He wanted the power flip. Right now. He took a step forward, his chest pressing against hers, and whispered, “No, you. On your knees. Now.”