Tempting the Knight (The Fairy Tales of New York Book 2) Read online

  Ty dumped his briefcase on one of the chairs next to the small table at the end of the space and then slung his jacket across the back. She curbed the urge to tell him to put his briefcase away and hang the jacket up in the bedroom wardrobe—where it belonged, next to the rest of his newly dry-cleaned suits. She would not allow his slovenly habits to turn her into a neat freak… Or at least not until she’d schmoozed him into a weekend invitation.

  “It looks…” His gaze roamed over her hair, and a wash of heat hit her cheeks, which was bizarre for two reasons. She never blushed. And she had absolutely no interest whatsoever in what Ty Sullivan thought of her new hairdo.

  “Cute,” he said with more surprise than enthusiasm. “But how do you plan to earn your living now? Who’s gonna shell out millions of bucks for an ad campaign for shampoo featuring a model with no hair?”

  The critical comment sliced under her ribs like a knife. She let the quick stab of temper mask the idiotic hurt. What did she care what this self-righteous do-gooder thought of her career?

  “Are you always such a charmer when you return from work in the evenings?”

  No wonder he didn’t have a girlfriend, or a significant other. What woman would want to spend time living in this dump with a grump like him? Not that she’d looked through his wardrobe for any signs of female cohabitants, particularly. She just happened to have gleaned that information in passing while gathering up his junk and doing his laundry.

  “You want charming don’t get me up at two a.m. in the morning.” He glanced round the barge. “And don’t mess with my stuff without my permission.”

  “If by your stuff you mean the decades-old takeout box from Mr. Po’s Chinese Restaurant or the very interesting substance I found bonded to the underside of your sink, I’d have to wonder what exactly is so precious about it.”

  “By my stuff, I mean the court reports and case files, which I need at my fingertips. Where the hell are they?”

  “Oh, you mean the paperwork that was doubling as a mountain range of crap the size of the Andes?” She flicked a regal hand towards the filing cabinet tucked under his desk which had been empty until she’d gotten to work. “They’re filed in alphabetical order. You ought to be able to figure out how to find them,” she continued, unable to resist the droll stare. “Assuming you know how to alphabetize.” She slapped her hands together. “Now, why don’t you wash up so we can have some supper. I found the fabulous Russian Market on Cherry Hill and made us some dinner that didn’t come out of a box.”

  “Did I ask you to make me supper?” he countered.

  The surly statement, delivered with the gruff murmur of righteous indignation was too much for a saint. And Zelda Madison had never been a saint.

  The ungrateful son of a bitch. She’d worked her butt off today to clean up this crap heap, sort his laundry, file his precious paperwork, and even prepare a nutritious and delicious meal. And this was all the thanks she got?

  She glanced at the plate of potato salad, nestled among the array of cordon bleu entrees she’d spent over an hour slaving over in his newly scrubbed kitchen. “I see. Are you telling me you’re the only man in America who doesn’t like potato salad?”

  “That’s not the damn point and you know it?”

  “Fine.” She scooped up a generous handful of potatoes, homemade mayonnaise, capers, and pimentos. “If you don’t want to eat it, how about you try wearing it.” And let it fly.

  It smacked into his forehead with a gluey plop and imbedded itself into his hair.

  He cursed as he dug the cement-like mixture off his brow before it could drip down his face. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  The laugh popped out without warning. He looked so furious, with his dark hair sticking up in an indignant tuft like a single devil’s horn. “Oh, I don’t know,” she managed to get out ’round a slightly hysterical giggle. “Maybe it’s that I’ve spent the whole day trying to make this place nice for you and you’ve got about as much gratitude as a spoilt two-year-old.”

  “Yeah?” The furious glare narrowed, going squinty round the edges, but then to her astonishment his sensual lips hitched up on one side in a challenging grin that made his misty green eyes sparkle with mischief. The sight took her breath away.

  Good lord, Ty Sullivan was even more of a lady-killer when he bothered to smile.

  Unfortunately she was too busy admiring the lopsided half-smile to clock the sly tilt to his lips, until one of her Caribbean crab patties splatted against her breastbone and dropped into her cleavage.

  He sucked the crab paste off his thumb, the crooked smile now a fully blown smirk. “Damn, this tastes pretty good.” His grinning gaze wandered pointedly down to her boobs. “Looks great on you, too. You should wear it more often.”

  “You bloody, buggering bastard.”

  “Now, now, Miss Priss,” he said, raising his hands as she armed herself by dipping a Ukranian dumpling in cream cheese. “You don’t want to go messing up all your hard work,” he added, chuckling at her aggrieved expression.

  “Like you care.” She hurled the dumpling, aiming for the spot on the center of his forehead again.

  Unfortunately he ducked this time, and caught it in his fist. Then lobbed it straight back at her. She dodged to the side but cream cheese skidded off her eyebrow—proving he had a much better throwing arm than his empty laundry basket suggested.

  It was a declaration of all-out war.

  Suddenly patties and pastries were bulleting across the room, salami slices hurtling like discuses. Cream cheese and homemade guacamole exploded against the kitchen counter accompanied by the gasps and shouts and grunts of battle. She got in a couple of direct hits, but he was sneaky and fast and a much better shot. She redoubled her efforts until the ammunition ran out. He made his move while she was stooping to scoop some tabouleh off the floor. Charging her, he trapped her throwing arm, wrapping strong arms around her body. They crashed onto the bunk together in a hail of herbs and spices, his hoot of triumph echoing around the barge with the peals of her laughter.

  Manacling her wrists above her head, he settled on top of her. “Gotcha, you hellcat.”

  Tears had formed in his eyes; he’d been laughing so hard, giving the misty green added sparkle.

  “Look what you’ve done to my minidress,” she cried, trying for outrage, but failing miserably thanks to the breathless giggles bubbling out of lips coated with… She swiped her tongue across her bottom lip … Mmm, Hungarian hummus.

  His gaze locked on her mouth, the husky chuckles cutting off. The searing appraisal trailed down to her cleavage napalming everything in its path. Her breasts heaved, swollen and heavy, pinned down by the hard contours of his chest.

  “Uh-huh?” he murmured. “Funny how your minidress looks mighty familiar.”

  She squirmed, but he had her caught fast. Not just by the weight of his body, but the mesmerizing intensity on that harsh handsome face. The dimple in his cheek looked particularly incongruous for a guy who, until ten minutes ago, she would have sworn walked around with a stick permanently shoved up his butt.

  The ragged pants of their breathing added spice to the scent of freshly chopped coriander hanging in the air.

  Her nipples puckered into rigid peaks, the lack of a bra suddenly very obvious with the thin cotton of his T-shirt soaked in papaya juice.

  “I can’t think why?” she countered, the weight in her abdomen sinking low. She widened her legs, her thighs straddling his hips so the satisfying bulge forming in his trousers could settle against her aching clit.

  “Yeah? I’m thinking I should ask for my Fruit of the Loom back.” The comment was gruff and surprising. Who knew Ty Sullivan had a naughty streak?

  She rocked her hips, suddenly desperate to feel that heavy length inside her.

  She hadn’t had sex in months. Not since a one-night fling with the photographer on her last photo shoot in Rome—which had turned sour when he’d offered her a line of cocaine to complement h
er afterglow.

  “You want it back,” she dared. “You’re going to have to take it back.”

  “Don’t think I won’t.”

  “All I hear is talk,” she challenged, loving the flare of his nostrils.

  Holding her wrists in one hand, he kept his eyes locked on hers as he lifted the hem of the T-shirt. His hand swept up to cup one naked breast. She arched her back, loving the feel of his callused palm as the nipple swelled and hardened.

  “Damn, but you’re beautiful,” he said, on an anguished sigh.

  She’d been called beautiful before, but never with that rough combination of desire and stunned disbelief. The evidence that he didn’t want to be attracted to her, was like a red rag to a bull.

  She tugged her hands from his grip and sank her fingers into his food encrusted hair to draw his mouth down to hers. She licked and nipped against the seam of his lips, until he opened for her. Thrusting her tongue inside, she directed the kiss, until his tongue tangled with hers and a dance of dominance and surrender began. The battle for supremacy became wild and reckless until they broke apart, the pants of their breathing deafening despite the rumbling hum of the conditioning unit.

  Suddenly they were wrestling their clothes off. He hauled her up, dragged the stained, sodden T-shirt over her head. She scrambled to unzip his suit pants. Buttons popped as she wrenched his shirt apart to glide her hands down the tensed muscles of his abs and into his boxers. She pushed the waistband down, relishing his strangled groan as she wrapped her fingers round the thrusting erection.

  God, but he was beautiful, too, so thick and long and hard, the circumsized head slick and ready with pre-come.

  Somewhere a million miles away, a voice whispered ‘this is Faith’s uptight brother and you can’t stand him’. But the voice was drowned out by the pounding ache in her pussy as he wrenched off her panties, then plunged his fingers into the hot wet folds and found her clit. She bucked and the heat coiled, tighter and tighter as he stroked and circled the hard nub with alarming proficiency. Cradling the back of her head, he yanked her up to lick a nipple, before sucking the peak to the roof of his mouth. Sensation, so sharp it was almost painful, arrowed down as his fingers continued to play, his thumb teasing the perfect spot.

  She sobbed, choking on pleasure, as the coil burst free at last, radiating through her battered body in a devastating cascade.

  “Jesus, I want you so much.” His voice sounded hoarse, muffled by the buzzing in her head as he grasped her hips, and angled her pelvis, ready to plunge.

  “Wait. Condoms? You need a condom.” She slapped open palms against his chest, shaking fingers skidding off the oiled contours, as she pushed him back, her common sense bursting through the daze of afterglow.

  “Shit. Yeah. Right.” He levered himself up and, holding his trousers, his shirt tails flying, shot into the bathroom.

  She heard more cursing, the crash of something hitting the cubicle floor, then he returned. He should have looked ridiculous with his shirt hanging open, his fly down, his trousers hitched up with one arm, the washboard lean abdominal muscles glistening with oil, his collarbone peppered with bulgar wheat, and his hair gelled with cream cheese… If he didn’t look so fricking hot. And smell so totally delicious. Better than any three-course cordon bleu meal…

  Or at least better than the one he was currently wearing.

  “Here, let me.” She took the foil package from his greasy fingers, ripped it open with her teeth and then rolled it on the massive erection.

  Goodness, the man was seriously built in more ways than one.

  He kicked off his trousers and boxers, then grasping her hips, settled between her thighs.

  She stretched her arms up, flattening her palms against the top of the bunk, desperate to feel the punishing thrust that would bury his huge cock to the hilt and stop her from thinking about what the hell she was doing, banging Faith’s uptight brother.

  But as she braced for it, he stilled, the head of the erection nudging her entrance.

  “You sure about this?” he asked, searching her face.

  “Of course I am.” She cried, ready to beg or threaten or, better yet, batter him if he stopped now.

  But he only nodded and then thrust hard.

  She gasped, shocked by the depth of his penetration, her sex struggling to adjust to the immense fullness.

  “Damn, are you okay? Did I hurt you? You’re so tight.”

  He sounded as shocked as she felt. But the concern on his face was unsettling.

  She let go of the bunk head to grab hold of tight muscular buns. “It feels marvelous. Now don’t you dare stop or I may have to castrate you.”

  He gave a strained laugh and the moment of tenderness was gone. Thank goodness.

  He pulled out, surged back, going even deeper, then established a devastating rhythm. The pressure built again slowly, surely, her sex clenching ’round the thick intrusion as his cock rocked against the perfect spot. Sweat slicked their bodies, dripping off him, his heavy testicles slapping against her bottom as his hips pistoned. The rhythm became faster, harder, more frantic.

  She let go of his butt to find her clit, and stroke herself, desperate to come again ’round that thick girth before he climaxed. He sped up, his gaze locked on hers, in a furious race to the finish line.

  “That’s it,” he said. “Make yourself come for me.”

  She cried out, the sound echoing against the thin walls of the barge as sensation burst up from her core at his command. He grunted, then yelled, as he followed her over moments later, and collapsed on top of her.

  Chapter Five

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  Shit, shit, and double shit.

  Ty dropped his forehead against Zelda’s shoulder, inhaled the light subtle flavor of her perfume—bergamot and citrus—over the scent of OJ, cilantro, and sweat-soaked sex, as his heartbeat punched his collarbone.

  He slipped out of her, his body aching from the turbo-charged ejaculation, but kept his face buried in her neck as the last of the afterglow faded to be replaced by aftershock. The short strands of her hair tickled his nostrils as he struggled to bite back the groan of dismay.

  Jesus H Christ. Had he actually just banged his little sister’s fancy friend from here to next week? Not to mention slung food around his place like a five-year-old on a sugar rush?

  He hadn’t laughed so hard since he was a kid and his brother, Ronan, had managed to wedge his head in an empty whiskey barrel. There had been hell to pay when his mom had found them and all five of them had ended up going to bed with no supper and stinging butts, even his little sister, Faith. But he’d taken the brunt of the punishment, because he was the oldest and his mother expected him to be responsible and not let his brother stick his head in a whisky barrel on a bet.

  Thoughts of his mother had the mortification slamming into him full force. He got up and grabbed his pants off the floor, tugging them on as a hefty dose of shame helped smother the last of the endorphin rush.

  He’d lost control and banged a woman he barely knew. A woman who, until about fifteen minutes ago, he would have sworn he didn’t even like.

  He hadn’t felt this guilty since he was twelve and he’d been caught by his pop paying Mary Jane Calhoun five dollars to look at her breasts behind the bandstand at the Fourth of July picnic.

  Standing stiffly, he whipped off the condom before fastening his pants and heading to the bathroom, being careful not to look back at the object of his desire still lounging full length on the bunk.

  He washed his hands and face, scrubbed a washcloth over his chest and picked the last of the pimentos out of his hair.

  What the hell had he just done? Ever since the afternoon his mom had made him apologize to Mary Jane, he’d always tried to behave like a gentleman with women. But he’d just behaved like an animal with Zelda. Not to mention like a judgmental asshole.

  He’d dedicated his career to helping the most vulnerable members of his society, and because of that, he’d
thought he was a better person than Zelda could ever be. He’d decreed Zelda was wild and reckless and shallow, that her problems were down to the bad choices she’d made in her charmed life. And because of that, he’d persuaded himself she didn’t rate his respect.

  But he could see now his assumptions about her weren’t the whole truth. In fact, he was beginning to wonder now if they were even half of the truth. How many supermodels spent the day shoveling out someone else’s shit? Or looked just as stunning in a guy’s T-shirt as they did in a designer gown? Or were totally cool about letting a Brooklyn barber lose on the signature, golden locks that had made them a fortune?

  And if Zelda Madison wasn’t vain or useless or a snob, how many other ways had he misjudged her?

  He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, forced to finally acknowledge the worst of it. He’d judged and criticized Zelda for her willful behavior—right back to that day ten years ago when his palm had itched to give her a spanking he’d decided she richly deserved—because the truth was her wild behavior had turned him on.

  He returned to the living room intending to survey the damage. And apologize to Zelda, not just for jumping her but for being such a damn hypocrite.

  Contrary to his expectations though, Zelda still lay on the bunk, naked and relaxed and watching him—and not looking at all shocked by his dickish behavior. What she looked was satisfied.

  With one slim arm stretched above her head and the neatly trimmed curls covering her sex, proving she was a natural blond, she was a golden Salome, her slender body unashamedly displayed like a smorgasbord of carnal delights.

  Despite his guilt, his cock perked right up again.

  He tried to get it to behave. But the insolent look in Zelda’s heavy-lidded eyes, bold and uninhibited, only made him recall how good it had felt to have her muscles milking him dry as she came.