Page 3 of Her Bad Boy

There was very little he enjoyed more than convincing a woman—most particularly this one, for some reason—to abandon her morals and her rules and her deeply ingrained scruples in favor of yielding herself to him—and the heavenly sins in which he would indulge the two of them. To get her to do so—when he'd grown to know just how closed off she was, how tightly wound and tense and downright cloistered her existence—was an even more delicious experience than he'd ever had before in his life.

He knew all about her—probably more, even, than she did about him. It behooved him to know his enemy, and he had done his research with relish when she'd been brought on and added to the department that handled his usual type of legal case—ones that called into question the business practices of his family and associates on an annoyingly frequent basis.

She was, as he had just called her, a good girl—an almost zealous rule follower—in every way that mattered to most people, not his usual type at all. She was a model daughter to her parents, got amazing grades in high school and college, graduated at the top of her class from Harvard Law, spent a few years clerking in prestigious positions that most in her profession would have given their arm, a leg and three feet to be in, and then she disappeared for a year or two.

He'd hoped that meant he was going to find out something juicy about her past, but it had turned out to be the exact opposite, as he came to expect of her. He found out that she'd been working for a small but well regarded firm in her hometown in order to take care of her ailing parents, who died within weeks of each other.

Within the next few months, after what appeared to be devastating losses she mourned deeply—although privately—she'd been welcomed into the department in which she was currently a rising star, winning an impressive amount of the cases she was given—even the most challenging ones—and sending business associates and even the odd family member of his to jail right and left.

She kept her nose clean—drank very occasionally and never to excess, eschewing all other vices, too, as far as he could tell. There weren't even any messy romances—or, indeed, any neat ones in her past—and he'd looked as far back as high school.

Whereas he'd always been able to do things like this and remain quite distant from the facts he was digging up about someone, something was different about her. He devoured every bit of information he could collect about her, desperate to find something—anything—about who she might have been involved with, coming up with a big fat zero, which had led him to a conclusion he had found incredibly tantalizing. What if the illustrious Miss Allyria Barstow was a virgin?

Lucas shook his head, forcing himself to concentrate on the present. How his mind could possibly have wandered so far when she was in his arms, he would never know, but then, he tended to react differently around her from anyone else.

The hoodie fell unheeded to the floor around them, his eyes immediately gravitating to breasts he already knew the weight and delicate texture of, noting with not a small sense of pride the shadowed peaks of her nipples beneath the worn fabric. At the sight of them, his own hips arched his hardness against her, although the sensual gesture was cut short when his wandering eyes caught sight of the alarming blue splotches that were unmistakably fingertips on her fore and upper arms.

He sat up abruptly, a big hand splayed on her back, keeping her from falling as he caught her wrists gently, holding her still before him as he catalogued each and every mar on that otherwise pristine surface. His face grew more and more menacing as he pushed up the loose sleeve of her t-shirt to reveal a large handprint that wrapped almost entirely around her upper right arm.

Allie heard an unmistakable growl as he checked her other side to find an almost identical bruise there before he lifted her off his lap and stood with her in his arms, moving to the end of her desk to sweep everything off it with one long arm as he set her down atop it with supreme tenderness and reached for the hem of her t-shirt.

Before he could lift it over her head, though, her hand settled lightly onto his. "Lucas, please, don't," she whispered, eyes downcast when she knew they needn't be. She was hardly the cause of the bruises she wore.

Neither was he, and she knew that was what was making him crazy at the moment. He had marked her quite considerably that evening, but they were confined to her bottom and the backs of her thighs, and, later, when she was alone, she had reveled in the sight of them.

But these—even though she knew she was not at fault and she fought against the feelings with everything she had—they still made her feel a bit ashamed.

Lucas tipped her chin up, not allowing her to avoid his eyes. "You must let me, kitten," he ground out, the endearment softening the ferocity of his command. "I will bind you if I have to—you know I will—but I would prefer not to so that I don't take the chance of hurting you."

"But they will just make you madder," she whispered, horrified to find that she was having to fight back tears.

He actually flinched at her admission that there was more that he wouldn't want to see, but he wouldn't relent; she could see it in his eyes. "Remove your hand from mine, young lady," he ordered, although his voice was velvety and soothing—for the moment. But she knew the unyielding steel that was behind it that would come to the fore if she resisted his will.

Slowly, reluctantly, she obeyed him, putting her arms over her head as he drew the t-shirt off her body and lay her back on the desk before him, revealing several purplish red bruises near her collar bone, as well as the unmistakable imprint of a hand that had cupped her breast from underneath and squeezed very hard, blue fingers clearly visible to either side of the nipple on her left breast, and, lastly, a large angry bruise over her right ribcage.

His hand floated near that area but carefully didn't touch her. She watched him swallow hard, his eyes glued to the sight. "Is that where you hit the radiator after he flung you away?"

"Yes—the hospital said bruised ribs."

"I would imagine so." His reply was surprisingly neutral sounding, although his tone and his expression became murderous when he continued. "I should have finished him off right then and there for putting his filthy hands on you."

Regardless of his temper, the fingers that tucked themselves beneath the elastic waistband of her sweats were so soft they were almost tickling her. Although her hands automatically reached down to prevent him from removing one of her last lines of defense against him, they hesitated and came to a stop well before touching him and instead ended up back on either side of her hips.

In this vulnerable, submissive position, his "good girl" at her small surrender to him was even more potent to her, and she could feel herself literally leaking onto the panties he was just about to relieve her of.

When they—and her sweats—were off her and thrown onto the pile, his eyes swept over her, relieved beyond measure to see that no further contusions had been revealed, but he wasn't about to assume anything. "I want you to turn onto your left side, honey, really quick. I just need to check your back. I'll help you as much as I can and I'll be quick about it."

He was as good as his word, although it did hurt her a bit and she could see how upset he was that she was in any kind of pain at all, but he was glad he'd done it anyway as he helped her onto her back again, because although there was only one relatively faint bruise, in comparison, it was a full handprint of someone having slapped her ass cheek hard. And he knew exactly whose hand that was, too.

His own hands formed into fists at his sides, but Allie diverted his attention by trying to get up.

"You can't do anything to him, Lucas. You can't. You know who he is—he'll find something—anything. He'll make something up if he has to and use it to send you away for a long time; you know he will."

"Kind of like you're trying to do?" he sniped, regretting the comment immediately.

She tried more urgently to push her way past him, but it was like trying to move the Rock of Gibraltar. "Which is why we've already decided that this will never work."

Before she knew it, she was lying back again, pressed gently but firmly down merely by his presence over her. He hadn't hurt her in the least, but she wasn't going anywhere, she knew, until he allowed it.

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