Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [33]
“Trace,” she warned, as if she had any leverage against him. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“All right.” He closed the small space between them. “Seems you and Daddy Dearest have a few things in common.”
She breathed too hard, too fast. “What are you talking about? I have nothing in common with that pig.”
Trace lifted a hand and smoothed the backs of his fingers over her velvety cheek. And even that, such a simple touch, roused him, sent his temperature up and his voice down. “Murray thinks I should fuck you.”
Falling back a step, Priss blinked at him. “What?”
Never had a woman looked so shocked—or so sexy. “That’s where our morning conversation was headed, right? You were eating me up with your eyes, talking about sex and virgins, deliberately prodding my curiosity.” He opened his hand to cup her jaw. “Well, you know what, Priss? I’m beginning to think you’re both onto something. Maybe that’s the natural course we’re due to take.”
Her tongue slipped over her upper lip. “Sex?”
Damn, did she have to sound both fearful and hopeful? “What do you think?”
Her expression changed, her breathing deepened even more. She shook her head, but Trace ignored the insubstantial denial.
“Come here, Priss.” And with that, he pulled her softness against his harder body. She was pliant, but unsure. So warm and rounded in all the right places.
He tipped up her stubborn chin, bent down and put his mouth to hers.
In an instant, he was lost.
MURRAY SAT BACK IN HIS CHAIR with his feet on the window ledge so he could stare out at the vista. This time of day, the morning sun looked brilliant. Only a few spun clouds crawled across the azure sky.
His thoughts rioted, heated. Would Trace do as told? How long would it be before he had her naked, under him?
What would Priscilla think of that? Would she try to run? Was she terrorized?
Was she his daughter?
“I don’t fucking believe you!”
Helene’s strident, angry tone shattered his musings. Turning his head to find her in the doorway, Murray scowled just enough to show his displeasure. “You should have knocked.”
“Since when?”
“Since you felt you had the right to curse me.” He turned his chair, tipped his head to study her. Then he patted his lap. “Come.”
Like a good lapdog, she obeyed, but grudgingly. Once she’d seated herself on his thighs, Murray cupped her generous and firm breast. The best money could buy, he thought.
But Priscilla’s tits had looked real.
He squeezed. “Now, what did you have to say?”
Lifting her chin in defiance, she stared at him. Helene wasn’t a woman to quail; that was something he found so enticing about her. No matter the roughness of his mood, his sexuality didn’t scare her.
Nothing scared Helene. Yet.
She shook back her long hair so that her breasts were better displayed. “You ordered Trace to fuck that little tart?”
“This is your business, why?” Through the thin material of her blouse, Murray felt her nipple stiffen. He smiled.
“You’ve never done that before. When interested, you use the women yourself, and then you sell them off.”
“True.” And because she accepted the acts as a part of his business, she choked down her jealousy. But with Priscilla, she knew it would be different. He stated the number one reason why. “No other woman, however, has claimed to be my daughter.”
Fury brought color to her face.
Anticipating her reaction, Murray said, “You didn’t expect me to give her a trial run, did you?”
Helene had the good sense not to push him. “I doubt she’s your spawn, but until you know, why not just save her?”
“Envious of the attention she’s getting?”
Helene’s eyes sparked.
Leaving her breast, Murray reached beneath her skirt. He watched her eyes as he cupped his hand, none too gently, over her heated sex. “You have an uncommon interest in Trace Miller, no?”
Some of her confidence waned. She licked her lips, and Murray saw the moment she decided to challenge him with the truth.
“Yes, I do.”
That admission was accompanied