This was what people talked about when they said they were consumed with need. She knew now. Had never understood before.
Another caress of his hand, another caress of his tongue, another rush of his spicy male scent, and worry slid away, the stairwell with it. Ryan was everything, Ryan was her next breath.
Abandonment came with a rush of passion and Sabrina suddenly couldn’t get close enough to him. She pressed to her toes, reaching urgently for more of his mouth. Moaned when he deepened the kiss, a plea for more in the wordless demand. She reached for his shirt and worked her hand under the cotton, desperate to touch him. Sighing with the warmth of his skin, warm all over, she was just plain hot.
He cupped her breasts, thumbing her nipples through her T-shirt. Her mind conjured an image of his mouth on her nipple. His lips found her jaw, her neck, and her head fell back against the door, welcoming the erotic invasion. Frustration rolled inside her as a tiny sliver of familiar fear and guilt slid into her consciousness and threatened to steal this escape. “I shouldn’t be doing this,” she whispered roughly, unconvincing even to her own ears.
“I told you,” he said, his hand sliding under her shirt and over her breast again, teeth nipping her earlobe. “No worrying.” He shoved down her bra and tweaked her nipple.
A gasp fell from her lips, his name with it. “Ryan.”
He kissed his name from her lips. “Sabrina,” he murmured, his tongue caressing hers, his hips shifting, lowering, his thick erection pressing against her, promising satisfaction. “Trust me.”
Cynically, she laughed. “The famous words uttered at just the right moment from someone who wants something.”
“But you really can trust me,” he assured her, dropping to one knee, his hands on her hips, her waist, inching up her shirt. His breath was warm on the V of her body. Shock rushed over her, mingled with uncontrollable arousal.
“What are you doing?” she demanded urgently. “Get up. Someone is going to find us.”
“No one will find us,” he promised, his lips touching her bare stomach, his tongue dipping into her belly button. “Relax.” His fingers worked the side of her pants down as his lips grazed her hips.
“Ohh,” she murmured, swallowing hard. “Stop. We have to…” He tugged her sweats farther down and slid a hand over her bare backside.
“No panties,” he said approvingly, his fingers curving her backside, brushing the crevice of her cheek and taking her pants farther down. His mouth explored her stomach, her hips. Every nip and lick quivered through her body. Wetness clung to her thighs, aching need spiraled inside her. Her fingers slid to his head as she silently willed his mouth where she wanted it. His mouth moved lower, closer to where she wanted him, but a second of clarity sparked renewed panic.
Sabrina’s fingertips dug into his shoulders. “Wait! No! We are going to get caught, Ryan. I can’t. We can’t.”
He glanced up at her, one long finger sliding along the slick sensitive flesh between her thighs, his eyes dark and sultry, wickedly intent.
Her breath lodged in her throat, her flashes fluttered. “Oh, Ryan.”
Two fingers slid inside her, drawing out her gasp, and then uncontrollably, the arch of her hips. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he said. “Forget the door. We’ve blocked this one, and we’ll hear the one above if it opens.” His fingers explored, pumped. Sabrina bit her lip, then panted, unable to stop herself from rocking against his hand. “So wet,” he said. “So sexy.” His mouth came down on her stomach again. She was panting, her nipples aching, and she barely stopped herself from touching them. She’d never done anything as daring as this. She shouldn’t be doing this. But it felt so good, he felt so good. And… Oh, his mouth closed down on her, suck ling the swollen bud of her clit.
“Ryan. Ohh. I can’t…I…please, Ryan…” Don’t stop. Don’t stop licking and suckling and…touching.
Every objection faded to pants and moans she barely recognized as her own. All time slipped away. All concept of fear, danger. There was only the bliss of those fingers, those lips, his tongue. And yes, the danger. It was exciting, intense. Taking her for a ride, a wild, wicked ride, until she was tumbled into release with a jerk of her hips. All but shaking, little darts of tension fluttering low in her stomach, rippling through her and tightening into a ball of fire deep in her core. His fingers worked against her, caressed against the spasms tightening around them. Then slowed, as the spasms slowed. Easing her to a final ripple and then to aware ness. Her hand covered her face, her hair was in her eyes but she didn’t care. What had she done? What had he done to her? What did she do now? Suddenly, Ryan kissed her stomach, and, with skill no man should possess—or maybe every man should possess—he righted her clothes with the same, quick ease with which he’d undressed her. She let him, too. She couldn’t seem to make herself move, unsure of herself. What did one say after an orgasm in a stairwell? Thanks? How about a bed next time? Or even a couch? Goodnight? Yes. She needed to say goodnight. To regroup. To… He finished restoring her clothes and Sabrina darted forward in escape. Or she tried.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Ryan said softly, and suddenly, she was wrapped in his arms, his lips close, and those long, sturdy thighs of his molded to her own. “I’m not done with you yet.”
7
SABRINA COULDN’T BELIEVE Ryan’s lips were on hers again. She should be mad at his rather assuming words, I’m not done with you yet. She would be had any other man said that. But that deliciously firm mouth of his swept across her lips, not once but twice, stealing her objections before the slightest hint of tongue brushed hers.
He paused, only a breath from her mouth, as if he couldn’t make himself pull away. And that funny, unidentifiable flutter in her chest that Sabrina had felt once before expanded and stretched again. She’d been right to call him dangerous. This man made her forget everything but him—logic, reason, stairwells where she should not be getting naked. She had no idea what he was doing to her, but she knew she liked it too much.
Slowly, Ryan pulled back, fixing her in a warm inspection. “As much as I’d loved to walk you to your door and convince you to let me make it happen again, I have a ride to catch.” One corner of his gorgeous mouth lifted. “Discretion and all, you know.”
“It’s a little late for discretion,” she objected, a warm flush climbing up her neck at the image in her mind of her leg over his shoulder, her pants gone, while he did intimate, amazing, out-of-line and improper things to her. And to her dismay, she could feel the warm, wet heat regathering in the V of her body. And that made her mad. At herself. At him for having so much control over her. How had she let this situation get so out of control? “What if someone saw us?”
His hands slid to her face. “No one knows but you and me.” His voice lowered slightly, took on a promise. “And they never will.” He released her and sidestepped to grab the door and glanced back. “You still owe me a date.”
And then to her utter disbelief, he left. Ryan had just given her an orgasm in the stairwell of her building and left. Wait! This couldn’t happen. She couldn’t leave things like this. She couldn’t. Had she just used him? Or had he used her?
Seemed Ryan had a way of making her act without thinking, because she charged forward and after him. She needed something more than…well, an orgasm. Which was ironic because with most of the guys in her life, she’d have killed for just that.
Sabrina yanked the door open just in time to see the lobby door shut. She pursued, her heart racing as fast as her feet could take her. She exited to the warm Texas night right as the car pulled away.
SABRINA SIGHED AND RESTED her elbow on the coffee table. She sat on the floor in front of the couch, her Austin City skyline view streaked with yellows and reds as the sun sprayed the sky with morning flavor.
Sunday morning had arrived far too slowly considering sleep had been nowhere to be found. By 6:00 a.m. Sabrina had been up and making a pot of coffee. And now, at seven, she was fully dressed in her favorite fa
ded jeans and a cool Harley Davidson shirt she’d picked up a few blocks away. Totally inappropriate for her father’s daughter, whom her mother had insisted be prim and proper at every public outing. But that only made her love the shirt more.
She had secret fantasies about riding a Harley and about riding a man who rode a Harley. A man like Ryan, she thought. She laughed to herself, thinking how appalled her mother would be. She loved her mother, but sometimes Sabrina thought her mother would benefit from a Harley fantasy or two of her own. When was the last time she’d seen her mother smile—really smile—not plaster on a camera-ready mockery of one?
Sipping from her mug, Sabrina savored the caffeine, and then punched a key or two on her notebook computer, trying to bring into focus an idea she had brewing for a six-part feature on race-car driving, highlighting everything from drivers to mechanics. But all she saw was Ryan. Ryan, who’d undressed her in the stairwell. Ryan, who’d left her in that stairwell. Ryan, who’d lured her to an indiscretion, yet had still somehow, in the end, given her discretion.
“Stop it, Sabrina,” she murmured. Stop thinking about Ryan. Frustrated with herself, Sabrina splayed fingers into her freshly washed hair and then she did exactly what she’d told herself not to do. Thought of Ryan. Of his claim that she still owed him a date. Right. Of course. He probably thought she was all kinds of easy. Why wouldn’t he want to go out with her? She’d be a fast track to bedroom bliss. Or…maybe he wouldn’t call at all. Maybe he would lose interest, considering how easy she’d been. Then she could worry for the rest of her life that Ryan would suddenly be one of those people who came out of the woodwork and told the world she was a hussy right when her father needed her to be an angel. For that kind of worry, she should at least have held out for the whole package—naked man and a long, hot night. But no. She’d settled for a stairwell. She deserved what she was feeling.
She groaned and forced herself to focus on her computer. But instead of looking up Marco and working on the interview that needed to be perfect to stake her claim on a new writing genre, she searched the press-conference topic—the soldier turned-bank-robber-and-drug-dealer. She opened her email and found the name of the contact in the mayor’s office that Frank had given her, and made the call.
Thirty minutes later, she hung up, with not much more info than what she already had. A secretary in the Mayor’s office had been working late, and swore she saw the wife of the dead soldier there. Nothing more than what Frank had told her, and not enough to say the meeting took place. The secretary could be mistaken, or looking for her fifteen minutes of fame. Sabrina knew the wife was MIA, number disconnected, house vacant, no forwarding address, since she’d suggested Frank send a reporter to her house. She emailed Frank to see if he’d had any luck locating the wife. She was sure she’d regret it because he would see this as her admission that she wanted this story. And she didn’t, not really. Maybe, but someone else could take the credit, then, at least, she’d know the story that needed to be told was told. If even there was a story, she reminded herself.
With a grimace, Sabrina pushed to her feet and headed toward the kitchen, carrying the Texas Longhorn mug she’d bought the same day she’d bought her T-shirt.
A knock sounded on the door. Her heart fluttered hopefully, and she immediately shook her head in disgust. “You are out of control in so many ways,” she muttered and set her coffee cup down. This time it really was going to be the kid next door, and she was actually hoping it was Ryan.
She didn’t even allow herself a pause at the door. She yanked it open and then about swallowed her tongue. “Ryan,” she choked out. All six foot and more of pure hot cowboy, minus the hat, his light-brown hair framing features as hard and strong as his body. And though his faded jeans, dusty boots and navy T-shirt might be simple, there was nothing simple about this man. Or about the way she reacted to him. He was everything she told herself she didn’t need in a man, and everything the woman in her wanted.
“I brought breakfast,” he said, sniffing the air. “Good. You’ve got the coffee.” And just like that, he was inside, walking right past her and heading to the left, toward the kitchen.
“Ryan!” she challenged in disbelief. Good gosh, this man knew how to steal her equilibrium. She stepped into pursuit. “You can’t just saunter in here uninvited. And do you realize it’s seven in the morning?”
“Almost eight,” he tossed over his shoulder. He paused briefly in the living room, eyed her window and whistled. “Nice view. I might have to get me one of those.”
She caught up with him as he headed to the kitchen, forcing her to once again pursue. He set the bag of tasty treats on the wide, green-and-black granite counter that divided the kitchen from the rest of the open room. He grabbed a cup from a cabinet as if he knew exactly where to look and made the offhand remark, “Never knew I sauntered.”
She pursed her lips and crossed her arms, trying not to notice the way his shirt tugged across hard muscle. “Like you own the place,” she confirmed. “What if I’d been sleeping?”
He filled his cup—or her cup, that he’d now made his own, like her house. And her body. He seemed to take what he wanted, and it should irritate her.
“I figured you reporter types to be early risers,” he commented matter-of-factly. “Us military types are the same way.” He added several spoonfuls of sugar to his mug. Her gaze brushed the light-brown stubble on his jaw, now thicker, rougher. Very un-Army-like. Very… Harley rough—and tough. Dangerous and sexy. An image of him wearing a leather jacket and sitting on a Harley flashed in her mind.
“You a fan?”
Sabrina blinked at the question. Fan? What had she said and didn’t remember saying? Or what was he saying? He seemed to read her blank stare and lifted his mug, mock-salute style. “Of the Longhorns,” he offered.
“Ohhh,” she said with relief—she had not spoken some part of her fantasy out loud, thankfully. “No. I mean, I figure I’m supposed to love the Longhorns to live here. The entire population wears orange like it’s a second skin. You?”
“I’m from Houston,” he said casually. “We aren’t ravished by the UT football fever down there. Bobby has season passes, though. He assures me he’ll make a follower out of me.” His eyes twinkled, voice lowered slightly. “I’m finding Austin has plenty of appeal outside its college football.”
Sabrina felt the heat in her cheeks, and was flustered by how easily Ryan drew a reaction. “You’re an incorrigible flirt.” She snatched the bag sitting on the counter. “And I deserve whatever is in this bag for putting up with it.” She whirled on her heels with her best ice-princess persona—well practiced over the years as she mingled with newbie politicians who had tried to become her father, through her father. And through her.
A low, masculine rumble of laughter followed her, the sound dancing along her nerve endings and setting off a tingling along her spine. Sabrina sat down on the edge of the sofa cushion, spine stiff. It was Ryan’s turn to pursue, and pursue he did, coffee mug in hand, carrying an air of ownership of everything around him.
She grimaced. “There you go again,” she accused, because going on the attack was easier than melting like that pushover she feared he already thought her. “Sauntering over here like you own the place. You don’t, you know.”
“Man, woman,” Ryan said, sitting down on the opposite end of the couch, leaving one cushion separating them. “I brought food. Be nice to me.”
She tipped her chin up and opened the bag. “No.”
“No?” he asked.
“You heard me,” she said. “No.”
Mischief gleamed in his eyes. “Why no?”
“Because you put me on the spot with Marco’s sister,” she said quickly. She couldn’t shake how much it bothered her that Ryan had become entwined with politics. “And don’t tell me Marco is giving me the interview no matter what. The pressure is there for me to say yes. You have no idea how tired I am of that kind of pressure, Ryan. You could at least have warne
d me in advance.”
He gave her a thoughtful look. “You’re right,” he said, surprising her. “In all fairness, though, you distracted me by opening the door in that sexy-as-hell green muck of yours. I had to kiss you.” She opened her mouth to object, and he quickly added, “I’m teasing. You’re right. I should have warned you. I had no idea it would be as big a deal to you as it obviously is.” He softened his tone, casting her a puppy-dog brown stare. “I’m sorry.”
Oh, man, those eyes. He was good. Too good. “I’m not letting you off that easily.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” he said, his eyes alight with amusement. “What do I have to do to make that up to you?”
Give me another orgasm, came her instant silent response, which was so out of character, it shook her into seeking a distraction. “I’ll think about it while I eat,” she replied. And curling her bare feet into the couch cushions, she took a bite of a yummy chocolate muffin. Deliciousness exploded in her mouth. “Oh, wow. This is so good.”
“From the bakery on the corner,” Ryan informed her, reaching into the bag for one of his own. “The clerk swore people come from all over town to get them so I figured we’d give ’em a go.”
He took a bite of one of his own and quickly nodded his agreement with her assessment. “Not bad. Not bad at all.” His gaze caught on the newspaper lying on the table, the cover story hers, though no one would know.
After penning the story, Sabrina hadn’t been able to let the credit go to someone else, and she suspected Frank had known that would be the case. They’d settled on yet another pen name to keep her anonymous from the staff, which had allowed her to write from the heart. The governor had blamed post-traumatic stress disorder for the soldier’s criminal activity, and after some research, Sabrina had found it wasn’t uncommon for soldiers in wartime to suffer such problems and not be properly diagnosed and treated.
High Octane Page 5