ZANE - THE WILD ONE

by Bronwyn Jameson

  "Let's just say it's not what I'd choose."

  She looked up from squeezing salve onto her finger and caught the teasing light in his eyes. Teasing is good, she thought as her lips curved into an answering smile. So much better than those intense angsty silences.

  "It suits you, though," he continued.

  "How so?"

  "Pretty. Soft. Ladylike."

  "I'm not sure how to take that. Tonight I was trying for a completely different look."

  "Yeah." His crooked little grin caused her heart to skip a beat. "It sure must be tough being a good girl."

  "Tell me about it," she quipped, and when she rolled her eyes for effect, Zane laughed out loud.

  Oh, dear Lord, that laughter should be classified as lethal, but then, this man had so many killer qualities. Just standing this close to him was a health threat, and as for the thought of applying the antiseptic…

  Wicked wanton images danced across her vision. They all involved her fingers, cool cream and his hot, naked skin.

  When she lifted her salve-smeared hand toward his face it was far from steady … until his hand snaked up lightning-fast to circle her wrist.

  "I don't need that stuff," he said roughly.

  "Oh." Julia became acutely aware of an aura of intense energy emanating from his body. It enfolded her; it steeped her body with restless heat. Yet it also held her in its thrall, like some invisible force field. She moistened her suddenly dry lips. "I don't suppose you want the plaster, either?"

  "No." The beat of silence was heavy with expectancy. "But I do need that magic third ingredient."

  Need, not want. Heart bounding at a million miles an hour, Julia considered his word choice. He needed her kiss, and as she met his straight no-more-teasing look, she imagined that need crying out to her and every lonely unfulfilled place inside her responding.

  Oh, yes, Zone, I hear you.

  They were inappropriate thoughts, dangerous thoughts, and she tried to dispel them with an ineffectual, "No," which Zane misinterpreted.

  "Yes," he insisted, tugging at her wrist until she fell into him—into the widespread vee of his thighs, into the hard wall of his chest, into a kiss that picked up where the first had left off.

  His head slanted to the perfect angle, her mouth opened in silent welcome, and any notion of preliminaries flew out the open window. They kissed, Julia decided, with the same unchoreographed harmony as they danced. Now it was tongue sliding against tongue, lips shifting to match lips, teeth nipping and teasing, and all with a slow, soulful synchronicity.

  Julia murmured her approval as he moved to her jaw, as he gently bit her earlobe and nuzzled her neck. Then he was kissing her again, kissing her and easing his big hands over her hips, skimming down to catch the hem of her skirt.

  To slide underneath.

  Work-roughened palms settled on the backs of her naked thighs, and for a long deliberate moment did nothing more. An erotic warmth seeped through Julia's body, an exquisite pleasure that stole her breath. She arched her back, clutched at his shoulders, and when those sure hands commenced a sensual upward slide, desire fisted tight in her belly. She grabbed at his shirt, dragging it from his jeans, and then … oh, yes, there! Her hands were on him, on skin stretched taut over corded muscle, on those long, flat planes of his back.

  His fingers curled into her buttocks to drag her closer, right into the cradle of his hips, and the kiss changed shape, stretched into a wild and carnal mating of mouths and tongues and shallow breaths. When Julia felt the rigid evidence of his desire, she went a little crazy.

  Breaking the kiss, she tore at his shirt with frantic hands, forcing the buttons to give under her relentless attack, making a strangled sound when one caught and held. Mindless, desperate, driven, she took a moment to register his hands on her face, holding her with a calming strength until she stilled.

  His eyes were hot and sharply focused. On her. As if she were the core of his concentration, his thinking, his being. She felt a strange ambivalence—a slowing of time and a dulling of external awareness at complete odds with the urgency careering through her blood.

  "I want to do this part slowly," he said in that smoke-and-whisky voice. "I want to undress you piece by piece, to see you inch by inch."

  She watched his gaze slowly drop, felt it brush over her breasts. Felt them strain tight and uncomfortable against her bra. Clever fingers slid the first button free. When the second popped open at least five seconds later, her breath grew jagged with impatience.

  "Couldn't you hurry just a little?"

  Zane laughed, and the sound was harsh and strained. Going slow was just about killing him. Button number three eased open, and he sucked in air at the glimpse of pale pink lace. Shoved aside the desperate urge to grab and tear. Despite his rough edges—maybe because of them—he prided himself on handling women with smooth restraint. If they wanted rough treatment, let 'em find it someplace else. That was his motto, had been since the year he left Plenty.

  Surprisingly steady fingers moved lower. He would do this with patience and style. By staying civilized. By peeling away her Good Girl clothes in gradual increments to reveal all that soft, supple skin…

  All thought evaporated as he opened the last button and peeled back the sides of her blouse. He had imagined how she might look, had dreamed of how she would look, but nothing had prepared him for the reality … or for his response. Not his body's—that was a given—but the clutch of emotion, fierce and strong, in the most elemental of places.

  Her skin shimmered in full glossy curves above the lace of her skimpy bra. Skin so finely textured, so translucent, he could see each vein beneath the surface. With the pad of one finger he traced the most distinct blue thread until it disappeared into pink lace, and when he put his mouth there, when he lapped at it with his tongue, she cried out and arched her back.

  Need swamped his senses.

  He needed to cup those breasts so the pale flesh spilled over the lace, so the nipples pressed hard against his palms. He needed to suckle her, to drag each distended nipple into his mouth, to feed on her little mewling sounds of encouragement. He needed to surge to his feet and push her back against the vanity, to press himself into her softness, to ease the painful pressure in his groin.

  It wasn't enough.

  Lifting her, spreading her knees so he could move between them, caressing the backs of her calves and the insides of her thighs, none of it was enough. He needed to be where he touched her now, deep inside the wet and wanting place he stroked through her satin panties.

  "Zane."

  His name slid off her tongue in a soft rush of breath, and he completely lost it. He had to have her before he woke and found it was a dream, before she blinked and realized she'd made a mistake. He caressed her more urgently, felt her desperation in the restless shifting of her hips, in the boneless yielding of her thighs. All he had to do was open his pants, all he had to do—

  Abruptly he wrenched himself back, shook his head. Without protecting her? What was he thinking?

  "Zane?"

  She blinked slowly. Gradually her eyes regained focus. He felt her hands on his arms, unconsciously caressing as they slid back and forth over the bulge of his biceps. Her gaze engaged somewhere about shoulder height, and her hands suddenly stilled.

  Tension bit down hard as she pulled his shirt—still anchored by that one lone button—aside.

  "You have a tattoo."

  Her voice wasn't harsh with accusation but soft with discovery, and the tightness in Zane's gut eased a fraction. Her finger traced over the mark, left-right-left, following the simple zigzag shape.

  "Lightning never strikes twice in the one place, huh?"

  The edge to her smile tugged at Zane's receding tension, cranking it up a notch.

  "I told you I wasn't staying in town."

  "I heard you." Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to the lightning bolt mark. "Will you stay tonight?"

  Her normally clear voice came out a li
ttle husky, and when she smiled crookedly, he felt the rasp deep inside. Zane should have heard the warning, the clanging of bells and alarms, but he was too caught up in the beguiling twist to her smile. On anyone else it would have been wicked.

  Without taking her eyes from his face, she reached up above her head to open the cabinet door. Zane's gaze flicked to the contents and back to her face. "Rainy day, huh?"

  "I think I heard a few drops on the roof."

  Zane snorted as he reached over her. "Damn near cats and dogs."

  She laughed, a glorious full-bodied sound that rang through his blood as he shoved aside her neatly aligned soldiers to find the hidden box. Her eyes seemed to track it out of the cupboard, though her smile might have tightened a fraction. She definitely swallowed hard. But then she straightened her shoulders and flicked her chin in the direction of the door. "Bedroom?"

  "You're sure?"

  "Positive."

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  «^»

  He didn't bother with the overhead light, and he didn't bother with the bed. Because when he paused in the doorway and caught sight of her window seat, his senses leapt with possibilities and his mind decided with certainty.

  There.

  He wanted her naked on that bank of plush cushions, framed by the lacy swathe of the curtains and the thick bank of roses outside her bay window. He wanted her lit only by the soft glow from her bedside lamp, which he flicked on. Then he lowered her to the window seat in a long sensual slide, and she hummed her approval.

  With unhurried hands he removed her blouse. With unhurried lips he kissed her throat, her shoulders, the rise of her breasts. When he reached around to unhook her bra, he felt her swiftly drawn breath, felt her hands grab at his back, curl into his shirt. And he wanted them on his skin.

  "Take my shirt off," he directed.

  When they were both naked from the waist up, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, relishing the pressure of her breasts against his chest. Reveling in the feel of her, the taste of her, the sounds of her escalating passion. He unzipped her skirt and pushed it down her hips so he could skim greedy hands lower, fill them with the roundness of her hips and the swell of her belly.

  The breath left his lungs in a violent rush when his fingers snagged in her only piece of jewelry. He'd forgotten… How could he have forgotten? Gripped by a sudden savage desire to see what his hand had touched, he grabbed her skirt and dragged it over her head. Tossed it behind him. Then he slid from the seat, spreading her knees so he could kneel between them.

  At first he sank back on his heels to merely look. With her hair all mussed and her face flushed with arousal, with her eyes clouded by a hazy blend of desire and some other unnamed emotion, she took his breath. His gaze dipped, became distracted by the spectacular sight of her full breasts moving in time with her rapid breathing, before dropping lower … to find what his eyes sought hidden behind her hands.

  Behind fingers that twisted as if unsure what to do now that he'd removed himself from her reach.

  Hunger and tenderness warred for dominance as he came up onto his knees and put those hands back on him, as they tangled in his hair and pulled him into a deep, deep kiss. While their mouths danced the familiar steps, their hands learned new variations, sliding and skating, dipping and turning, until Zane grew dizzy.

  "Enough," he growled into her mouth, but he only meant enough teasing, enough torment. He doubted he could ever have too much of her.

  And when he hooked his fingers into her panties and dragged them down her legs, she reached for his zip and tugged it open, freeing his aching sex, stroking it and driving him crazy with the desperation of her hands and her voice.

  "Oh, please hurry."

  Zane laughed harshly as he searched for and finally located the discarded box. "Believe me, I'm hurrying as fast as I can."

  She wrapped her legs around him the instant he was covered, pressing her heat against him, imploring him with the sweetest persuasion. He pushed her back on the cushions and rose above her, hovering at the brink of that first wild plunge to stare fiercely into her eyes, to find the exact moment of connection.

  "Now, Zane, oh, please, now!"

  He thrust deep and strong and felt her surround him, pulling him deeper, welcoming him home. And oh, how he wanted to stay there, so deep inside that he touched her goodness, that he became part of it, that it became part of him. Maybe if he never moved, maybe if he stayed in this exact place…

  But she moved impatiently beneath him, reaching up to bite at him with a hungry mouth, pressing her hips to a new angle that screamed at his control. What little control he had left. With a savage curse, he pulled himself back and drove into her again, into her sweetness and her heat. He cupped her breast and flicked his tongue over its distended point, and she widened her knees and lifted her hips, and he touched somewhere deep inside that made her cry out.

  "There, oh yes, there," she moaned, and Zane felt sweat bead on his brow as he forced himself to withdraw slowly, to push himself back with restraint. She rolled her hips restlessly, dug her nails into him and demanded more.

  Just once more, he told himself through gritted teeth, and then it's civilized all the way.

  He plunged again, deeper and faster, found that same sweet spot and couldn't stop. Not when she chanted his name over and over, until it echoed in him like a mantra of hope and promise. Not when her climax gripped at him, pulsed around him, until his blood roared in his eardrums and he had to chase after his own release, to find it in one last thundering storm of sensation.

  * * *

  Zane woke with sunlight warm on his face and Julia's soft curves snuggled flush against his side. For a long, sleep-hazy minute he savored the buzz of morning arousal, knowing he had only to dip his head and kiss any one of a dozen sites to spark her husky murmur of approval.

  He knew this from experience.

  How many times had he turned to her during the night? How many times had she welcomed him into her body and sighed his name in that mind-blowing moment of connection?

  Not enough. From one hour to the next, never enough.

  That spontaneous answer jangled alarm bells in his head. How could such sublime sex not be enough? He should be lying here boneless, sucked dry, not thinking about starting all over again.

  What was it with this woman?

  Taking care not to wake her, he smoothed back her tangled mass of hair. And felt a sick, gut-deep jolt as he exposed her face, throat, and breasts … all that pale tender skin marked by his lack of control.

  So much for civilized!

  He scrubbed a hand over his whisker-rough jaw and swore savagely as he amended his earlier answer. Too many times. Too many times without restraint. His feet hit the floor hard. Pausing only to haul on jeans, to grab his shirt and socks and boots, he was halfway to the door before his brain cranked into action.

  What the hell was he doing?

  He dropped his boots and stared at the scrunched-up shirt in his hands. Noticed prints, chest-high, where Julia had grabbed him with salve-smeared fingers. What he should be doing was rubbing that stuff into her whisker-burned skin—waking her with some consideration, instead of slinking off like … like the unprincipled loser this town had labeled him.

  Thoughts of watching her sleepy eyelids flutter open, of witnessing that first unguarded moment of wakefulness, took a firm grip on his imagination. Yeah, that was what he wanted. To surprise her—maybe with the cup of tea he'd deprived her of last night.

  Kissing that surprise from her lips would be a pleasurable side benefit.

  Decision made, he shoved arms into shirtsleeves, feet into boots, and headed for the kitchen. Making morning-after breakfast would be a ground-breaking experience, but then, so was Julia. Everything about Julia. That disquieting concept sobered his spirits as he peered into the refrigerator. Later he would examine what it meant. Right now he needed to concentrate on breakfast … or he would after a run to the corner s
tore for supplies.

  Zane shook his head disgustedly as he closed the fridge door. No eggs, no bacon, no bread. And the only milk was that weak-as-water stuff women seemed to think was good for them. Not that Julia had come to any harm, he decided as he let himself out the front door. Her curves were still in perfect order. Lush, full, inviting. Curves designed to lure a man to the edge of sanity, then drive him over the edge.

  The sound of a car decelerating called his attention, reluctantly, to the street. The car—four-cylinder, missing on one—pulled up opposite the front gate. A door slammed, and seconds later his sister swung into view. Three rapid strides later she saw him on the veranda and delight chased the distracted frown from her face.

  "Zane! What are you doing here?"

  Sharp blue eyes took in his unbuttoned shirt and bed-mussed hair, then flicked in the direction of Julia's bedroom. Her overnight bag hit the path with a thud before she advanced on him with strides that gathered length and speed and fury with each successive footfall. By the time she'd taken the three steps as one, pulled back her arm and landed one on his arm, the punch carried ten times the power of last night's drunken assailant.

  "What in heaven's name do you think you're doing?" she snarled.

  Unsure how to answer—was she mad about him being here, or mad because he appeared to be leaving?—Zane chose the safe option. Silence. And played for sympathy. He flexed his fingers and extended his elbow, stretching the cramped muscle that had taken the blow.

  Her eyes followed the gesture, but her narrowed gaze lacked contrition. It skimmed over his face and came to rest on his cheekbone. "I hope Julia did that."

  He lifted a hand and fingered the tender spot. "Because…?"

  "You have to ask?"

  Yes, he had to ask. He had no idea what bug had crawled up Kree's butt, although it was obviously a big, surly brute. With teeth. "Not that it's any of your business, but when Julia invited me to stay, it wasn't for sparring practice."

  "Julia invited you to stay? And you didn't see anything wrong with that picture?"

  Zane ignored a strong twinge of unease. "Not from where I was standing."