by Tessa Adams
Again, her mind danced around something she couldn’t quite grasp, a thought niggling at the back of her head that she couldn’t tap into, no matter how hard she tried. She tried to grab on to the elusive shards of it, but just when she thought she had it, her mind shied away.
An ache started deep within her—painful, frightening, intense. Phoebe instinctively jerked her thoughts away from it, stopped trying to figure out what it was that she was missing, and immediately the pain dispersed.
There had to be a logical explanation for what was going on with Dylan. Sure, if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, she never would have believed it. But she had seen it. Which meant there was a reason for it, one that didn’t involve things that went bump in the night, no matter what her fertile imagination was trying to tell her. She’d just have to dig until she found it.
She poured some shampoo into the palm of her hand, then ran it through her crazy mass of curls. A bunch of the curls had knotted together while she slept, thanks to Dylan’s curious hands on the plane the day before, and it was going to take a hell of a lot of conditioner to get them out.
Muttering a few choice curses, she closed her eyes and tilted her head back to let the water do its job. Then jumped as something rock-hard and solid brushed against her.
Opening her eyes despite the soap streaming down her face, she gasped as her startled gaze collided with Dylan’s hot one.
For long seconds, the only sound was the water hitting their bodies and the marble. Neither of them moved as they adjusted to each other, though Phoebe nearly whimpered at how right he felt against her.
She didn’t know how long she would have stood there, eyes locked with his, body tuning itself to his. But as the water continued to hit her, a huge wad of suds streamed directly into her right eye.
Yelping at the sting, she jerked away, turned and began to flush out her eye.
“What are you doing?” she managed to squeak once the soap was gone. “I thought you were asleep.”
“I woke up, and you were gone.” He pulled her into his arms. “I wanted to see what you looked like first thing in the morning, warm and sleepy from bed.”
Suddenly there was a desert in her mouth, one she had to fight through in order to answer with a flippant, “You’re too late—I’m no longer warm or sleepy.”
“Yes, but you are wet and snippy. That’s almost as good.”
She laughed despite her nervousness—it was hard not to when he was so cute.
Cute, she said to herself as he adjusted all six shower nozzles so that they covered both of them. Two days ago, she’d thought he was a motorcycle-riding madman, and now she was calling him cute. Maybe she needed her head examined.
“Maybe, sweetheart.”
She stopped at his wry tone, eyes wide. “What?”
His look was completely innocent. “I was about to say that as cute as you look with all that soap streaming down your face, maybe you should let me wash it off you.”
She eyed him suspiciously, wondering whether he really was able to read her mind, or whether she was just going a little bonkers. A lot bonkers, she reiterated, as he touched her and her heart beat double time.
“Come on, Phoebe. You know I won’t hurt you.”
She didn’t know any such thing. If there was nothing else that life with her father and stepfather had taught her, it was that men were capable of infinite deception—and destruction.
She swore she heard Dylan’s teeth grind, but then he was easing her head back under the spray, gently massaging the remaining lather from her curls. As he did, he stroked her scalp softly, until shivers that had absolutely nothing to do with being cold ran down her spine.
“See,” he murmured, when the water ran clean. “Painless, right?” He reached for another bottle, his big body rubbing lightly against hers as he squeezed a small amount of conditioner onto his palm.
Then his fingers were back, his strong, calloused hands slowly running the conditioner into her hair. Despite her determination to remain on alert, she felt her muscles relaxing, her body sagging. It felt so good to have him care for her—he felt so good with his long, beautiful fingers and sexy hands. He was setting every nerve ending she had on fire, not just where his fingers touched, but throughout her entire body.
Something moved inside her—something unfamiliar and powerful and a little bit frightening. She tried to figure it out, to understand it, but Dylan was doing such wonderful things to her that she couldn’t focus on the odd feeling.
He nudged her again gently, and she obligingly tilted her head back so that the warm water could lazily stream over her head and down her body. His fingers continued their talented massage, and arousal—sleepy, seductive, wonderful—awakened in her once more.
When her hair had finally been rinsed clean, Dylan grabbed the bottle of shower gel she’d selected and squirted some in his hands. Then slowly—so slowly that she wondered how long she could stand it before she went insane—began to lather her up. His talented fingers slid down her neck, over the slope of her shoulders to her arms, lingered at her elbows before slipping around to the small of her back.
It was a mark of how far gone she was—how aroused she was—that she didn’t stiffen and immediately stop him when he touched her back. But his hands felt so good—his care felt so good—that she surrendered to it without being completely aware that she had done so. So when his hands skimmed up her back she thought nothing of it, until he froze.
“Turn around.” His voice was hoarse.
“What?” she gasped, still caught up in the wonder of his touch.
“Turn around.” He spat out the words; then, when she didn’t move fast enough for his liking, he put his hands on her shoulders and forced her to turn.
“What are these?” he demanded. His fingers traced one jagged line on her back, and then the second and the third.
Shit, she’d forgotten about the scars. How could she have been so stupid? The first time they’d made love, she’d kept her body turned away from him, had made sure that she was lying flat on her back so he couldn’t see or feel them, and now she’d given him ring-side seats—all because she’d let herself get lost in his care.
She knew better—she really, really did. So when the hell was she going to learn?
“Phoebe, answer me.”
She couldn’t—she didn’t know what to say.
“Phoebe—” The warning in his tone made her furious.
She whirled to face him, slapping him in the chest with the washcloth she’d picked up at some point. “Just because we have sex doesn’t mean you own me. You don’t get to know everything about me simply because you demand it.”
His eyes darkened, and a feral sound erupted from his chest. “Where did they come from?”
“From my stepfather.” She blurted out the words, and he cursed, long and low and vicious.
“How—”
“Don’t!” It was her turn to glare. “I don’t like being bullied and I really don’t like men forcing me to do something I don’t want to do. So back off, okay? Or I’m out of here!”
His mouth tightened so much, she figured it was a miracle he didn’t bite off his tongue. But the hands that had turned harsh went back to soothing. “I’m sorry.” The words were stilted, but she knew what they cost him, so she accepted them.
“Look, it’s no big deal,” she answered, even though it was and they both knew it. Not his anger on her behalf, which kind of warmed her despite her annoyance at his heavy-handedness, but the scars themselves. And the fact that she absolutely refused to share that part of her life with him.
He didn’t say anything, just pulled her against his body and let the warm, comforting water run over them both. His hands roamed her back, her ass, her upper thighs, for once seeking to give comfort instead of arouse.
But she didn’t want comfort—didn’t need it. She wanted him, wanted his body and his hands and his mouth all over her. Wanted to let him take her any and every way he c
ould, until the demons of her past were chased away and the only thing between them—once again—was the out-of-control desire that flashed whenever they were close to each other.
Dylan seemed to sense her mood, and though his jaw was still tense enough to bite through concrete, he seemed to make a conscious effort to get with the program. When she brushed her breasts against him, he even managed a smile.
Reaching between them, he used his thumbs to gently flick her nipples. To squeeze and rub and torment them until she was nearly out of her mind. She arched her back, offered herself to him, and was more than pleased when he took what she wanted to give him.
He continued to stroke her breasts, and Phoebe pressed against him, her lower body brushing against his heavy erection. She felt him stiffen, heard the sudden acceleration of his breathing, and smiled. He still wanted her, despite the scars.
“Phoebe.” Dylan’s voice was husky, low and warning and incredibly seductive. But she wanted more than his words, more than his hands. Wrapping her hands around his neck, she opened herself to him and whatever he wanted to do to her.
Her scent was wrapping itself around him—a combination of his shampoo and her own sweet warmth that was driving him out of his fucking mind. He’d never been overtly possessive about the women he slept with, but something about Phoebe covered in his scent aroused him beyond bearing.
“Hmmm?” she asked, allowing her own hands to slide down his chest and around his back to cup his ass. She squeezed him, then pressed tightly against him.
His cock jerked. He loved the feel of her nipples against his chest, the feel of her pussy on his thigh. Anger over her scars was still beating through him, the need to find her stepfather a wild throb in his blood.
But she was here with him, sensitive and sweet and aroused. There was enough time for vengeance later. Now he wanted nothing more than to love her. Reaching his own hands down to her ass, he lifted her and pressed her center directly against his cock.
She gasped, her strong, lithe body bowing back even as her legs wrapped around his waist. She felt so good he wanted to howl, felt so good he wanted nothing more than to slip inside her and make her his in every way possible.
“Fuck me,” she murmured, her hands sliding up his back to tangle in his hair as she licked her way up his neck. “I want you inside me. Now.”
Though it cost him, he pulled away. Eased her gently to the ground. “I don’t think so.”
“What?” He could tell she was trying to focus on what he was saying, but he was just as determined that she forget about thinking for once, that she just feel.
He ran his hands over her dark pink nipples, pinched them lightly between his thumb and index finger before leaning down to blow a stream of hot air across the tight buds. “What—what are you doing?” she asked breathlessly, her legs trembling so much that he eased her down onto the long marble bench that ran the length of the shower.
He chuckled. “You like to rush. This time, I’m taking my time with you.” He rinsed the last of the soap from her body, making sure his hands touched every part of her. Down her neck to her arms, over to her stomach and up to her breasts. Down the sweet slope of her stomach to her sex, then around to stroke the seam between her buttocks. He let his fingers toy there for a moment, flirting with her anus and perineum, before skimming down her legs to her feet and pale blue toenails.
Phoebe jerked and trembled against him, and his cock throbbed with the need for relief, but Dylan ignored the need rocketing through him. Instead, he sank to his knees in front of her, spreading her legs wide so that his shoulders could fit between her knees. “What are you doing?” she asked, watching as he slowly lifted her feet and pressed them against his shoulders.
“Whatever I want.”
Her eyes grew wide, misty, and he hung on to his control by a thread. She was beautiful like this, completely open to him, the dark pink lips of her pussy spread so that her clit stuck out like a little pearl. His mouth watered with the need to taste her, but he knew the value of anticipation.
He started at her ankle, sucking on the delicate bone before working his way up her legs to the bend of her knee. He stroked her there with his fingers first, thrilled at how she tensed and thrashed at the delicate pressure. Then followed up with his tongue, tickling, teasing, tasting her and the clean, sweet water that continued to pour over both of them.
She gasped, her hands tangling in his hair and tugging hard. Sharp needles of pain pricked his scalp, and they felt so good he grew harder, longer. Part of him wanted nothing more than to give Phoebe what she wanted—to rush wildly for the prize and thrust his fingers and tongue and cock into her glistening pink pussy.
But she was still skittish, still didn’t trust him not to hurt her. And while he knew that trust like that only came with time, he was determined to show her that she had nothing to fear from him. That she could rely on him to keep her safe.
With the rest of the world, she could be as cool as she wanted. She could be strong, in charge, always a step removed from her emotions. But not here and not with him. He wanted the real Phoebe, the one who was still so hurt that the glance of his hand on her scars made her stiffen with distrust. The one who was so wary that she watched him when she thought he wasn’t looking, not out of desire or enjoyment, but because she was waiting for him to hurt her.
It killed him even as it made him determined to prove that he would protect her—even from himself.
“Dylan, now!” she moaned, her hips moving restlessly on the seat. He grinned as he used his tongue to skim a lazy path around her knee. It would do her some good to learn patience before the day was through.
Moving up a little, he licked and nuzzled and kissed his way up the inside of her legs, his lips blazing a hot trail over the honeyed sweetness of her skin. She trembled, spread her legs a bit more, and suddenly he wasn’t sure just how much control he had. He wanted to taste her, needed to feel her against his tongue with an intensity that bordered on insanity.
Pulling back, despite her clinging hands, he took one breath. Two. And struggled to get his wild lust under control. It wasn’t easy when he wanted to take her every way a man could take a woman. To pull her clit in his mouth and sink his tongue deep inside her. He wanted to taste her, to lick her, to bring her to orgasm again and again with his mouth.
Then he wanted to fuck her—in her pussy, in her mouth, between her breasts, in her gorgeous little ass. He wanted to mark her, to brand her, to come everywhere and anywhere she would let him. He quaked at the thought—and at the need for restraint.
The dragon raged and thrashed, wanting at her. Wanting inside her, and he couldn’t blame the thing. God knew he felt the exact same way.
“Dylan,” she moaned, her fingers clutching at his arms, and he nearly came right there. Something about the way she said his name—all breathy and needy and soft—ripped at his control as surely as his dragon did. He felt his powers surge, felt the fire and the energy well up inside him like a geyser. It had been so long since sex had given him a charge like this, so long since it had done more than simply set his power on simmer. But he wasn’t even inside Phoebe yet and already he could feel the ancient magic humming beneath his skin, could feel the power surging in every cell.
There was no way he was giving her up, not now. Not yet. She was his and he wanted to claim her, to brand her in the most primitive and obvious ways.
He trailed hot kisses along the inside of her thighs, higher and higher until he finally reached her glistening pussy. Taking his time, he delighted in tormenting her with the sweep of his tongue, the glide of his lips, the pressure of his fingers on her buttocks and upper thighs.
She squirmed, her hips rising and falling on the marble bench in rhythm to the pounding of his heart, and he stopped his intimate assault for just a second. Closing his eyes, he breathed her in, loving the honeyed vanilla scent of her. The dragon trembled, its mouth watering and claws right below the surface. Giving in to its need, to Phoebe’s nee
d, to his own need, he spread her thighs as wide as he could, then pulled apart the lips of her sex until her gorgeous clit was in full prominence. Then he blew out a long, slow, steady stream of hot air directly on her.
Phoebe screamed, high-pitched and desperate, her hips bucking wildly against his restraining hand. She twisted in an effort to lift higher, tried to bring her sex into contact with his mouth when he was just as determined that she wait. But then she clawed at him, her fingernails digging into the skin of his shoulders and upper arms. His control shattered and the dragon—with its seething, snarling passions—broke free.
His mouth slammed down on her, his tongue delving deep inside her. She came, screaming his name.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
He was killing her, Phoebe thought through the maelstrom of ecstasy whipping through her. Destroying her with every flick of his tongue, every press of his fingers. Her orgasm went on and on, huge waves that threatened to bury her in pleasure and something more, something her mind, wild with pleasure and lust and the need for more, couldn’t quite process.
She wanted to hang on, to follow the train of thought, but when Dylan went from burying his tongue deep in her pussy to swirling it around her clit, everything but him and the way he made her feel slipped from her head.
He’d already given her one earth-shattering orgasm, but seemed determined to give her another. His hands clenched her ass as he slipped one finger inside her anus and then a second one. Her entire body clenched at the feel of him there, his long, heavy finger dragging against nerve endings the doctor in her had always known existed but never before tested.
At the same time, his tongue stroked through the hot, swollen folds of her pussy. It flicked at her clit, licked along the seam of her sex, caressed and stroked and taunted her with the promise of more.