Cara spun so fast she lost her grip on the box, spilling the contents on the floor. She patted the wall with her palms, stumbling through the darkness for the kitchen light switch. With a flick, rays of soft illumination lit the area. Pete stepped out of the shadows of the hallway.
She placed a hand over her pounding heart. “You scared the bejesus out of me. What the heck are you doing standing in the dark?” Darn it, John, you should have warned me. Her brother needed a serious kick in the pants.
Pete remained silent. A fluorescent glow glistened off the bottle held tight in his hand as he brought the spout to his lips and guzzled.
“Where the heck is John? He told me you guys were going out.”
He tapped the glass container on the wall, his attention locked on the splashing liquid. He shrugged. “He had to work. Emergency.”
Freaking great. She bit her lip. “I brought your clothes and junk.” She put up her hand. “No, no don’t thank me. Your look of appreciation is thanks enough.”
“No plans tonight, Cara?” He leaned against the entryway, tracking her with a hunger one often sees in a starving predator. Her stomach somersaulted as the need to satisfy his appetite assaulted her.
She squatted, her hands shaky as she scrambled to pick up the things scattered across the floor. For crying out loud, she’d scrub the freaking tiles if it distracted her from the way his gaze glided over her skin. She hurled the items into the carton, not caring if they survived her method of clean up or not, her eyes locked on the task. She wasn’t sure which was worse, his current silence or the sharpness of his earlier tone. Either way, she didn’t plan to stick around long enough to find out.
“Of course I have plans. I’m going home, inhaling a few slices of pizza, and then I plan to climb onto my sofa with a good book. Not that it’s any of your business. You didn’t answer me…why are you stalking the dark like a bad version of Dracula?” She tried to make a joke, but failed. Besides, Pete was more the werewolf type, a shifter ready to claim, to mate. Wow, she needed to stay away from those paranormal romances.
“Just thinking,” he answered. He took another sip. When he pulled his lips away, they glistened from the liquor.
Stepping further into the light, Pete lifted the firewater to his mouth and took a long pull. A shirtless Pete Cross left her panting.
Since high school, he had put on a good twenty pounds of muscle. Additional stature any man would die to have and any woman would kill to possess. His scars did little to hinder the effect.
After a long pull, Pete lowered the bottle. He wiped a stray trail from his chin with the back of his hand. Tonight, for some reason, his scars stood out like a beacon, pulling her gaze to his wide chest. The ragged, puckered skin did little to diminish his overall magnetism. If anything, the flaws enhanced his appeal, radiating incredible strength and undeniable courage, a warrior in every sense of the word. Dark sweatpants hung low on his hips, exposing his belly button and a teasing trail of dirty blond hair, which led to the angry erection stretching the front of his pants. Cara licked her dry lips, unable to look away from the impressive bulge. She swallowed hard, pushing down the lump stuck in her throat.
His deep groan filled the silence. She looked up to find him staring at her. Agony hid beneath his gaze, dark and mysterious. Fear lived there too. Subtle and masked with a well-practiced confidence he must have learned during his military training. Oh, and anger. That emotion ruled them all, burning like a wildfire as he continued to glare at her in silence.
Muscles rippled as he stepped closer. A grin spread over his features, wide and menacing.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. “You mentioned you were thinking…what about?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” He tipped her chin up with his finger. “You, Cara, I’m always thinking about you.”
She stepped back. “Me?”
Pete closed the distance she attempted to create. His warm, heavy breaths blew over the arch of her neck, bringing the potent scent of whiskey and making her tingle.
“How was he able to manipulate himself into your bed?” His words came out tight and harsh as if he ripped them from his throat.
“You’re drunk. I don’t think…”
He forced her back until her spine pressed flush to the wall. “Damn right, I’m drunk. It’s a wonderful thing. You should try it sometime.” His heated palm came to rest against her cheek. Electric currents traveled across her flesh and down her body, down to the sweet spot aching for fulfillment. She needed Pete to tame the desire drenching her panties. She needed Pete to fill her and claim the special treasure she had held for him all these years. His thumb traced the curves of her mouth. “You have beautiful lips, baby.”
“Please,” she whispered. If only the weak beg…then call me pathetic, because I’m about to crumble.
“Do you love him?” His gaze left her mouth and penetrated her eyes.
“Who?” she asked, trembling with need.
He brought a hand up and planted his palm on the other side of her head. The cold bottle now rested against her shoulder. His forehead touched hers. “Morrison…do you love him?”
“What? No…I mean, yes…I mean, I care about him, we’re friends.”
His fingers slid into her damp hair, massaging her scalp with gentle spirals. She closed her eyes as a sense of rapture swept over her and carried her back. Back to the night that changed everything.
Yes. Incredible bliss wrapped around her. This is what I wanted. This is what I needed, what I searched for all these years, to burn beneath his firm hands, to become lost in his embrace.
Lowering his face into the crook of her neck, he brushed his lips over her sensitive flesh. She shivered at the contact. Waves of tingling current traveled throughout her body. Parts of her exploded with vivid life. Other areas lost function, like her knees and her capacity for speech.
“God, you smell so good, Cara, just like I remember.”
His scent reminded her of the forest at night, sweet, yet untamed, dangerous.
Without warning, he captured her lips. Trapped between her aching breasts and the hard planes of his chest, her hands tensed, curling into his bare flesh. His mouth took charge, demanded submission.
He offered no escape.
She sought no release. Why would she want to? She’d dreamt of this moment for six long years.
The kiss set fire to her soul. She surrendered to the flames, helpless to extinguish them. She wanted more of him. More of his caresses, more of his taste, more of the incredible pleasure she found within his arms. She savored the bitter blend of whiskey and sin coating his lips, a powerful combination that made her dizzy. He held her in place, deepening the possession, and that was what the embrace meant to accomplish. Within those moments, he owned her.
Yes, Cara desired Pete Cross like no other. No one had ever come close to him and no one ever would.
Pushing his hips deeper into the sensitive junction between her thighs, he let the hard ridges of his erection give her a hint of what to expect should she surrender. She moaned, wanting more, while he trailed his mouth over the curve of her chin, nipping at her throat.
“My sweet, Cara,” he whispered. His endearment warmed her heart, while his caresses fed the blaze screaming beneath her skin. “One touch and I forget. One touch and I forget everything.”
The bottle slipped from his hand, hit the floor, and shattered into pieces. Like an alarm clock, the crash woke her from the mind-numbing arousal. This insanity needed to stop. Yes, she longed for this moment, but never once in her erotic dreams did she imagine his caresses fueled by whiskey and anger. Call her crazy, but she wanted her lover sober. Being in his arms meant more to her than some spur of the moment drunken roll in the sack. He meant more to her.
“Wait.” Deaf to her protest, his hand reached under her shirt, closed over her breast, and began to toy with her sensitive nipple. “Oh God, your hands feel so good.” She bit her lip so hard she was surprised blood didn’t fill
her mouth. The crunch of her shoes on glass reminded her why they needed to stop. “Pete, this isn’t right.”
“It’s right, baby, so fucking right.”
He found her lips. Once again, she tasted the bitter poison warming his blood and directing his actions. Somehow, through her thick air of desire, Cara managed to gather her last threads of common sense.
“Stop, Pete.” She shoved against his chest. His strength held her in place. “I said stop.” She managed to get her hands higher and pushed against his shoulder, hard. He skidded back, slipped on the broken glass, and fell against the table. His eyes narrowed. He wiped his mouth, as if erasing the traces of their shared passion.
“I bet you don’t tell him to stop. I bet you let him do whatever the fuck he wants to you.”
She pulled her shirt down over her exposed breast. “You’re drunk. This isn’t you.”
He laughed. “You have no idea the things I want to do to you. You prance around in those little shorts showing off those damn legs.” He licked his lips. “I think you shake your fucking ass and wear those tight tee shirts to drive me crazy.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she snapped.
He cupped his erection. “You’re nothing but a cock tease.”
“A tease…”
“Yeah, a certifiable, not-giving-up-anything cock tease.” He stumbled to the refrigerator and grabbed a six-pack of beer.
“First, I’m a whore and now I’m a tease.”
He popped the top off one of the bottles. “I say it how I see it, when I see it.” He guzzled half the contents.
“Well, this is how I see it. You’re a fucking asshole.” She covered her mouth.
“Wow, spewing profanity now?” Pete laughed.
“This isn’t funny.”
“Darling, this is hysterical. My, how the sweet and innocent have fallen.”
“Well, for your information, I’m not sweet and innocent. Not since the night you caught Stan and me playing tonsil hockey against that tree.”
He rushed her, forcing her back up against the wall. The anger in his eyes made her tremble. She’d always thought of Pete as a protector. Right now, the dark fury blazing in his gaze had little to do with protection.
“Don’t say it, Cara, not one fucking word. Goddamn it, when I think of his hands on you—” His eyes closed tight and then sprang open, his expression dangerous. “I want to string him up and beat the life out of him. Cut his hands off for even thinking of touching you. Picturing him on you, inside you, drives me insane.”
His eyes peered straight into her, branding her with an unspoken promise. He would destroy anyone who dared lay a finger on her. The threat, genuine and absolute, went well beyond the need to defend her virtue or his hatred of an old rival. Even a case of old-fashioned jealousy wouldn’t elicit such an exaggerated response. There was one thing that had the ability to bring a man like Pete, a man who thrived on control, to the edge of lunacy. Realization struck hard and fast. Stan had hit the nail right on the head. Pete loved her. Not the way you love a friend or family, but the way a man loves a woman.
No, he can’t, she argued with herself.
Sure, he cared about her. Being John’s sister made the slight affection obligatory. He desires me, too. The evidence of his desire is brushing my inner thigh right this second, but love?
He must. Why else would she read death to all who enter engraved in his irises as he stared at her?
Stubborn son of…
“You got this fantasy in that head of yours. You look at me and think…hey, there’s good old Pete, always there when you need him. Well, sorry to shatter your delusion, but I’m just another has-been solider with a bum leg and a lot of regret.”
“Pete, I—”
Pete pushed off the wall and turned his back to her. “Get the fuck out.”
“I’m not leaving.”
He spun on her, his gaze cold enough to make her shiver. “Unless you intend to take off your clothes and rid me of this hard-on, I suggest you leave.” The blunt words hit her chest like a sledgehammer. How could he love her and treat her this way?
He brought the beer to his lips, finishing off the last few gulps.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Get out.” He pushed off the wall, distancing himself from her. When she didn’t move, a growl tore from his lips. “I said, get out!” He turned his back and walked away from her, just as he had six years ago.
Defeated, Cara walked out the door, tears streaming down her face, pain weighing down her shoulders, and a black empty hole where her heart once rested.
*
Pete heard the door open and then close with a gentle click. She didn’t slam the door as he hoped. Nope, her anger would have been too easy on him. He deserved no less than her crushed silence, deserved to know he had broken the one woman who mattered to him.
He fell back onto the wall, banging his head against the sheet rock until his brain rattled and his skull throbbed.
Why did she have to come here? Her taste lingered on his lips, the flavor of cherries, sunshine, and better days. He brought his hands to his face and covered his wet eyes as if the simple act would make what he did disappear. Instead, the smell of her strawberry shampoo clung to his fingers like leeches demanding blood.
He held the memory of her soft, perfect curves nestled against his hard, tattered body a prisoner in his memories. Memories he sure as hell had no right to possess.
She bewitched him. She’d walked in the house drenched in rain, her clothes clinging to her beautiful figure and determination carved in her exquisite features. Shit, he would have to be dead to resist such temptation.
Thank God for her common sense. Someone needed to think with more than their genitals. One more second of her sweet tongue exploring his mouth and he would have taken her on the floor. Buried his cock so far inside her, they’d need a tire iron to pry him off. He still wanted Cara. The stiff cock jerking between his legs agreed, but did he deserve her?
Hell no.
He hadn’t earned the pleasure of her soft flesh.
Those men who fought beside him would never again know such pleasure. He closed his eyes tight, allowing the visions to explode within the dark reaches of his mind. He thought of their faces seconds before the fire and destruction blew them apart. Thompson, the youngest of his men, wore one of his famous dimpled grins, nineteen and so full of life. Laurence and Thompson argued over the best comedy movie of all times, There’s Something about Mary or Dumb and Dumber, or some shit like that. Dan had his usual solemn stare as he held the photo of his little girl. Assigned to Pete’s unit a few months earlier, Dan seldom offered a grin or casual chatter during off hours, his mind always somewhere else, no doubt back in the States with his wife and child.
None of his men would ever again experience joy, pleasure, and comfort in the arms of those they loved. Why should he be content when their bodies had been rendered broken and bloody in some damn desert thousands of miles from home, the sands forever drenched in crimson, filthy with broken dreams and lost hope? The fate of his men had become an endless torment, a hell in which he would never escape.
Why him? Why hadn’t he died with his men? Why, damn it?
He propelled the bottle across the hallway, reveling at the sound of its destruction as glass flew in every direction. He stumbled back into the kitchen. A few more beers and he’d fall into a deep, dark sleep. Glass crunched beneath his feet. He narrowed his eyes on the spot where he’d kissed her. Regret had become his mantra.
His vision may have been blurry from the river of whiskey coursing in his veins, yet had been clear enough to notice her tears, drops of bitter emotion, burning holes in his black soul. He had hurt her…deeply.
More than anything, he had wanted to pull her into his arms and beg for forgiveness, but rage grabbed a hold of him the second she mentioned Stan. Oh, she denied their relationship, but he knew the truth. Stan had manipulated her before. He’d, no doubt, do it again.
The thought of her and Morrison in bed, touching, fucking…made him want to reach for the closet knife.
It’s better this way. Cara needs a good man, not a tarnished failure who left his self-respect back in the damn desert.
A good man. He had to laugh.
He doubted any man would ever be good enough for her in his eyes. Jesus, not even the prince of England would measure up. He needed to leave, move to the other side of the world where no one had ever heard of Heart Falls, New York. Somewhere the women were loose and expected nothing but a hard cock and a good time. Somewhere he wouldn’t have to watch the woman he loved give her heart and body to another man. Because he knew, without a doubt, Cara would lose her soul to some schmuck and he’d have to stand by and let it happen.
He eyed his pack and duffle lying on the floor, bits of glass scattered on top of the faded olive-green canvas. The twist of the doorknob snapped his gaze up. Fear pressed against his chest, sucking the air from his lungs. She’d come back. Oh God, no, his resistance no longer existed. Weak from climbing the mountain of emotion, he’d cave. If she came back into this house with her stubborn streak and sexy mouth, he would have her. He would go against all he believed, tear down the thick walls of righteousness, and take what he wanted. Seduce her to his will until she screamed beneath him in rapture.
“What the fuck?” John shouted as he slipped on a few sharp fragments. He caught himself on the counter. “Jesus Christ, Pete.”
Pete breathed a sigh of relief. “Sorry, man, I had an accident with a bottle of Jack.”
John frowned. “Come on, clean this shit up. God, a guy works all fucking day and comes home to a damn mess.” Twenty minutes earlier, and he would have come home to a goddamned porn scene.
John continued to mumble as he left the kitchen. Pete breathed a sigh of relief, both thrilled and disappointed. Part of him was thankful John had walked through the door, while another part of him, a bigger, deeper piece of him, wished for one more taste of Cara’s lips.
“Are you kidding me?” John roared from the other room, no doubt finding the other accident at the end of the hall. “What the hell, man? We need to have a serious talk about your anger issues.”
Cross My Heart Page 9