by Pamela Clare
Her body trembled as she wept, her face pressed against his chest, her tears seeping warm and wet through his shirt. Then she lifted her head and looked up at him, her eyes glittering with tears, her cheeks wet, her lips slightly parted. She ran her fingers lightly over his lips, her gaze dropping to his mouth. “Please, Hunt—kiss me.”
Knowing how upset she was, he hesitated, not wanting to do anything she’d regret later. But she didn’t seem to appreciate his half-assed attempt at chivalry. With an impatient little whimper, she slid her fingers into his hair and drew his head down, taking his mouth with hers.
Heat slammed into him at the first soft brush of her lips, but still he held back, letting her have control, allowing her to shape the kiss, yielding to her rhythm. She tasted of salty tears, whisky, and woman, her lips soft and warm. But then she slipped her tongue inside his mouth, gave his tongue a tentative flick—and he no longer gave a damn about chivalry.
Sophie felt Hunt’s control snap. He groaned, fisted a hand in her hair, and pulled her onto his lap, returning the caress of her tongue with a full-scale invasion of his own, taking over with a forcefulness that left her breathless.
God, yes!
No man had ever kissed her the way Hunt kissed her—this intensity, this heat, this perfect balance between rough and tender. Other men didn’t seem to care whether she really enjoyed their kisses, a bit of lip action nothing but a means to an end, one step toward the goal of getting laid. But Hunt kissed her as if it were his reason for living, sharing each breath, each shiver, demanding everything, giving everything, bringing her to the edge with just lips and teeth and tongue, his body hard against hers.
How could she have gone so long without this, without him?
Well, that didn’t matter because he was with her now, his mouth working magic, the slick glide of his tongue making her ache to have him inside her in other ways, liquid heat pooling between her thighs. He hadn’t even touched her, but her breasts already felt heavy, her nipples tight against the lace of her bra.
She knew she shouldn’t do this, but she didn’t care. Her world had turned upside down, and only Hunt could make it right again. She wanted him more than she wanted to breathe.
She pressed herself into him—God, he was already hard—and slid her hands over his chest, searching for buttons, her fingers fumbling in her desperation to get to skin. She wanted to feel him, needed to feel him, had to feel him.
He dragged his mouth from hers, stilled her hands, his heart beating hard against her palms, his darkened gaze searching hers. “Are you sure?”
She nodded. “I want you inside me.”
With a groan, he reclaimed her mouth, sloughing off his suit jacket, yanking off his shirt and tie, baring planes of heavy muscle and soft skin to her touch. She ran her hands hungrily over his chest, his scars, his tattoos, drinking in the hard, male feel of him, unable to get enough. It had been so long since she’d burned for a man like this.
He drew her to down to the carpet, rolling with her in a tangle of limbs, breaking the kiss to yank off their remaining clothing. And then he was above her, his thighs forcing hers wide apart, the thick head of his cock nudging her slick entrance. He seemed to hesitate, his breathing rapid, his gaze raking over her. Then he slid into her with single, slow thrust.
It felt like a homecoming.
Their moans mingled as he buried himself to the hilt, huge and rock hard, stretching her, filling her completely. And then he began to move, driving himself in and out of her with strong, silky strokes, the slippery fiction so intensely wonderful that she wanted to scream.
“Sweet Jesus!” Marc felt his balls draw tight and knew he was in trouble. He willed his body to relax and pumped into her, burying himself, savoring every snug, slick inch of her vagina. Twelve years of wanting her. Six years of fantasizing about her, of imagining himself taking her in every way a man could take a woman, of fucking his own fist just thinking of her. But no fantasy could compare to the mind-blowing sensation of being inside her.
It was like falling dick first into paradise.
Sophie. His Sophie.
Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, sexy little moans rolling from her throat with each thrust. Her breasts rose and fell with every ragged breath, jiggling each time he drove into her, their rosy tips puckered with arousal, begging to be touched and sucked. And her scent—that musky sweet scent he’d tried to remember for six long years. Christ! It made him want to swallow her whole.
Then she wrapped her long, silky legs around his waist, opening herself fully to him, and he damned near lost it. Fighting back that first hint of orgasm, he thrust himself deep inside her, then held himself still, and ground the root of his cock over her swollen clit, hoping to slow himself down and give her the time she needed.
She whimpered, her inner muscles tensing around him, her nails biting into his biceps. “Oh! Oh, Hunt! God, yes!”
He ducked down, sucked one velvety nipple into his mouth, tugging it with his lips, flicking the tip with his tongue, grazing it with his teeth. She liked that. She liked it a lot, if the frantic sound of her moans was any indication. He liked it, too, loved the taste of her, loved the way each flick of his tongue made her arch and twist beneath him, his hips keeping up their rhythm, grinding against her.
Her fingers slid up to his head, fisting in his hair, holding him against her breast, her breath coming in shudders, her legs drawing tighter around him. Then he felt the tension inside her peak, felt her body stiffen, and knew she was flying.
She cried out and arched beneath him, a look of rapture on her sweet face as she came around his cock, her inner muscles clenching him, caressing him, drawing him deeper inside her.
And that was it.
With a groan, he pounded himself into her, his hips a piston, his control gone. He couldn’t think, couldn’t stop, his body driving desperately toward release. She was too much, too much—all soft curves, musk, slippery heat.
God, yes!
This is what it felt like. So good…so good…so goddamned good. Slick. Hot. Her muscles gripping him, holding him, stroking him. Heat in his belly. Burning…needing. It had been too long…too damned long. And she was so wet, so tight, so completely…perfect.
“Help me, Sophie! God, help me!” He had no idea what the hell he was saying or what he meant, except that he was dying. Stroke by stroke, he was dying. He was going to burn up and die inside her.
Somehow she understood. Somehow she knew what he needed, her arms holding him close, her lips whispering kisses over his flaming skin. And then he exploded, orgasm blazing through him in a white-hot surge, tearing a cry from his throat, searing him to his soul, his cock jerking in great spasms as he spilled himself inside her.
CHAPTER 18
MARC LAY WITH his face nuzzled against Sophie’s neck, his mind blissfully empty, warmth permeating every inch of skin and muscle and bone. He had no idea when he’d last felt this way, no idea how long he lay there on top of her. His awareness returned bit by bit, and it was the little things he noticed first. The scent of her skin. The slow in and out of their mingled breathing. The steady rhythm of her pulse against his cheek. The softness of her breasts against his chest. The languid slide of her silky calves down the back of his thighs till her ankles rested in the bend of his knees.
And then it dawned on him that he was lying like a deadweight on top of her—a good two hundred pounds on her slender one-twenty. He raised his head, looked down at her sweet face, and felt his breath hitch in his chest.
She was so damned beautiful—the sun and the moon and the stars rolled into one. Red gold hair loosed from its braid. Dark lashes resting on her tear-stained cheeks. Creamy skin flushed pink with the afterglow of sex. Lips rosy and swollen from kissing him.
If it weren’t for her slight smile—and the lazy little circles she was tracing on his biceps where her nails had left marks—he’d have thought she was sleeping.
His brain reconnected with his mouth. “Am I t
oo heavy?”
“Hmm-mmm.” Her voice soft and sexy, she opened her eyes and smiled a sexy smile that made his heart trip. “Stay where you are.”
Where he was, exactly, was on top of her, between her thighs, his cock already growing hard again despite what had been the most explosive orgasm of his life. By all rights, it ought to have blown his balls off, maybe even killed him, but he seemed to be intact.
And functioning.
He flexed his hips, nudged himself inside her, seeking home.
Her lips parted on a shuddering inhale, her inner muscles clenching reflexively around him. He chuckled, pressed a kiss to her forehead, then flexed his hips again, his cock now rock hard. She was wet, so silky wet, his cum mingled with her cream.
Shit.
He hadn’t planned on this, hadn’t even thought about protection. Not that he wasn’t safe. After almost seven years of celibacy and mandatory yearly blood tests, he was as safe as a man could get—except that he was a man. She had enough to deal with right now without him planting a baby inside her. He’d have to pick up condoms—pronto.
“How long had it been?” She asked the question out of the blue, her voice still sexy soft.
He knew what she was asking, but he wanted to think about her and what he was going to do to her next, not his past, not prison. He withdrew, then slowly entered her again. “Almost seven years.”
She sighed, a sound of pure pleasure. “Were the two of you close?”
“Who?” He withdrew again, then slid himself inch by inch into her.
Her eyes drifted shut, and she gave a little moan. “You and the last woman you were with…before your arrest.”
All the blood from his brain must have drained into his dick—that was the only explanation for the admission that poured out of his mouth. “You’re the only one I thought about…Six years, Sophie. Every night…you…”
He ended with a hard, deep thrust.
Her eyes fluttered open on a gasp, her gaze soft, sympathetic. “Hunt…”
Then she kissed him and lifted her hips, meeting his next thrust, sheathing him deeply, scrambling his brain.
He managed a few words, some vague thought of carpet burn in his mind. “Not here, sprite. The bed.”
Sophie moaned in protest, too impatient to let go of him for the short time it would take to walk to the bedroom, wanting him, wanting to please him, wanting to make up for those six long, lonely years. She wrapped both her arms and legs tightly around him, holding him fast, her mouth finding its way to the sensitive skin beneath his ear.
He groaned, slipped one arm beneath her, and used the other to push her up with him, the muscles of his shoulders and chest shifting as he raised them both into a sitting position and drew her on top his hard thighs, his erection still sheathed inside her.
She moaned, arched into him, and played cowgirl, her head falling back as sweet pleasure swept through her, one sensation spilling over the next. The rasp of his chest hair against her nipples. The hard feel of his man’s body. The erotic slide of his cock.
“Jesus!” He nipped and kissed her exposed throat, sending shivers over her skin. Then he caught one arm around her waist.
She felt the two of them sway, as he lurched upward, rocked back on his heels, and struggled to his feet. She gasped, clasped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, sure they were both about to crash to the floor. “Wh-what…?”
“I’ve got you.” He took a few unsteady steps, and she understood.
He was carrying her to the bedroom.
And he was still inside her.
A bolt of heat shot through her, some primal, feminine part of her thrilled by his male strength, his raw physical power, the potent feel of his body as he moved. With a moan, she nipped the fullness of his lower lip, then slid her tongue inside his mouth, seeking, tasting, stroking, her hips moving with a rhythm of their own, curling against him.
He chuckled, groaned, staggered. “Mmm, Sophie, honey, I need to see where—”
They bumped into something and ricocheted into a wall, still kissing. Then he pivoted, and they were moving again.
Something crashed to the floor. Glass shattered.
“Christ! Honey, I can’t see—mmmm.”
She couldn’t quit kissing him, couldn’t get enough of him.
Another turn, the squeak of hinges, enfolding darkness.
A few more steps—and they were falling.
Sophie landed on top of him on a wide bed, their bodies still joined, her gaze colliding with his. He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, his mouth full and wet, his lashes long, the shadowy hollows of his cheeks emphasizing his square jaw and high cheekbones. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickled down his temples, the scent of him like salt and man and sex. But it was the heat in his eyes that caught her, driving the breath from her lungs in a rush.
No man had ever looked at her like this—raw, sexual need mixed with some emotion she recognized but wasn’t sure she wanted to name.
He ran his knuckles over her cheek, thrusting slowly from beneath. “I never thought I’d see you again. I never thought…”
“Me neither.” Sophie felt her throat grow tight, his words pressing against some sore spot inside her. “God, Hunt, what are we going to do?”
He cupped her cheek, his gaze burning into her. “Savor the moment. That’s all we have. There’s no ‘happily ever after’ for us, sprite. There’s now. Only now.”
An aching sadness swelled behind her breastbone, tears pricking her eyes. But if now was all she had, she would take it.
She slid her hands over the sweat-slick perfection of his chest, his dark curls damp against her palms, her fingers tracing the outline of his flat nipples, his muscles, his scar. Ten minutes ago, this beautiful, strong man had come apart in her arms, his body shaking with the force of a release that was far more than physical, the vulnerability and desperation in his voice making her heart ache.
Help me, Sophie! God, help me!
He’d needed her. He still needed her. And, God, she needed him!
She found just the right angle and began to move in slow circles, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders. He held himself still beneath her, letting her set the pace, surrendering his body to her, as she slowly built the rhythm, pleasure flowing through her like molten gold.
“Oh, Hunt, it…feels…so…good!”
Breath hissed from between his clenched teeth, his brow furrowed, his heart leaping beneath her palm—telltale signs that he was burning, too. But still his hips didn’t move. He was holding back for her sake, his hands cupping her breasts, his fingers teasing her throbbing nipples, plucking, stroking, pinching, the sensations shooting straight to her belly.
She moaned, unable to catch her breath, the heat inside her already a tight, incandescent ache. “Hunt…Hunt…Hunt!”
As if in answer, he reached between their bodies and drew circles over her sensitive clitoris with his thumb—a new form of blissful torture. In a heartbeat, her body hovered on a razor’s edge, somewhere between pleasure and pain, wanting…needing…craving…
And then it hit her, orgasm surging through her in a tide of quicksilver, white-hot and shining, the sweet shock of it forcing a keening cry from her throat, delight seeming to stretch on forever in unending, rippling waves.
“Sophie…” Hunt whispered her name, a note akin to awe in his voice.
Then, in a single fluid motion, he rose up and took her beneath him, pinning her arms above her head, raining kisses on her face, her throat, her breasts.
“Sophie.”
And then he was driving himself into her, thrusting deep, his mouth taking hers, his smooth strokes plunging her into another shattering climax moments before he groaned and claimed his own release inside her.
Floating, her body replete, Sophie was only vaguely aware of it when he rolled onto his back, drew her into his arms, and settled her head against his chest. When at last he pulled the covers over her, she was
fast asleep.
MARC LAY IN the darkness, holding Sophie in his arms, lost in the miracle of being beside her. He watched her sleep, the sight of her stirring emotions inside him that he was almost afraid to feel. Her face was relaxed, her lips slightly parted, her breathing deep and even. Her hair lay in red gold strands across his chest. She looked defenseless, completely vulnerable, adrift in the healing forgetfulness of sleep.
He ought to sleep, too, but he didn’t want to close his eyes, unwilling to surrender a single moment of being with her, not when his future held an eternity of endless nights without her. As content as he felt right now, he knew this wouldn’t last. There were only three ways for him to get out of this fucked-up mess—a fugitive’s life south of the border, a lifetime in prison, or death. None of those scenarios included Sophie.
He found himself trying to memorize every detail of her face. The spray of tiny freckles on her little nose. The absurd length of her lashes. The slight slant of her eyes. The fullness of her lower lip. The translucence of her skin. The delicate line of her eyebrows. The high, delicate curves of her cheeks.
Sprite.
He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve her. She sure as hell didn’t deserve him. The last thing she needed was to get tangled up with a man whose life would probably end in a hail of bullets. And yet here they were, about as tangled as two people could get, her scent on his skin, his ejaculate deep inside her, both of them spent from making love.
They were tangled in other ways, too. He’d gone to her for help, stupidly thinking that a simple request for records would fly under the radar and get him what he needed without endangering her. Instead, the fucking worst had happened.
But whoever this guard was, he’d made a fatal mistake. He’d all but given himself away. Under pressure from her attorney, the jail captain would hunt him down. And when they identified him, Marc would take him out. It was strange to think that the bastard had turned out to be a guard at Denver County. Marc had always been sure he was a cop.