by Lora Leigh
Because she could have kept him from leaving. How she knew that, she didn’t understand. But the certainty that it was the truth filled her, causing regret to tear at her.
“You don’t have to blame me.” His hold tightened on her, the hand on her jaw moved, cupping her cheek instead. “You don’t have to blame me, Amara, because I know you wouldn’t have been there if I’d stayed. I blame myself.”
His thumb brushed against her lower lip softly, his gaze softening a bit, a very little bit. She wanted to sob at the look on his face. The hunger that filled it was like a drug in her system, filling her, washing through her, and weakening with needs she had no idea how to decipher.
“Riordan…”
“I was going to take you to Texas that week, do you remember? Grandpops wanted to meet you. I wanted to show you my home.” There was something in his voice, something that hinted that he had wanted her to see more than just his home.
“It wouldn’t have changed anything,” she tried to protest.
“It would have, Amara,” he promised her. “It would have, because I would have never taken your safety for granted. I might have been sleeping in your bed, but there wasn’t a night I didn’t take precautions to make certain the hours I spent listening to you cry out in pleasure didn’t endanger you.”
For one precious second, she lost her breath.
Hours spent pleasuring her? Had he really spent hours? She had plenty of friends who had lovers and they never mentioned “hours spent” being pleased.
“I can’t…” She tried to tell him she couldn’t remember, couldn’t talk about this.
“The night we spent here, in this room, in front of this fire, I spent hours taking you, touching you. Do you remember?” he asked, his voice lowering as he pulled her tighter against him. “It was snowing then too.”
The snow falling around the glass-enclosed room, the fire burning as she lay on the thick, cushioned rug. His body over her, his expression savage.
“No…”
“Liar,” he whispered, his head lowering again to brush against her lips as his gaze held hers captive as he held her body. “We rode each other to exhaustion that night. There’s no way you don’t remember it.”
There wasn’t a single ounce of uncertainty in his voice.
“You don’t…” She tried to protest that he didn’t know what he was talking about, again.
“I dreamed about it last night, Amara,” he growled. “Did you dream with me? Did you dream of me going down on you as you watched? Watched my lips, my tongue, tasting all that silken, pretty flesh between your thighs?”
A harsh, involuntary inhalation of air gave her away. Because she had dreamed. And the memory of those dreams had a flush washing through her again, heating her face, her body, as anticipation increased the need only building through her senses.
“And no one told me I didn’t just forget my life, but my lover,” she whispered painfully, staring into his eyes as he came to one knee in front of her, keeping her in place when she would have risen, would have run from him. “Someone had to have known.”
A mocking smile tilted his lips. “No one knew about us, Amara. Just you and me.”
There was something about the way he said it, an edge of anger in his voice. He stared back at her.
“You could have told me.” Her fists clenched as shards of broken dreams and nightmares pierced her head.
He’d been her lover. She wouldn’t have let him anywhere near her bed if she didn’t love him. She knew that much about herself.
“What happened?” she demanded when he wouldn’t speak. “Why didn’t you come back? Why did you make me find you?”
Had he left her? She would have loved him, a part of her evidently still remembered too many emotions where he was concerned because her response to him was too strong. Her need for him was too strong.
“That’s something you have to remember.” His voice deepened, became darker. “I just thought I’d help you with it.”
Before she could do more than gasp, he gripped her forearms and tugged, bringing her off the couch and into his arms. Turning, he had her back on the thick rug as he rose over her, locking her firmly in place.
“You left me, didn’t you?” She could feel it in the heavy pain that tightened her chest and the regret as she stared up at him. She knew he’d left her.
“Remember, Amara.” A vein throbbed at his temple as some unknown emotion flashed in his eyes. “You forgot me, not the other way around.” His expression was brooding, turning savage as firelight shadowed his features.
Her hands tightened at his shoulders as she struggled to remember and tried to fight the languorous weakness invading her. There was something she needed to find in the fog that tumbled and swirled through her. Something she’d lost …
Before she could remember anything, his lips covered hers, his tongue parted them, and he stole any resistance she might have managed. It was hunger and anger, greedy lust with something dark and wild.
And it was impossible to resist.
Was that her whimper she heard? That mewling little sound of pleasure … that and hunger, like a woman too long denied.
She had been too long denied. She had to have been, because her arms refused to push him away. Her fingers pushed into his overly long black hair, clenched and luxuriated in the feel of the strands caressing them.
Her lips parted for him, accepted him, and in less than a second she was caught up in the sudden whirlwind of sensations whipping through her body.
Oh, her body remembered him. Her lips remembered his kiss, her tongue remembered his taste, and it was intoxicating. Drugging. It was better than any dream or fantasy she could have conjured up.
As his kiss deepened, his tongue licking against hers, tasting her, letting her taste him, she felt consumed by the needs rising inside her, overwhelmed by them.
“Riordan,” she gasped when he eased back, just enough to give her air as she felt the material of her robe part and fall away. As the material eased across the bodice of her gown, his hand was there, cupping, molding the flesh as his thumb found the hard point of her nipple.
Forcing her eyes open and staring up at him, she watched as the blue of his eyes deepened, became more sapphire as his pupils dilated with lust. The savage planes and angles of his face were harsh with need, the brooding expression made more so by the shadows cast by the firelight.
She had to touch him, touch his face, ease the stark look of pain about his eyes. But as her fingers touched his face, it became about something more. Watching her fingers touch him, she became mesmerized by the feelings that overtook her. And she knew she’d done this before. She’d laid beneath him, just touching his face, just …
Her breath caught. So close. She had been so close to remembering something. Before she could make sense of it his lips were covering hers again, his tongue sweeping across them, parting them and then pushing inside in a dominant thrust of pure male hunger.
So long …
The feel of him settling against her, his lips on hers, his thumb stroking her nipple and sending clashing sensations racing through her—it was more than she wanted to fight—more than she could fight. This wasn’t another dream. She couldn’t excuse her inability to resist it, to resist him, on a fantasy or an illusion she’d slipped into. And it was far better than any illusion she’d ever built in her mind.
“Beautiful,” he whispered, his lips drifting from hers to her jaw, her neck. “So beautiful.”
He didn’t just drop a few kisses along her neck on his path lower, he stole her senses with his lips, with the rake of his teeth, with the licking strokes of his tongue.
Oh God, she loved it.
The feel of his lips, just a little rough, caressing the sensitive skin of her neck was incredible. Her head tipped back, nails biting into the material of his shirt as she felt him pull aside the elastic bodice of her vintage gown.
“Damn,” he whispered, his head drawing back, his broad,
callused palms stroking not just her nipples, but caressing her breasts, cupping them, stroking them. “How I love your pretty breasts, Amara. Those pretty, hard little nipples.”
His lips covered one tight peak in an inferno of searing sensations, lashing pleasure, and firm draws of his mouth.
Amara heard the cry that escaped her lips and knew she’d be shocked later. Just as she’d be shocked by her hand sliding into his hair to hold him to her, to feel the incredible pleasure as long as possible.
“Sweet baby,” he groaned, his head lifting a second before her other nipple was treated as well.
Oh God, she could barely breathe for the pleasure. It was incredible. The feel of his thighs against hers, his erection pressing against her between his jeans and her gown, rubbing against the mound of her sex.
His lips, his mouth sucking at her nipple, his hand caressing her other breast. And it wasn’t enough. She wanted more. She needed to feel him closer, skin to skin. So much so that before she knew it she was tugging at his shirt, desperate to feel his flesh against hers.
“Take it off,” she panted, pulling at the material again, her breathing ragged as desperate need began to build inside her. “Now. Take it off.”
Levering himself, he did just that, grabbed the bottom of his shirt and all but tore it off.
Muscle rippled beneath his chest and abdomen, in his biceps and forearms. Then he was releasing his belt, tearing at the snap and zipper of his jeans before his lips came down on hers once again.
Deep, drugging kisses, wild with desperate hunger and overwhelming pleasure filled her senses. She was only distantly aware of the fact that he’d quickly shed his clothes. All that mattered was he was naked and hot against her, the warmth of his flesh sinking into her and easing the aching chill she’d felt for so many long months.
When he released her senses again and drew back, there was no regaining sanity. In a matter of seconds her robe and gown were removed, leaving her naked and aching before him.
There was no shame, no hesitancy in her. When his kisses began easing down her body, gentle sips of her flesh and heated nips, there was only anticipation. She’d dreamed of this for so long. So many nights she’d spent suspended in a pleasure that only built her desperation for more.
Pushing her legs apart, he settled between them, his broad shoulders holding them open; and between, his head lowered as her eyes opened, watching, desperate. It was a kiss that destroyed her.
Amara’s neck arched as pleasure sliced through her senses.
Riordan’s tongue slid through the narrow slit of her pussy in a slow, gliding stroke, found her clit, circled it, and destroyed her mind.
His hands slid beneath her rear to lift her closer, making her intimate flesh more accessible to his hungry kiss. Her hands buried in his hair once again, her hips lifting to him, her senses exploding with so many sensations they overwhelmed her.
As his lips and tongue toyed with her clit, she felt his fingers at the entrance of her sex, easing inside her, slowly filling her. Riotous arcs of pleasure lashed at her, pulling a low, desperate cry from her lips as he stroked her inside and out.
Oh God, nothing should feel this good, this powerful. It was like being pulled into a storm of too many emotions, too many sensations, all refusing to relent. Each lash of pleasure only built, grew in intensity until she was arching against him, begging for more.
She’d make sense of it tomorrow, she assured herself. She’d make sense of all the emotions, the flashes of memory and the desperation some other time. Nothing mattered now but each lick, each kiss, each thrust of his fingers inside her, filling her, pushing her closer to the brink of a release.
As his lips surrounded the sensitivity of her clit, and the pressure of his fingers inside her increased, she knew she’d never survive the explosion coming.
It built inside her until she was crying his name, begging him.
“Please … please…” The words were falling from her lips, gasping cries she couldn’t hold in as the thrusts of his fingers increased, penetrating her, stroking inside her in cadence with the suckling heat of his mouth at the straining bud he held captive.
“Riordan…” she gasped as she felt herself closer, teetering on the edge of chaos.
Her skin was damp with sweat, her hands desperate as she held his head to her. Her hips writhed, arched. There was no escaping nor getting closer to the unrelenting lash of rapture stealing her mind.
Just when she was certain she couldn’t survive it, knew she’d die from the buildup of tension inside her body, every breath, each sensation and jagged lash of pleasure exploded inside her.
She felt herself trying to draw in enough air to scream, but she couldn’t make a sound. Her body tightened, became nothing but a mass of exploding ecstasy, and Riordan was the catalyst who refused to allow her to escape the diabolical pleasure tearing through her.
Just when she felt that final detonation of rapture easing away, he was rising between her thighs, the broad head of his cock pushing against the entrance his fingers had filled and pushing inside her.
Already clenched, spasms of release attacking it, her pussy began parting for the penetration, stretching to accommodate the heavy width of his erection as the additional sensations, the fiery lash of the invasion, threw her into another storm. This one more violent than the last, and destroying the last of her sanity.
Her hands gripped his back as he came over her with a groan, hips pressing between hers, his cock burrowing deeper. Each thrust and retreat took him deeper, stretched her tighter around him and stroked against nerve endings so violently sensitive that each impalement only intensified the edge of pleasure and pain she was poised on. All she knew was that she needed more.
“Sweet baby,” Riordan groaned as he nipped her ear. “That’s it sweetheart. Take me. Suck me in…”
Her hips jerked, burying him deeper.
“Fuck yeah. Take me, Amara. All of me, baby. Every fucking … inch…” He powered inside her, drove the thick wedge of flesh fully inside her as her wail of pleasure echoed around her.
“Riordan…” She writhed beneath him. Her inner flesh flexed and rippled repeatedly, involuntarily, as she fought to accommodate the intrusion even as her body, greedy for every touch, every sensation, sang its pleasure.
“God, Amara…” he gasped at her neck, his body straining as he possessed her, each muscle tight, bunching against her as his cock throbbed inside her. “That’s it … ah hell, that’s it baby, let that sweet pussy suck my dick.”
Her womb spasmed, the flesh surrounding him flexed in a deep, clenching caress that nearly drove the breath from her lungs.
“Fuck!” He jerked against her, his hips drawing back then suddenly pushing forward again and driving deep.
The shock of the thrust had her nails biting into his back in reaction and gasping cries falling from her lips.
Her knees bent, hips lifting him, silently begging for more, desperate for more.
And he gave it to her.
His groan echoed in her ears as he began moving, fucking her in deep, rhythmic thrusts, pushing inside her, filling her, retreating and impaling her again until their bodies writhed together, frantically reaching for and finally throwing her into a fiery explosion that overtook all her senses.
As the cataclysm raced through her, she felt his thrusts increase, become harder, stronger, until he drove inside her in a final thrust that had him stiffening against her, her name falling from his lips as she felt his cock pulse inside her as he found his own release.
Collapsing beneath him, exhaustion drawing her into a black velvet embrace, Amara gave herself to it. Just for a moment, she promised herself. Not long enough to dream, just long enough to relish the overpowering contentment beginning to fill her.
Just long enough to let herself regroup before she faced the man she had forced herself to forget …
chapter sixteen
Riordan bit back a groan as he eased his cock from the gr
ip her body had on it. Sweet, silken flesh still flexed around the semi-hard erection as he retreated, as though trying to hold him inside her.
Collapsing beside her, he forced himself to slide the condom that covered his cock free before disposing of it in the fire that blazed across from them.
Then, sitting next to her, one arm propped on his upraised knee, he pushed his fingers through his hair and stared at the woman who drew him to her, even past death.
He felt his chest clench at the sight of her lying against the thick rug, her black hair framing her stubborn features, her lips parted as she breathed, those expressive eyes closed as she slept.
He’d never forget the sight of her when he’d found her in that damn dark little hole, bones broken, bloody, so weak. And so desperate to stay there and die rather than face the risk she knew might await him as they pulled her free.
Riordan hadn’t gone in with just the men from his Brute Force rescue team. Hell no. He’d called Noah, and his brother had come with the highly advanced shadow team he commanded with the covert private Elite Ops warriors. Dead men. Men who trained like no other group. And still, the enemy had almost taken away his chance to claim her.
Whoever had kidnapped her had known her father would send in the best, and they’d been waiting. The first group waiting for them had been taken out easily enough, but Riordan had known that somewhere, somehow, there would be more.
He couldn’t risk Amara or his brother. Noah had lived through hell, just as his wife Sabella had, during the years they’d believed he was dead. When he’d returned with a new face and a new name, he’d been given a second chance with the woman who hadn’t been able to let him go.
Just as Riordan hadn’t been able to let Amara go and as Amara hadn’t been able to let him go.
Why had she forced herself to forget?
The psychiatrist Noah had brought in had made that determination within weeks as she recuperated in the hospital. But why she’d forced herself to forget, the doctor couldn’t say. That wasn’t to say he didn’t know. His exact words were that he “couldn’t say.” Psycho gibberish for the fact that Ivan probably threatened to rip his nuts off if he told. Because there was no doubt in Riordan’s mind that Ivan knew why.