Cindy Gerard - [Bodyguards 04]

by Over the Line

  “Restores my faith in the all’s-fair-in-war theory,” he said, his beautiful blue eyes searching hers, she knew, to make certain he hadn’t hurt her.

  He hadn’t. She was fine.

  And if she told herself that often enough, she would be. She jerked her gaze away when hot tears stung her eyes.

  She was okay. She’d make it be okay. She’d make the overwhelming sense of vulnerability, the encroaching sense of catastrophe, go away. She’d make the need to cry for a mother who’d been a drunk and a father who hadn’t been go away, too. A need that she’d bottled up inside for more years than she could count. A need that had been building since she’d been told her mother was dead and since she’d found a photograph of a man who might be her father. A need that swelled in her chest, pushed at her throat, burned behind her eyes . . . and oh, damn.

  A huge sob racked her body.

  “Hey . . . hey. It’s okay. Just let it go. God knows, you need to let it go.”

  His voice was soft and soothing. And then his finger-tips were there. Just as soft. Just as soothing. Touching her face, brushing away the tears she’d fought and denied but spilled over anyway. No matter that she didn’t want them to. No matter that she hated herself for giving in to the weakness.

  “I don’t . . . cry,” she whispered, her voice clogged with tears.

  “I know. I know you don’t. Everyone knows that you’re one tough hombre,” he murmured as he gathered her close against him and held her.

  Like she was a child. Like she was fragile. Like her pain had become his.

  And like a child, she turned into him. Snuggled close to all that warm, male strength and the protective comfort he offered.

  She didn’t know how long they lay that way. She didn’t know how long she cried. And she didn’t care. He’d been right. This man who was so not a boy had known exactly what she’d needed. And he’d given it to her. Selflessly.

  His hands on her back were so strong yet so gentle. His breath in her hair so warm and deep. His body against hers hard yet giving, his scent a comfort and a distraction.

  For the first time in days she felt totally and utterly safe. For the first time in years—yes, years—she felt totally and utterly understood.

  How had that happened? How had someone she’d known for barely a week come to understand what she needed before she had?

  She tipped her head back so she could see his face. His beautiful, concerned face. His eyes were heavy-lidded. His mouth so very close to hers. And the fear and frustration that had finally loosened its hold on her gave way to a slow-building heat, a heat that settled low in her belly and flared to fire when she saw an answering flame in his eyes.

  “Love and war,” she whispered, unable to resist any longer. She’d wanted to know what it would be like with him since the first time she saw him. Tonight she was finding out.

  “All’s fair in love and war.”

  And finally, finally, Janey did what she’d been wanting to do, what she’d been needing to do, for days now.

  She touched her mouth to his. A brief buss of her lips against his. A gentle friction as she brushed her mouth back and forth, soft to supple, warm to hot.

  My God. He was so hot. She wanted to lose herself to all that heat. Immerse herself in the power of it, let it take her over, take her under, take her away from the reality of stalkers and murders and the mess her life had become.

  “You had it wrong before,” she whispered again, loving the feel of all of him against all of her. “All’s fair in love and war.”

  His entire body shuddered. He closed his eyes, met her mouth with his, then, on a ragged breath, pulled away. “One doesn’t apply here, Janey. And the other . . . the other was just a game.”

  She wasn’t so sure about that anymore. Wasn’t sure about anything except that she needed to keep on kissing him. Needed to know what he tasted like deep inside. What he felt like when he was wanting, too.

  “Okay.” She met his mouth again. And again. Another brush of lips to lips. Not so tentative now. Not so tame. An expedition into foreign territory where they could both be winners if he’d let them.

  “Okay. Got it,” she whispered, intent on seduction, aching with need. “It’s just a game. And we both know the rules up-front. No one gets hurt. No one gets angry.”

  “Janey.” Her name grated out on a low moan when she worked her hand down between their bodies, molded her fingers around the long, thick erection that told her he was as turned on as she was. “We . . . Jesus . . . we can’t do this.”

  “We can.” She squeezed, felt his amazing body tense just before he covered his mouth with hers.

  His suddenly hungry mouth.

  His wildly ravenous mouth that fought hers even as he took her under in a kiss that erupted with passion and fire and a need so sharp and huge it stunned her. She felt his hand in her hair, cried out when he clutched a handful and tipped her head back to scatter openmouthed, biting kisses against her jaw, along her throat, before returning greedily to her mouth and slipping his tongue inside.

  An explosion of sensations detonated inside her as he kissed her deeply, not a bit sweetly. She loved it. She craved it. The unchecked need in his assault. The raw desire she tasted on his tongue.

  Gripping his powerful shoulders, she rolled to her back and pulled him over on top of her. Then her hands were under his shirt, pulling, tugging, dragging it over his head while he did the same to her T-shirt and made quick work of her bra.

  She sucked in her breath on a rush when he released her mouth with a long, eating kiss to find her breast, draw her nipple deep into his mouth, and suck and lave and feast as if she were his last meal. Or his first meal. Or his only meal.

  Sharp, exquisite pleasure shot from her nipple and arrowed through her belly where it seared between her thighs. Long. It had been so, so long since she’d felt this electric arousal, this edgy, achy yearning. Maybe she’d never felt it. Not this intensely. Not this desperately.

  She was beyond desperate now as she arched toward his mouth and parted her legs, making room for him between them. And lost her breath on a serrated sigh when he pumped his hips against hers fueling the fire, stoking the burn.

  His back was so broad, his skin so supple, over hard, ropey muscles. He was so warm beneath her fingers as he rocked his hips against hers, pinning her to the floor with his weight, making her ache with every move. She lowered her hands to his tight buttocks, moaned in protest when he pulled away, then sucked in a breath of urgent shock when he reached between them, worked the snap and zipper on her jeans, and opened them in one swift, wild rush.

  He took her mouth again, all hungry suction and greedy tongue, swallowing her gasping moan when he tunneled a strong hand inside her open jeans and cupped her, absorbed her damp heat, then plunged a finger inside.

  She jerked against his hand, stunned by the instant, searing pleasure, the breathtaking shock of his invasion. She lost awareness then of the hard floor beneath her. Of anything before this moment. She was aware only of his need and hers. Hyperaware of his touch, of her inner muscles clenching, her body alternately softening and tensing as his finger glided in and out of the damp, delicious heat he created.

  “You . . . inside,” she managed on a broken rasp, as a restless urgency to feel more, be more, take more, drove every thought. “I need . . . I need . . . Oh, God. I need you inside me.”

  She lifted her hips, reached down, and pushed and shoved and kicked and scrambled to get out of her jeans. Cried out in complaint when his amazing hand withdrew.

  “Please . . . please . . . pleeeaaaazzzze,” she begged, clutching at his shoulders, urging him back, then reaching between them to find he’d freed himself from his jeans. Silken heat filled her hand; moisture dampened her palm and she went crazy with her need of him.

  “Now. I want you inside me now!”

  “God . . . Janey. We . . . Jesus. We can’t.”

  She lifted her head, cut off his words with a deep, carnal kiss
of clashing teeth and questing tongue, and guided the tip of his penis to the center of her heat. Damp met damp. Heat met heat. Soft met hard. My God, he was so hard.

  On a defeated groan, he gave up the fight. Pushed inside of her with one long, deep stroke that filled her so full she cried out at the pressure. Rich, erotic, amazing. And all she could think was, More.

  She wanted more of this astounding, electric friction, more of him filling her.

  She lifted her hips to his . . . then rocked away. Lifted, rocked, taking all he had to give her, dying a little each time she pulled away. Then he was rocking, too, matching her rhythm, tunneling his hands beneath her hips, and lifting, enhancing the contact to such exquisite depths that everything in her world was reduced to the awareness of the way their bodies connected and rubbed and filled and pleasured.

  The friction was combustible. The sensation indefinable and so, so unbearably good as he increased the pace, pounding into her with a frenzy that matched her own need for release that had grown insatiable.

  She clutched at him, breathless with the assault of sensations that built and bred and had her clawing his back, biting his shoulder, begging, begging, begging for a release that she wanted and dreaded and finally reached with a breath-stealing explosion of rich, raw pleasure.

  “God . . . oh, God.” She clung to him, clenched around him, held on for her life as she rode the peak, fiercely clinging to an orgasm so acute and intense she could hardly bear it yet didn’t ever want it to end.

  Above her, he made one final plunge. One deep, guttural groan and he came on a long, labored breath.

  Mindless with sensation, her eyes tearing from the intensity, she held him close, savored the free fall, the weightless sense of floating, and the knowledge that no man had ever taken her this high. Had ever made her feel this safe. Ever earned this much of her trust.

  Propped on his elbows above her, his face pressed in the hollow of her shoulder, his back damp with a sheen of sweat, he was silent. For long, endless moments, he was silent.

  Too silent.

  Devastatingly silent, she realized when her synapses regrouped and finally clicked back into working order.

  And for the first time since she’d taken that leap, offered her trust and kissed him, she felt cold.

  14

  Jase had to move. He had something to do. He had to go shoot himself. Cut off his dick. Clamp his balls in a vise.

  Which all fell into the category of closing the barn door after the horse had gotten out.

  Stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  He drew in a ragged breath . . . which only served to make his dick twitch, because the movement pressed his chest deeper to her breasts, his belly closer to hers.

  He had to move, he told himself again.

  And yet he stayed. Flesh to flesh with the sweetest, sexiest, most vulnerable woman. A woman who had taken him by storm, launched a full frontal assault that he hadn’t known how to defend himself against.

  Like hell.

  It was a one-word defense.

  “NO!” Capital N. Capital O. Exclamation point.

  Pig simple.

  He was about eighty pounds heavier than she was and she’d taken his sorry ass down without a fight.

  Some warrior he was.

  And some protector. Shit. They hadn’t even used a rubber.

  “You’re awfully quiet up there.”

  He grunted, lifted his head, and, with every shred of self-control he had, rolled off of her.

  He lay on his back beside her, crossed his arms behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. “That’s because you’re talking to a ghost. Dead men don’t talk. And I’m as dead as they get. Or I will be when Max gets wind of this.”

  “Max doesn’t need to get wind of this. No one does. It’s just you and me.”

  He turned his head, looked at her. At her kiss-swollen lips, at her sated brown eyes, at the mess he’d made of her amazing hair.

  And wanted her again.

  He jerked to a sitting position. Stood. Tucked himself back in his jeans. Didn’t trust himself to zip up because his hands were shaking so bad.

  “This should not have happened.” Hands on hips, his back to her, he shook his head, disgusted with himself. “I apologize. I—”

  “Don’t.” Equal measures of hurt and anger colored her tone. “For God’s sake. Do not apologize. Do not second-guess. Do not assume that you own any blame here. I came on to you, remember?”

  Jesus, did he remember. She’d been . . . hell . . . she’d been all over him. And he’d loved it. Fought it. Yeah. For all of about a nanosecond.

  “I didn’t even protect you.”

  And that ate at him.

  So did the rough way he’d handled her. But God. Lord God, the need.

  “So you know,” she said so quietly, he had to cock an ear to hear her, “I’m healthy. Don’t know what you’ve been reading . . . in the rags and all . . . but I’m healthy. In fact . . . don’t laugh, but I’ve been celibate for two years.”

  Celibate. Did she say “celibate”?

  He jerked his head around, saw the look on her face. Oh man. Oh Lord have mercy on his stupid sorry hide, she had said “celibate.” For two years. He couldn’t even wrap his mind around that. And yet . . . it would explain. It would explain a lot. Her urgency. Her huge, quaking need.

  That she’d chosen him. Man. It was a burden he wasn’t sure he wanted to carry. And yet it humbled him. He swallowed, turned away from her. Shook his head and confessed his own secret. She deserved to know. “Yeah. Well. That makes two of us. Been a long time for me, too.”

  Not two years but damn close.

  But none of that made what he’d just done right. None of it made what he was going to have to do easier.

  “And I’m on the pill,” she added. “Ever since Grimm . . . well. As a precaution.”

  Oh man. The guilt didn’t end. She felt the need to protect herself from rape and he reaps the benefits.

  He felt lower than low when he heard her stand and walk up behind him. Flinched when he felt her hand on his arm. Fought a groan when her warm breath fanned his bare back. And battled the urge to turn around and see her . . . see every bare inch of her with those sleepy mocha eyes and sexy swollen lips . . . and that wild tangle of hair that he itched to sink his hands into again. See her standing there wearing nothing but that brushed-gold cross, her breasts pink and pouty where he’d sucked them. The curls between her thighs wet from his come and hers.

  And then she was pressing herself against his back. Rubbing her little velvety nipples against him, running her tongue along the indentation of his spine, spanning his ribs with her hands. Then gliding them lower, into his open jeans, reaching inside.

  He threw back his head, sucked in a fractured breath when she stroked his traitorous, swelling cock, cupped his balls in her small, kneading hand.

  “We’re both adults here, Iowa.”

  He groaned out a humorless laugh. “And I’m supposed to be protecting you, not screwing you.”

  That was mean. He’d known it when he said it. Supposed some ethical part of him wanted to shock her into thinking with her head.

  It shocked her all right—but not for long. She tensed momentarily, drew a deep breath, and with her hand still surrounding him slid around to face him.

  “You’re upset.” She pressed a string of kisses to his chest. Flicked her tongue over his erect nipples. Then outlined his eagle with the tip of her tongue.

  Lord Jesus God, he was dying here.

  “With yourself,” she continued, going down on her knees in front of him, freeing him from his jeans as he clutched both hands in her hair.

  Help me!

  “You think you let me down somehow,” she whispered, her breath hot and sweet against him driving him stark raving nuts.

  Hell yes, he’d let her down. He’d let himself down. He’d let No down.

  “You’re wrong,” she murmured, and touched the tip of her tongue to the
tip of an erection that throbbed and ached and turned his mind to mush. “I needed this. I needed you. I need you again. Please. Please need me, too.”

  Need her?

  Need her?

  Need for her was driving him over the line from want to craving. The line he’d drawn dividing right from wrong, ethical from unethical, sane from . . .

  “Please,” she whispered, and his eyes rolled back in his head when she caressed him with her mouth. “Please need me, too.”

  Aw God. He’d go to hell tomorrow. Tonight, he wanted heaven. And heaven was on her knees in front of him, begging him, surrounding him with warm, wet suction and a pleasure so wicked and pure, he thought he’d pass out.

  On a growl, he lifted her to her feet and walked her backward to the nearest wall. Then he gripped her sweet ass in his hands, wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his shoulders, and took her again. Right there against the wall.

  The sounds she made. It drove him wild. Kitteny sighs. Breathless, uncontrollable gasps, quivering little screams as he hammered into the tightest, slickest, most mind-bending heat. He caught one of those screams in his mouth, felt it settle to a low, humming note of pleasure and wonder and greed as he sucked on her tongue.

  Forever inside her wouldn’t have been long enough, yet he shot into her like a cannon, all explosive fire and blinding speed. Groaning her name, he pressed as deep as he could, aware of her hands in his hair, her panting breath on his face, her melting heat pouring around him when she came, convulsing around him, milking him of everything he had before she collapsed against him on a long, keening sigh.

  When he came back to himself, it was in a blurry haze.

  Amazing. He’d just had the most amazing sex of his life. Twice. Within twenty minutes. With a woman he shouldn’t like, shouldn’t touch, shouldn’t want . . . shouldn’t even know in a normal world.

  But nothing had been normal since he’d seen her that first night onstage—rocking and rolling—and readjusted his thinking of what he wanted in a woman.

  It seemed impossible, but Sara was a distant memory.

  This woman . . . this woman was reality. As real as it got.