“I had my phone the entire time. It never rang. Not once. There was a point when I would have sold my soul just to hear your voice. I marked off every day of thirteen weeks on my calendar, waiting like some pathetic idiot. But after four months of silence? No. Just…no.” Still stubbornly looking away, she brought her coffee to her lips.
The sharp note of betrayal in her voice stirred his guilty conscience. Turns out he had defensive reflexes as well. “Jesus Christ, Sinclair, that was ten fucking years ago. Something I didn’t plan happened my first week of boot camp, okay, and it screwed up my timeline. So maybe you could cut me a little slack?”
Coffee exploded from her mouth on a choking cough. She coughed again, into a napkin this time, and then drew in a careful breath. When she lowered the napkin, she looked at him as if she wanted to slug him. “Something unplanned happened to you?”
Fuck it. The incident was not his proudest moment, but apparently even after all this time, he needed to justify being out of touch longer than expected. He waited until she stopped mopping coffee from the table and looked at him again. “I got sent to the brig for decking the drill instructor. One of the recruits in my unit fell out during a training run. The guy—Salcido—was down, clutching his knee and insisting he couldn’t move, but the DI wouldn’t back off. He kept yelling, ‘On your feet, recruit.’ Salcido kept saying he couldn’t. Then the DI kicked him, and I lost it. Next thing I knew I was standing over my DI, with my knuckles on fire, watching his eye swell shut.”
“You came to his defense,” she said, sounding strangely distant. Her face went blank.
“I came this close to getting bounced”—he held up his hand, finger and thumb a half inch apart—“but the other recruits in the unit spoke up. Even so, it took three weeks for the Corps to investigate the incident and clear me. They funneled me into the next group of new recruits, and I spent the following twelve weeks on my best fucking behavior, because there is zero margin for error during a second chance.”
“I-I can only imagine.” Color slashed across her cheekbones, like crimson flags against her otherwise pale skin.
“Now you know the whole story. So, here’s the thing, Sinclair—the U.S. Marines saw fit to give me a second chance. Maybe you could do the same?”
…
Her heart stuttered in her chest. So stupid, because explanations hardly mattered after all this time. Ultimately, his didn’t change a thing. But even so, her world tilted off-center, leaving her scrambling to rebalance her internal compass and get it pointed in a safe direction. That turned out to be the door, and after mumbling a weak-assed, “I’m not doing this,” through numb lips, she managed to propel herself toward it, dodging a wave of passengers flooding into the depot from a Greyhound she hadn’t even noticed arriving.
Over the din, she heard Shane call her name, but she kept moving, shoving through the double doors and gulping in breaths of burning-cold air as she broke into a run. A car screeched to a halt to avoid plowing into her. Shane called her name again—alarmed this time—but also farther away. She dug her key out of her pocket while she rushed to her car. Thank God for keyless entry and a start-button ignition, because shaking hands would have prevented her from sliding a key into a lock. The battery juiced life into the dashboard displays, but the engine thwarted her for one panicked second. She gunned the gas and got no response, until she finally realized she still had it in park. She shoved the stick to drive, and the Tahoe lurched forward.
A hand slammed down on her hood. She jumped, and looked over in time to watch Shane shout her name once more. Anger dominated his voice now. She jerked the wheel left and shot toward the parking lot exit, bouncing hard as her tire hit the curb on her way out.
Urban off-roading, she thought hysterically and gripped the wheel a little harder. All she could think of was getting away. Getting herself under control before she said something she couldn’t unsay about old mistakes she couldn’t undo.
Her cell buzzed from the depths of the purse she’d left on her passenger seat. After a moment it stopped, then started again. She ignored the noise but steered at a more cautious speed through downtown. With every mile she put between her and the bus depot, she breathed a little easier—until she got stuck behind a cement truck just outside the Whitehall Plantation and noticed a black Range Rover coming up fast in her rearview mirror.
Adrenaline kicked in again. The kind that took control of her nervous system without any oversight from her brain. She hit the accelerator and pulled into the oncoming lane. A flatbed hauling a backhoe lumbered toward her, chugging up the hill with all its unwieldy momentum. She floored it, zipping past the cement truck and swinging back into her lane before the flatbed driver finished blowing his horn at her.
The sharp turn into her driveway forced her to slow down, but apparently, Shane possessed advanced driving skills, because he took it much faster. The Rover skidded into the turn, took a hard, fishtailing drift to account for physics, and then the big back tires spat gravel as he accelerated out of the maneuver.
Physics might not be her strong suit, but she knew math well enough. How long would it take one mad-as-hell man driving forty miles per hour to overtake one chickenshit woman driving half that speed? More than the twenty feet she had left in her driveway. Running wouldn’t work. The situation called for a new strategy. Control the confrontation. Shane was about to meet the stone wall of her resolve.
She pulled the Tahoe to a halt, jumped down from the driver’s seat, and slammed the door while the Rover screeched to a halt. The driver’s door opened before the vehicle completely stopped moving. That should have given her pause, but she gritted her teeth and set off toward him at a righteous pace…until he got out of the car and she saw his face.
Holy shit. Crashing headfirst into a Peterbilt would have been the easy way out. She barely registered drawing to a stop, possibly taking a step back, as he closed in on her like a dark angel—a dark angel looking deceptively mortal with his disheveled hair, black crewneck sweater, and dark jeans, but the fury coming off him like unearthly energy belied anything casual in his intentions. It electrified the air around him, turning the atmosphere volatile and dangerous.
A stone wall, she reminded herself and lifted her chin. “Get out.”
He just kept coming, forcing her to cede ground until the back end of the Tahoe brought her up short. “If you ever do anything that reckless again, I swear to God you won’t sit for a week.”
Her control faltered, and something snide and impulsive took over. “Oh, honey, when it comes to reckless, you just saw the tip of the iceberg. You should run now, before I really show you the meaning of the word.”
He moved closer, until they stood toe-to-toe. “Bring it, baby girl. Take your best shot.”
The crack of her palm connecting with his cheek shattered the silence. His head snapped back and to the side. Vibrations shimmered up her arm while red bloomed on his cheek. A stunned part of her reeled at the unpremeditated violence inside her. She wasn’t above taking a shot at someone—she’d literally slapped sense into her own brother-in-law just a few months ago—but up until now she’d always known what she intended to do before she did it. This time she’d been a passenger in her body. A detached observer. Slowly, he turned his face back to her, his eyes cool and assessing. “Ten years, and that’s the best you can do?”
Detachment burned away so fast she went lightheaded, and control spun far out of reach. She felt her muscles tensing this time. Heard the whoosh of her hand cutting through the air, before another crack echoed around them. Words with a venomous taste coiled on her tongue, so foul and bitter she spat them out. “I hate you.”
Big hands cupped her jaw, holding her in place while hard shivers rattled through her. “No, you don’t,” he murmured and lowered his mouth to hers.
She wanted to pull away. She told herself to pull away. But God damn him, she couldn’t. And he knew it. He took his sweet time, moving his lips over hers in unhurried passes, co
nveying an unmistakable message with every slow assault. Hit at me all you want. I’m not going anywhere.
It shook her, that certainty—his absolute confidence, regardless of what she threw at him. Need swept in like a storm front, bigger than her anger and impervious to her boundaries. Her back arched to press their bodies closer, and his arm clamped around her waist to help her do it. “I do,” she insisted, knowing full well she was losing this battle. “I hate you…”
The words ended in a moan as he leaned into her, moving his chest over hers and dragging layers of fabric over her tight nipples.
“You hate this?” He reached under her poncho, under her camisole, and palmed her breasts. His hands were harder and rougher than they’d been in the old days, but it only made her reaction all the more forceful. Something far too intense to call pleasure tore through her, dissolving her muscles and buckling her knees.
He caught her, dragged her into his arms so her legs had no option but to wrap around his waist and her arms had no choice but to twine around his neck. Meanwhile, his mouth consumed whatever answer she might have given before it reached her lips. The trees whirled overhead as he moved, and the next thing she knew, he had her braced against the side of the Rover, one hand supporting her ass, the other busy inflicting an equally staggering caress to her other breast. “I hate it,” she managed, over another moan.
“I remember.” His ragged exhale fanned her raw lips. “I remember how much you hated this, too.”
A sharp cry of surprise jostled out of her when he hitched her up higher, shoved her clothes out of the way, and fastened his mouth on her breast. The contact immediately calmed something needy inside her, comforting an ache nobody over the last ten years had been able to soothe. Sensations, familiar and overwhelming as any long-overdue homecoming, wrung a grateful sigh out of her. She sagged forward, hugging his head, losing herself in the irresistible pull of the moment and the memories. Then his mouth began moving, and memories scattered as heat seared her from the inside out. Before, he’d always touched and kissed her breasts gently at first. Not now. He used lips and tongue and teeth to draw her in, widening his jaw to take…consume…devour.
His lack of restraint stripped her down to an elemental state, beyond flesh, or bone, to a few brutal pulse points—lips, nipples, and the biggest pulse of all, pounding relentlessly between her legs.
She couldn’t keep still. Her feet felt clumsy in her boots, but she dug the soles into his calves, clawed at his back through his sweater, and did the best she could to press every throbbing part of her against him. He must have felt her urgency. Must have. But he wouldn’t be rushed. He used that ruthless mouth on her until she couldn’t take any more. She gripped his hair and pulled hard enough to force his head up. Then she closed her eyes so she didn’t have to face him and slammed her mouth down on his.
After one heady moment allowing her ownership, he took control of the kiss. With a hand at the back of her head, he positioned her just where he wanted her and proceeded to plunge his tongue deep, retreat, and plunge again. Over and over, so her mouth filled with his taste, but it only made her hungry for more. Bigger, deeper, harder…more.
She struggled to work her hand between their bodies, but the way he had her pinned between cold steel and his hot, hard body prevented her from reaching her goal.
He eased back, lowering her by degrees until her toes scraped the gravel. When she was securely on her feet, he took her hand and guided it to the thick ridge straining the front of his jeans. Held it there, absolutely still for one long moment while a ridiculously attractive flush rose in his cheeks. He let out a tortured breath and lowered his forehead to hers. His dark gaze locked on her, he took his hand away and whispered, “How about this, Sinclair? Do you hate this?”
“Uh-huh.” Her hands shook as she tugged his fly open. “I hate it…” And then she was holding it, stroking, relearning landmarks the years had subtly altered—the smooth, blunt tip, the sensitive opening that still dragged a groan out of him when she explored it with her thumb, the flare of flesh marking the transition from head to shaft. It wasn’t until she’d wrapped her hand around the thickest part, wringing another low sound from his throat, that she realized the pressure in her chest was building to match the pressure at her core. Longing took many forms, and all of them were about to have their way with her. And she wasn’t strong enough to stop any of it. Gripping his hips for balance, she dropped to her knees. “I really hate it,” she said again, then put her lips against the tip.
His head dropped forward, and his fingers tangled in her hair. “Jesus. Show me. Punish me.”
She took him into her mouth, leading with her tongue, stretching her lips to surround him. Taste and scent unleashed vivid, sensory flashbacks…the thrill of discovering every mysterious inch of him, the pride of making him tremble for her, the joy of hearing him say her name over and over again as he lost control. The memories stung her eyes and tightened her chest. Then he groaned and gave a rough, potentially involuntary thrust. The move generated heat, and friction, and raw new needs.
Desperate to satisfy them, she planted her knees, tipped her head to the most accommodating angle, and offered him everything. Just the way she’d learned to do during those long spring nights a lifetime ago.
“Fuck, Sinclair.” He gripped her chin and stared down at her. “You have no idea how much I missed you. You couldn’t possibly. Leaving you felt like losing a vital organ.” Then he thrust again, and again, in rapid succession. She’d braced for fast, and deep. Wanted it. But he remembered a few things, too—like how easily he could reduce her to a quivering mess by holding back, teasing her with quick, shallow strokes. Punishment, she discovered, cut both ways, and could be unbearably sweet as well as heartrendingly painful. Despite his restraining hand, she went deep, gorging herself on all of it—past, present, sweetness, pain…him—knowing full well it was too much, but still would never be enough.
A sob pushed its way into her throat. She choked it back and hoped he attributed the artless noise to her overeager struggle to take as much of him as she possibly could. His big hand stroked her jaw. “Easy, baby girl,” he murmured and then sliced her heart open with one careful fingertip, running it over her lips, tracing the seam where their bodies met. How had she forgotten the way he did that? Or how one simple gesture could make her feel so…cherished?
Except he’d taught her she wasn’t the kind of girl men cherished, and now he’d come back and undermined the lesson with a single explanation. How dare he? Because in doing so, he also took away her justification for distributing blame for what happened that summer to him, which meant she had to accept it all. “I hate you,” she said, reminding him, reminding herself, and then lowered her head to finish him. Exorcise him. Claim one harshly honest moment and be done with him.
But a strong arm hooked under her shoulder and hauled her up until her face hovered just millimeters from his. Her lips throbbed from the friction of his cock sliding between them. His taste coated her tongue. Deprivation set in, sudden and painful, but maddeningly patient green eyes stared into hers, taking stock, unquestionably seeing the deprivation, and the need, but looking past them to things she didn’t want him to see. Didn’t want anyone to see.
“No, you don’t. You wish you did, but you don’t.”
“I do. I—”
His mouth slammed down on hers, cutting her off. The sense of deprivation immediately subsided, replaced by the bite of his teeth and the lash of his tongue. His leg slid between hers. A hand on her ass lifted her onto her toes. Her hands found his shoulders, and she held on as he rocked her against his hard thigh.
Her moan of pleasure couldn’t be stifled, nor her body’s greedy response. Within moments she was fighting the steady rhythm he’d set, grinding against him like some kind of animal, while their mouths came together, parted, came together again.
“You missed me,” he whispered. “Say it.”
Jesus, she had. Desperately. “No.”
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Hands reached between them and tore her jeans open, then long, sure fingers delved into her panties, stroked there long enough to ensure they both knew how wet she was, and then his lips curved into a smile. “Part of you did.”
“I hate to break it to you, Shane, but a lot of men can do that for me.” She tossed her head back in a patented bitch move. “A lot of men have.”
His eyes darkened, but his smile kicked up a notch, to downright cocky. “Nobody can do it for you like me, though.”
That was all the warning she got. Her breath burst out in a shocked gasp as he slid two fingers inside her, curling upward to let her know what was coming. The heel of his hand settled against her clit like it had been made to fit there. She writhed. Couldn’t stop herself.
“You remember how I first taught you to come, baby girl? Just like this? You’d squirm around, like you’re doing, trying like hell to get yourself there. Then I’d reach up inside this tight…little…pussy”—he reached as he spoke, and she rose up onto her tiptoes—“find the magic spot, and you’d come all over my hand. Just for me.”
He found it. Unerringly. Her vision blurred, and she came in a rush—as if she’d been waiting for his touch for ten long years.
Chapter Nine
“Still hate me?”
The question taunted her from somewhere beyond the pounding of her pulse in her ears. “Yes,” she muttered but doubted he heard her, considering she leaned into him with her face pressed against his sweater and his sturdy frame supporting her. If not for his arm around her and the hand still lingering protectively between her legs, she’d be a puddle at his feet.
A moment to catch her breath—that’s all she needed—and maybe another to get her misfiring nervous system under control, and then she’d push off him and barricade herself safely behind the barn doors. The point when she’d have to deal with the fallout from today’s little trip down memory lane was closing in fast, and she preferred no witnesses to her personal meltdown.
Emergency Attraction (Love Emergency) Page 9