“Off.” He growled, afraid he’d rip the thing away if he touched it. “I want to see you.”
She swept it over her head in one graceful pull, arching her back in the process. He stopped her right there, with her arms crossed over her head. Her shirt dangled around her wrists. Her elbows pointed to the sky, her tits lifted toward him like a gift.
Same pale, silky skin and pretty pink tips, but they were fuller now. More opulent. “Don’t move.” He blew the instruction across one straining peak, a shade deeper than he remembered, and watched it draw tighter. Her thighs clenched his hips, and a tormented little moan drifted to his ear. The entire continuum of heaven and hell in one small sound.
“I want to see you, too,” she said, managing to infuse a good dose of imperious southern demand into her unsteady voice. Then she took it upon herself to pull her arm free from the white top and run her hand down his chest, under his sweater, along his abs.
Heat burned through him from every point of contact and shot directly to his pounding cock. Okay, her touching him was a luxury he couldn’t afford, or he’d be buried deep inside her before his head had time to remind his dick that wasn’t the plan.
“Not yet.” He caught her roving hand, drew both of them behind her back, and gave the stretchy top still dangling from her other hand a tug. Perfect. Strong enough to do the job, but soft enough not to cut into her. A quick series of twists, and he secured her wrists.
“What the…?” She automatically tried to pull an arm free, but the bind held. Her eyes darkened as she realized what he’d done, then flashed at him. “Hey.”
“Trust me.” He kissed her again, to end the debate before it started, and did his level best to issue a promise with every part of his mouth. He kept at it until her shoulders relaxed and her chest heaved.
“Shane—” she started as soon as he raised his head.
“You wanted to see me.” He bent his arm behind his head, took a handful of his sweater, and yanked it off. That, too, momentarily distracted her from the argument. Her gaze bounced all over him—throat, shoulders, chest…lower—and he caught himself tightening every hard-earned muscle to keep her captivated. Eventually her gaze lifted to meet his. He saw a gratifying fever in those midnight-blue depths.
“I want to touch you,” she said bluntly.
“Not this time, baby girl.”
Her chin jutted, and he nearly grinned at the familiar, stubborn gesture. Sinclair hated being told no. Even when it was for her own good.
She also knew how to change tactics on a dime. Like now. She raised one dark brow and lifted the corner of her mouth in a seductive smile. “Used to be you loved having my hands on you. I touched you everywhere.” She leaned forward until her mouth grazed his ear and murmured, “Everywhere…remember?”
Hell, yes, he remembered. Every second of every single moment she’d had her hands on him was etched in his memory. From the way her palm had rested tentatively on his cheek during that first “thank you” kiss—and unlocked some better side of his character just by acknowledging his reckless heroism—to the no-holds-barred explorations her curious fingers had taken those times she’d cradled his cock in her mouth and driven him right out of his motherfucking mind.
“I remember everything. I want all of it, and more, but if I let you put your hands on me right now, I’m not going to be able to do the things I want to do to you.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Exactly what do you want to do to me?”
She might have been aiming to intimidate him with that look, but he wasn’t easily intimidated. The fact that she’d try made him want to haul her up and fuck her senseless, but instead, he ran his hands up her arms and pulled her toward him until her breasts swung forward and their sweet weight landed against his chest. Over her soft moan, he said, “I’m going to have my way with you, Sinclair. And I’m going to whip you into such a frenzy, you won’t give damn how I do it.”
Slowly, he lifted her, dragging her tits over his chest. Her moan got louder, and her eyelids fluttered. He repeated the move, holding her a little closer this time, increasing the friction. Her head fell back. “More.”
“Once more.” He switched his hold to her hips. “One more time, and then I use my mouth.”
Her moan might have been agreement, or protest, but she widened her knees to press her center firmly against him. He pulled his abs taut to give her a good ride and lifted her again, closing his eyes to enjoy the scrape of her hard, hot nipples across his skin and the damp heat seeping through her jeans. This time he just kept going, and once he had her up there, tits level with his face, he closed his mouth around one tight peak. She gasped and jerked back a little, but that’s really all she could do. He had her hips lifted, her hands tied, and she’d twined her legs around the chair to keep her lower body anchored to him. It wasn’t until he drew her deeper, and she sucked in a breath, that it occurred to him she might be sore from the way he’d gone at her earlier.
“Too rough?”
“I like the way it hurts. Don’t stop.”
Not a chance, but it was time to remind her he could be careful, too. There’d been a time when he’d been very, very careful, and she’d liked it very, very much. He gentled his mouth. Her incoherent murmurs were the payoff for every soft kiss, every light flick of his tongue, and every ounce of his restraint.
When her fidgeting turned restless, and her breaths edgy, he reinforced his grip on her ass and stood. The move surprised a small cry out of her—and forced her into another trust-building exercise, given she was essentially a passenger in his arms. He strode to the end of the bed and set her down on the tufted velvet. A little nudge tipped her back and forced her to brace herself on her hands. He skimmed his palms down worn denim and tugged one boot off, then the other.
“Hurry,” she said, and scooted toward him. “I want you. Now.”
She couldn’t possibly know what a picture she made, sitting there bared and bound on her princess bed, issuing orders like she had all the power in the current dynamic. In truth, she did, because this was him proving himself to her, but part of the proof involved getting her to have faith in him to give her what she needed, rather than what she asked for. He pulled her off the perch, nearly groaning at the way her breasts bounced from the impact of her feet hitting the floor, and then stepped close. “Patience, baby girl.”
Her chin came up a notch. “I’ve never been known for my patience.”
No, she hadn’t. At eighteen he’d had the reputation for being impulsive, but she’d been the one to set the breakneck pace of their relationship. He’d been too young, and frankly, too far gone, to even think of slowing things down. But he wasn’t an undisciplined teenager anymore. He hooked his fingers into the front of her jeans, and undid the button.
“It’s time you learned some.” Then, very slowly, he drew the zipper down. Even more slowly, he eased his hands into the now-gaping waist and pushed the denim over her hips. The jeans settled around her calves. He took a deliberate step back and paused to drink in the sight of her in tiny white panties. “I don’t appreciate being rushed.” To underscore the statement, he ran a fingertip along the edge of the silk, taking a lazy path from her hip to where the whisper-thin fabric disappeared between her thighs.
“I don’t appreciate being tortured.”
The ragged accusation made him smile. Same old Sinclair. “Torture? I haven’t even looked at you yet.”
Five full seconds of silence met that statement, followed by, “Okay, you’ve looked. Now undo my hands, and—”
He spun her around.
“Hey!”
“I’m not done looking.” He swept her hair over her shoulder and pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck. “Not nearly done.”
She twisted her hands, testing the makeshift restraint holding them together behind her back. “Shane…”
He laid a hand over her tethered wrists and placed another kiss between her shoulder blades. “Shhh. I’m busy looking.” Then he span
ned a hand along the base of her neck, and, keeping hold of her wrists, bent her over the bed. A line of white silk pulled tight between her ass cheeks.
“Shane.”
“Busy,” he reminded her and kissed the small of her back, the V of her thong, and then he dropped to his knees and followed the path of the panties with his tongue.
“Oh…God. That’s not looking. You don’t look with your tongue.”
“The Marines trained me to use all my senses to get a complete picture. Sight”—he hooked his fingers into the fabric stretched across the top of her ass and peeled the panties down—“touch”—he slid his palms along the smooth curves, parting them to get a better view of all his targets. Her fingers opened and closed above his head.
“Don’t even…” She tried to squirm away but he held fast.
“Taste,” he finished over her protest and swept his tongue from the last notch of her spine to the hot, slick flesh he’d exploited when he’d had her splayed out in the front seat of his car. She jumped and wiggled, but ultimately submitted with a defenseless sound. He drew back, slid a hand down her leg, and guided her knee up until he had it braced on the footboard. The position spread her thighs wide. The sight of her, open and ready for him, sent powerful mandates from primitive parts of his brain. He sat back on his heels, closed his eyes, and gave himself a crucial moment to fortify his resolve.
Sinclair, apparently, didn’t have a moment in her. “Enough. You’ve looked your fill.”
He pulled air into his lungs, let it out slowly, and waited for the pounding in his cock to subside from agonizing to merely brutal. When he was sure he had himself under control, he opened his eyes. “You’re right. Enough looking. Now I reintroduce my mouth to you properly.”
Her forehead hit the bed with a soft thump. “Shane…”
Not a “no,” so he ignored his name on her lips, angled his head, and got to work. The room filled with the sound of him making good on his promise. Her breathing turned heavy, each exhale accompanied by increasingly frustrated moans. She couldn’t hold still, but he didn’t try too hard to stop the jerky motions of her hips since most of her effort went into pushing herself into the path of his tongue.
Finally, those moans pitched up into a sharp curse. She tightened her hips and struggled to pull herself upright, but he put a stop to that by nudging her just enough to overbalance her.
The comforter muffled her next curse, and then she managed to turn her head and hit him with a look of pure, sweet desperation. “For the love of God, Shane. I can’t take any more. I need you inside me. Now.”
“I want to be inside you. Make no mistake. I’m suffering like the damned right now. My balls ache. My cock’s throbbing and furious from neglect. But that’s how it’s going to stay because I don’t earn the privilege of being inside you until I earn your trust.”
An aggrieved moan was her only response. He rested one hand along the top off her ass, just below her tightly clenched fists, and rimmed her swollen threshold. “Don’t worry. I won’t allow you to suffer while I’m proving myself. I’ll make sure you come. Long, hard, and as many times as you can handle. Do you trust me to do that for you, baby girl?”
Then he plunged two fingers into her damp, hot channel, and her body answered for her. She arched off the mattress as the first spasm gripped her, and her uncensored scream of gratitude battered the old barn walls.
Maybe it wasn’t an unqualified declaration of trust, but it was definitely a start.
Chapter Eleven
Shane shoved his rolled shirt cuffs up his forearms and checked his watch as he made his way across the open expanse of land once valued for its ability to produce cotton. Now the value took a different form—as the future site of the Whitehall Resort Golf Course.
As testament to that, two of the three engineers from the company Haggerty had retained to do the water report set up survey equipment by the creek bank. The third stood in deep conversation with Ricky Pinkerton.
Shit. He quickened his strides. Mayor Campbell expected him at a meeting across town with the developers of a subdivision, and after that, he had a flight to catch. His schedule didn’t really allow for this unscheduled stop, and the engineers didn’t need him looking over their shoulders, but he didn’t want Ricky attempting to direct the scope of the project or the outcome.
The head of the team looked up from his tripod-mounted laptop and spotted him. The middle-aged engineer disengaged from Ricky and ambled over, saving Shane some extra steps. He carried a Spectra Ranger data collector in his hand, and a well-worn utility belt around his waist held other tools of the trade. Someone accustomed to field work, Shane deduced, as the man extended a hand and introduced himself as Raj Patel. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Patel. Did Jack Haggerty explain our concerns?”
Ricky trailed the engineer, like a pissy shadow in his ugly yellow sweater. “I was just giving Raj here the overview, and explaining that the creek never floods.”
“That’s not true—”
The older man held up a hand. “Three things, as I understand. You are seeking confirmation of this land around the creek as a flood fringe”—he glanced at the creek as he spoke, then back to Shane—“and wanting to know how extensive the bank fortifications should be to prevent spillover. Lastly, you wish to understand how the fortification will affect the water level downstream.”
“That sums it up,” Shane agreed. “Any preliminary impressions?”
“Well, we are definitely standing in a flood fringe. You don’t need a hydraulic study to tell you that. The topography speaks for itself.”
“Yeah.” He couldn’t help shooting Pinkerton a “fuck you” look. “That’s what I thought.”
“Okaaay.” Ricky rolled his eyes. “Never mind that the creek hasn’t flooded in longer than anyone can remember, how high do we have to go to convince the city to issue the permit for the golf course?”
Fine. Pinkerton wanted to cut to the chase? They’d cut to the chase. “Assuming they fill the fringe up here to get the full half-foot leeway, what happens downstream?”
Raj shook his head. “Filling up here widens the floodway there.” He gestured down the slope, toward the tree-line, and, ultimately, Sinclair’s barn. “Narrow, shallow creeks like this one can sustain only so much influx. One good rain, and…” He widened his hands to demonstrate. “Luckily, Mr. Pinkerton informs me there aren’t any developments along the lower portion of the creek, and so long as none are planned…” He trailed off and shrugged.
Careful, Shane cautioned himself. The city wasn’t paying for a survey to help save Sinclair’s barn, and Haggerty would chew his ass if he got wind of Shane having a personal agenda. “Mr. Pinkerton’s statement isn’t accurate, which he’s well aware of, but for the sake of argument, let’s say downstream development is part of the plan—”
“It’s not part of the plan,” Ricky inserted.
“Hypothetically speaking,” Shane continued, ignoring Ricky. “What would it take to do it safely?”
Raj puffed his cheeks and let the air out in a gust. “Lots of money. Fortifying these banks up here is not such a big deal. Negligible cost or environmental impact in shifting dirt around. No interruption to the natural course of the creek. Diverting the water flowing downstream, conversely, means installing drains, aqueducts—”
“No fucking way,” Ricky said. “The resort’s not paying for that. Not for one lousy barn. Neither is the city. I’ll say it again for the hard of hearing. The creek never floods.”
“Because it widens up here,” Shane bit out. “It won’t after you fortify.” His gut tightened. The ill-advised promise to Sinclair echoed in his brain. He gave Ricky his back and directed another question to Raj. “What about for a very small diversion, like, for a house or two?”
The engineer shook his head. “The size of the development doesn’t change the basic solution. Whether to avoid one structure or a thousand, the water needs to go somewhere else. Frankly, only a large development would
warrant the investment.”
“You got that right,” Ricky chimed in from behind him. “And a large development won’t happen as long as my grandmother’s alive. I’ve heard enough. I’m done here. We’re talking fairytales now.”
Ricky strutted off. Fuck. Shane tugged at his tie, trying to relieve the noose-like tightness around his neck. A trickle of sweat slid between his shoulder blades. “What about managing the water upstream?” He was grasping at straws now, but he didn’t have any other ideas.
“Ah. Well, then, you would be talking about a dam, and that requires a suitable reservoir area. Assuming such an area exists and could be secured for the purpose, you would also need a permit to build the dam, to impound water, and, perhaps more dauntingly, a shift in public opinion. Outside of farming communities, people dislike dams. Necessary permits might prove very challenging.”
“What about…?” No alternative sprang to mind. Meanwhile, seconds ticked off in his brain. He needed to get going or he’d be late meeting the mayor, which wouldn’t earn him any points. Face it. This isn’t going to get solved today.
Obviously, Raj agreed, because he held up a hand to halt the conversation. “Mr. Maguire, we would be happy to draw up an addendum to the contract for the engineering of a water-management solution, but that’s a longer, more involved assignment. I understood you wanted the report as soon as possible.”
“I do.” He needed to back off and let this guy do his job. There was still time. The report would take six weeks, and then the city planning commission would have to meet and review the findings. Somewhere between now and then, he’d come up with a viable solution. He had to.
…
“How was Tahiti?” Sinclair held the phone to her ear and glanced at the clock over the stove. Her stomach gave a stupid and totally uncharacteristic flutter as she read the time. Shane was due any moment for tour number four. “Dress for a hike,” was all he’d told her yesterday when he’d called.
“Three words,” Savannah replied, sounding relaxed, replete, and possibly a little smug. “Over. Water. Bungalow.”
Emergency Attraction (Love Emergency) Page 12