Wild Hawk

by Justine Davis, Justine Dare

  “I . . .”

  Words failed her for a moment; he’d unbuttoned his shirt, and she couldn’t help thinking of that morning at the motel, when he’d come to the door looking so sleepily sexy.

  He had only bought the condoms tonight, she thought. It wasn’t like he’d been carrying them around, just in case she . . . weakened.

  “Would you rather I didn’t plan at all, Kendall?” he said at last, when she didn’t go on. “What did you want? To be able to say you didn’t know what you were doing, that it just happened, so you don’t have to take the responsibility for a choice?”

  God, had she wanted that? Had she wanted him to simply take over, to be swept up in the passion he created in her, so she could later say it hadn’t been her fault, she just hadn’t been able to resist? Where was all her fine nerve and backbone and self-sufficiency now?

  “Is that what you wanted?” he repeated. “To take a chance on ending up like my mother, alone, with a child to raise? Or to have to decide about an abortion?”

  She bit her lower lip, staring up at him with eyes she was sure reflected her inner confusion. “Are you saying you . . . that you are like Aaron? You’d walk way?”

  She saw something flicker in his eyes, something dark and pained in the piercing blue. “I’m saying,” he began, then stopped, swallowed, and tried again. “I’m saying that you can’t trust anyone to always be there for you. You should know that as well as anyone. Everyone left you, just like they did me.”

  And that, she thought with a shivering little sigh, was the difference between them. His faith had died, probably along with his mother, while she had clung stubbornly to hers, clung to that belief that there were people in this life you could trust. As she had trusted Aaron. As Aaron had trusted her.

  Aaron. God, she wished he were here, he’d make sense out of this for her, with his acerbic bluntness, he’d—

  She nearly laughed at herself. At the idea of asking Aaron whether she should go to bed with his son. Not because she loved him, or even trusted him, but simply because he seared her senses into ash. She could just imagine Aaron’s answer.

  She didn’t have to imagine it, she thought suddenly. He’d already given it to her.

  You ever find the one who sets you on fire, girl, you don’t ever let go. Don’t be the fool I was. Don’t give up without a hell of a fight.

  Sets you on fire.

  Well, that certainly was exactly what Jason did to her. And no one else ever had, in all her thirty-three years. And she found she wasn’t willing to take the chance that anyone else ever would.

  She took a step forward, shortening the distance between them, until she could feel the heat radiating from him. Steeling her nerve, she lifted one hand and slipped it between the edges of his open shirt, pressing her palm against his chest. She felt the leap of his heart beneath her fingers. Or perhaps it was the sudden acceleration of her own pulse; she couldn’t tell.

  He closed his eyes, and she felt as well as heard him take a deep breath. And suddenly something else hit her about Jason’s purchase tonight; he hadn’t assumed she would handle it, nor had he assumed no precautions were necessary on his part. He’d simply taken care of it.

  He moved then, his hands coming up to cup her face, to tilt her head back.

  “No more chances, Kendall. It’s too late to run.”

  “I don’t want to run.”

  “Remember you said that.”

  Before she could wonder what he’d meant by that, his mouth was on hers, igniting that fire once more, so quickly she wondered if it had ever really gone out or simply been banked, waiting for his touch to roar to life again.

  There was no subtlety in this kiss, no gentle coaxing, nothing but pure, raw need unleased. And it unleashed an answering need in her, a need she had never felt, never thought to feel. A need she hadn’t, until Jason, thought she was capable of feeling.

  Her hands slid up over his chest, freezing when she heard him make a low sound when her fingertips brushed over his nipples. Tentatively she flexed her fingers, rubbing, feeling the flat nubs tighten. Never breaking the kiss, he slid one hand down her back and pulled her hard against him. Inadvertently her fingers curled, dragging her nails slightly over his nipples, and this time the sound he made was louder, harsher.

  She barely stifled a sound of loss when he released her, but it turned into a sigh when he yanked his shirt free of his jeans and shrugged it off his shoulders. His fingers went to the button on his jeans, releasing it, but then he stopped, watching her. Her fingers curled tighter as she looked at the expanse of his chest, lightly sprinkled with dark hair that she wanted to touch again, to savor the slightly rough texture it gave his skin.

  His belly was as flat as she remembered, ridged with muscle, marked on one side by a faint, curving scar that went down his right side, curved in toward his navel, then down below the low-slung waistband of his jeans; it looked like the scar on his hand, and she wondered if he’d gotten it in the same fight. Wondered just how well he’d learned to fight back afterward, on those mean streets.

  Her eyes naturally followed the direction of the scar, but when she reached the band of faded black denim, her gaze shifted to the path of silky hair that arrowed down from his navel and disappeared into the slight vee of his unfastened jeans.

  She saw the muscles of his stomach contract; then he took her by the shoulders again and pulled her close. He bent his head once more, this time to press a trail of soft kisses from her forehead to her cheek, then around to her ear, making her shiver. As he had before, he traced the curve of her ear with his tongue, so delicately she was only sure he’d done it by the fiery tingle that raced along her nerves. Her hands came up between them again, to flatten against his belly, to savor and trace the ridged muscles there. They rippled beneath her touch, and the quickness of his response to her touch made her quiver inside.

  She moaned softly, but the sound broke off when he moved again, reaching to take her hand and pull it gently downward. He placed her palm over the swell of his erection, holding it there for a moment. The low, hoarse sound of pleasure he made at even this slight touch from her, even guided by him, thrilled her. Somewhat hesitantly, she flexed her hand in a tentative caress.

  “Yesss.”

  He seemed to breathe it against her ear, sending another shiver along nerves that were newly alive, nerves that she hadn’t known could feel so intensely. She flexed her hand again, and he moved against her, shifting his hips so that the pressure was stronger. Then he slid his hands around her back and pulled her against him again. She continued her caress of his rigid flesh, savoring each movement that told her he liked what she was doing, each low sound that sent those little frissons of heat through her.

  She felt his hands move again, this time to pluck at the buttons of her blouse. The delicate silk seemed to float away, baring the swell of her breasts above her pale blue bra. She heard him take in a quick, harsh breath, then his hands slipped up and over her shoulders, skimming the blouse away easily. He was good at this, she thought dimly, wondering why it didn’t bother her to know that. His hands slid down her back to the catch of her bra, and he had it undone in moments. Her simple blue cotton bra fell away before she really had time to feel shy about her lack of sexy lace and satin underwear.

  “Peach,” he murmured, low and husky, staring at her breasts as if he’d uncovered an unexpected treasure. “They are peach.”

  She had no idea what he meant, and didn’t have time to think about it; his hands came up to cup her breasts, his palms cradling her, his thumbs slipping up to rub her nipples into tight, tingling awareness. She moaned at the tiny darts of fire that leapt straight to that place low and deep within her that seemed to awaken only for this man.

  Yes, he was very good at this. But it still didn’t bother her. And now she knew why. Nothing like that
mattered, not now, not when she could make him groan with a mere increase in the pressure of her hand, not when her hand slipped a little lower to cup him somewhat uncertainly and he gasped aloud with pleasure.

  I wanted you to unzip me . . . I was so hard, just from kissing you, and I wanted your hands on me so badly . . .

  Those hot, erotic words, which he’d spoken in that husky voice that sent ripples of heat through her, echoed in her mind now. Her gaze flew to his face, and she nearly gasped; he was looking at her, lips parted, his eyes hot and intense, as if he knew exactly what she’d been thinking. And then, when he spoke, she knew he did know.

  “Do it,” he said in a voice so ragged the sharpness of the command was negated utterly. “God, do it.”

  She felt herself tremble, but she couldn’t resist the urgency of his plea. Not when she’d been living with the images he’d planted, the need that had grown from them, for what seemed like forever now. She fumbled with the tab of his zipper, unable to make her hands obey. She tugged, then tugged again, and at last the fastener seemed to give way easily, seemingly driven by the insistent swell of his flesh behind it.

  He let out a small breath, as if at the release of pressure. She glanced up at him. His eyes were closed, his face taut with a look of anticipation. His hands, still at her breasts, shook. But he didn’t move, didn’t even look at her. She wondered if he was somehow afraid if he did she would stop.

  Her gaze lowered, to the sight of his hands cradling her breasts, his fingers tan and strong against the pale, soft veined curves, his thumbs resting atop her tight, aching nipples. She wanted him to resume that rubbing caress more than she’d ever wanted anything. And then she knew why his face had that strained, wanting look. And knew that she wanted to touch him as much as he wanted her to.

  She hadn’t had much practice at this, and wasn’t nearly as efficient with his clothing as he had been with hers, but he didn’t seem to care. And when at last he was free of interfering cloth, when the hot, satin-smooth column of rigid flesh was in her hands, she heard his breath leave him in a throttled groan.

  “Ah, God . . .”

  She touched him, curiously, and with more than a touch of awe at the solid, hard smoothness. She traced his length with a delicate, questing touch, outlining with her fingers what her eyes were watching hungrily. She’d never really explored an aroused male before; in her few sexual encounters she had never felt the need for this, the need to touch, to explore, to learn. But she wanted this, wanted it as much as she wanted him to touch her in the same way.

  “Yes,” he said again, fervently, as her fingers instinctively curled around him. She felt a growing, spreading heat go through her in a wave, driven by her wonder at the heat and thickness of him. She thought of what was to come, and her fingers clenched around him slightly at the image of this hot male flesh filling that hollow place inside her, that place she’d been unaware of until this man set it on fire.

  His breath hissed out of him again when her grasp tightened. Encouraged by his response, she stroked his hard length, varying the pressure until she heard him groan once more. She felt him shudder. It seemed to ripple upward through him from beneath her fingers, until his hands moved convulsively, flexing on her breasts, sending an answering ripple of sensation through her.

  She moved, helplessly, pressing her breasts against his palms, wanting him to begin that caress of her nipples again so badly she didn’t care if she was silently begging for it. As if he’d understood, his thumbs moved, flicking over the tight crests, making her cry out at the sudden flare of pleasure.

  “Just don’t . . . stop.” His voice was thick, hoarse. “God, Kendall, don’t stop.”

  She didn’t. She couldn’t. She wanted to know every hot, aroused inch of him. She continued to stroke him, to caress him as she shivered at the idea of taking him inside her. Jason’s mouth came down on hers again, urgently, demandingly, and she surrendered the depths of hers to his probing tongue willingly. And when he withdrew, she followed, unable to resist the lure, and surprised at the sensual delight she found in tasting him so deeply. And she found it amazingly arousing to be teasing his tongue with hers while her hand still stroked the hard, impossibly smooth contours of his flesh, wringing low sounds of pleasure from him.

  When he at last broke the kiss, she was breathing in pants, quick and shallow, but unable to slow them. Then he moved, lowering his head, without warning taking one of her achingly aroused nipples into his mouth and suckling deeply, suddenly.

  Her entire body seemed to ripple, and she cried out in shock and astonishment. Her back arched, thrusting her breasts upward, as if offering them. He took the gift without question, his lips holding a nipple while his tongue flicked at it, his fingers catching her other nipple and tugging at it, squeezing with just enough pressure to make her cry out again.

  “Oh, God,” she moaned, her hands coming up to his shoulders, her fingers digging in as her body rippled once more.

  Jason lifted his head to look at her. His eyes were burning hotter than she’d ever seen them, and his breath was coming as quickly as her own. Without a word, his hands went to her waist, to yank at the fastening of her jeans. He tugged them down and away, sweeping her panties along with them.

  For a moment he just stood there, staring at her, so intensely she was gripped by a tremor of shyness at standing naked before him when he was still half dressed. But then he spoke, and the shyness faded.

  “God, you’re beautiful,” he said softly, reverently. “I knew, but . . .”

  He trailed off, shaking his head slowly, as if he was feeling the same kind of wonder she had felt when she’d first freed his naked arousal from his jeans. His tone filled her with a quiet pleasure, as did the sight of the shiver that tightened his belly as he reached for her.

  His hands slid back up her legs to the top of her thighs, and then she felt him touching her, probing, as if testing. She supposed she should have felt violated by the sudden, intimate incursion, but how could she when his seeking fingers found her hot and wet and ready? She felt as if she’d been that way forever, for this man.

  And as his finger found and caressed a tiny knot of nerve endings that nearly made her scream, she knew that the shortness of their time together meant nothing. Nothing at all, not before the tide of emotion and feeling and sensation that swelled between them.

  “No more waiting,” he said, his voice rough and tight. And tinged with relief, she realized dimly through the haze of pleasure he was building with that tiny, circling caress. A relief that told her that even now he would have waited, if she hadn’t been ready.

  But she was. God, she was. She wanted him, wanted everything with him, in a way she’d never even imagined. She wanted him naked along with her, wanted to see his rangy, muscled body, all of it, wanted to know him more intimately than anyone ever had, and more than anything she wanted him to want her to know him.

  “Jason,” she whispered, unable to say anything more.

  But he looked at her as if she’d said it all, and with a strangled sound of urgency, he peeled off the rest of his clothes. For a moment that was far too brief for her he stood beside her, and she drank in the sight of him, naked, tall and lean, solid-chested and flat-bellied, the aroused flesh she’d been exploring so avidly jutting out from the tangle of thick, dark curls that surrounded it.

  Then, with a swiftness that left her reeling, he swept her up in his arms and went down with her to the bed, his hands sliding over her, his mouth laying down a path of kisses that left a fiery trail along her skin. In moments she was moaning, writhing beneath him in her need to get closer.

  “You want it?”

  His voice came low and rough in her ear, barely above a whisper, but he was so close she could feel the hot rush of his breath on that ultra- sensitive skin, making her heart hammer as it blazed anew along nerves that were ali
ve as they had never been.

  “I want you,” she said, not caring that there was a difference, or how foolish she was no doubt being for ignoring that difference.

  He drew back from her, and for a moment she was afraid he was going to explain the difference to her. But he only reached for one of the foil packets that lay tossed behind him on the bed. She watched as he opened it and began to sheath himself, yet another thing she’d never cared to watch before. But now, with Jason, it had become one of the most erotic, sensual things she’d ever seen.

  When he glanced up and saw her eyes on him, something bright and hot flared in his eyes. And then he was moving swiftly, finishing with the condom and coming back to her. She reached for him and he came down on top of her. She welcomed his weight, his heat, and the sheer force of his need. His head bent to her breasts once more, and she welcomed with a joyous cry the hot, wet caress of his mouth as he took first one nipple, then the other, raking them gently with his teeth, flicking them with his tongue, and then sucking them long and hard and deep until her body undulated in hot, eager response.

  He kept on, until her moans were coming quickly, blending together in one continuous sound of wondrous pleasure. It was suddenly too much, the vision of his dark head at her breast, his mouth on her body, and the incredible sensations that were stabbing through her. Her head lolled back, her eyes closing.

  She felt him move, felt him nudge her legs apart. Her breath caught in anticipation, and she stifled a quiver of apprehension. My God, what was she doing? She barely knew this man.

  Don’t I know you, Kendall Chase? Everything that matters?

  His words came back to her vividly. Perhaps he did. And perhaps she did, too, knew everything that mattered. Like that he was the only man who had ever made her feel so much, want so much, need so much.

  You ever find the one who sets you on fire . . .