The Woman Left Behind

by Linda Howard

  She jerked away from him, moved out of his reach. Angrily she rubbed her hands up and down her bare arms, trying to erase the scalding sensation of his touch. Because she couldn’t handle her emotional turmoil yet, she put it aside and focused instead on the bitter temptation of his presence here. “I suppose you took my quitting the team as a sign I wanted you to come here for a quick hook-up? Scratch the itch and get it over with?”

  His jaw was set, his eyes narrow and fierce. “Adjust your expectations, babe. There won’t be anything quick about it.”

  Her entire body tightened, her memory supplying in vivid playback how it felt to have him on top of her, his mouth and hands on her, the hard ridge of his erection rubbing against her crotch. She felt torn in two by the warring needs to throw him out and to have him inside her, to feed the gnawing hunger she’d held at bay for a year and couldn’t control for even a minute longer.

  “Then let’s do it,” she snapped, and whipped her tee shirt up and off, tossing it to the floor. The cool air hit her, instantly tightening her nipples to points. “Let’s get it over with, then you can leave and I can get some sleep—”

  “Fuck leaving,” he snarled. “And fuck sleeping.” He looked down at her and his expression changed, hardening with sheer lust, color flagging the carved plane of his cheekbones. “Just look at those pretty little things,” he murmured as he moved closer, then his big hands closed on her bare breasts, cupping both of them, his rough thumbs rubbing over her nipples; the sharp sensation brought her up on her bare toes, gasping, and she seized his thick wrists—perhaps to steady herself, perhaps to hold his hands where they were. The heat of his palms seared the cool satin of her skin, making it feel as if her breasts swelled toward him, wanting more.

  Because she wanted more, because she wanted everything, she released his wrists and stepped back. Fury and want and need burned in her; if she could control her emotions she’d shut them down, reduce everything she felt for him to ashes, but she didn’t have that superpower. What she had was . . . now. She had now.

  She stalked to the bedroom, unwilling to make even the slightest soft or flirtatious gesture. This might not be war, but neither would she let it be lovemaking. It was sex, nothing more. She wouldn’t let it be more. But there was unfinished business between them, and she knew part of her couldn’t move on as long as she had doubt. She was on birth control, they were both healthy—there was no reason they couldn’t have this out.

  He seized her arm, hauling her around and against him. With his other hand he pulled his own shirt up and off, then pulled her so close that her bare breasts nestled against him, soft against hard, delicate against the roughness of his chest hair. Mutely she stared up at him, body-slammed by the shock of being body to body with him like this, wishing she didn’t feel so small next to him but perversely reveling in his strength. The look in his eyes scorched her with intensity and suddenly she felt breathless, knowing what was about to happen. Dreaming about him, thinking about having sex with him, was far different in the abstract than in reality.

  He didn’t kiss her; he simply picked her up and pushed her cotton pants down, tugged them off. Then he set her down; his gaze locked on her and he didn’t look away, didn’t blink, as he stripped off his clothes. She stood frozen, taking in every detail.

  She’d seen him without his shirt; seeing him completely naked was on a whole other level of arousal, both his and hers. His clothing disguised how muscled he truly was, the thick pads on his shoulders and chest, the ridged six-pack of his abdomen. Her breath began coming faster as she looked at him, and those powerful legs and narrow hips, and the thick penis jutting forward, bigger than she’d expected. Her breath tangled in her chest, making her fight for every inhalation. She heard the soft panting sounds she was making and her cheeks burned. Because everything was moving so fast—at her own instigation—and she couldn’t handle everything at once, she turned away again.

  She heard a low, rough laugh, then one finger traced a spot on her back. “Pretty,” he murmured, “and appropriate.” He traced the outline of the small, exquisitely detailed and shaded tattoo of a grenade on her back, a grenade that had been given winsome, seductive eyes with striking amber and blue irises. Way back at the beginning she hadn’t wanted to be called Babe and had suggested Grenade, and this way she had Grenade forever. It was a sly poke, an “I’ll show you” gesture. Despite herself she liked that he’d remembered, and got the meaning.

  His finger trailed down her back, then he turned his hand and smoothed his rough palm over the cool, sleek curves of her bottom. She closed her eyes and stood very still under his touch, concentrating on the moment. Her nipples were so tight they ached, and she clenched her thighs together because she ached between her legs, too.

  Tonight. She had tonight, this once. She had to indulge herself, this once. He had other plans, obviously, or he wouldn’t have brought a bag, but she was very much in doubt that there would be more moments after this. She’d spent over a year wanting him and denying herself and no matter what else happened she wanted this one time of completion, of being naked with him, of having him inside her. She wanted to know how he looked when he came, how he sounded, what it felt like to hold his convulsing body in her arms and body during that most intimate of moments. She would take that, and to hell with what he wanted.

  He moved close behind her, so close she felt his heat at her back, his breath on her shoulder as he bent his head to rub his chin against her hair. His hand slid farther down, into the heat and damp and softness, a softness he violated with the slow push of two big fingers into her.

  Jina gasped, rising up on her toes, quivering under the lash of sensation. He anchored her with an arm around her, and probed deeper. She couldn’t stop the moan that reverberated in her throat, didn’t try to stop it. Her head fell back against his shoulder and he took advantage of the sensitive, vulnerable curve of neck she presented, bending down to bite her, his teeth clamping on the sensitive cord between shoulder and neck.

  Electricity flashed through her. She almost came, almost went over the edge. If he’d bent her over and pushed his cock into her right then she would have, but he didn’t and desperately she regrouped, pulled her response back. She didn’t want to come the way she had before, without him even inside her. She wanted him as desperate as she was, as hungry, as on fire and blind to everything except the sensation of being together.

  She jerked away and fell back on the bed, her gaze angry and defiant and daring. Take me if you can, big guy.

  He could.

  The fire in her would scorch him alive. He knew it, and relished the burning. She challenged him, she pushed him, she dared him. She absorbed him on a level he’d never experienced before. Even her invitation was like beckoning him to a fight—and a fight was something he’d never backed down from. They might never settle this between them using words, but they would, by God, settle it in bed.

  He crawled onto the bed, grasping her knees and pushing them apart. He paused a moment to look down at her crotch, dark pink and soft and wet, the sight setting him on fire. He slid between her legs and pulled her to him. He didn’t stretch out on her—that was something he intended to relish when he didn’t feel on the knife-edge of both tension and orgasm—but sat back on his haunches with her hips in his hands and her ass on his thighs. The expression on her face was so belligerent he wouldn’t have been surprised if she took a swing at him. Nothing she dared would surprise him, yet on another level she was always surprising him, amusing him, interesting him.

  He leaned forward a bit, gripped his cock in one hand and brought the thick head of it to her body, rubbed it back and forth, nuzzling her with it until he felt the soft give of her body as she opened to him, then he pushed forward and inside. He watched as the thick head of his penis slid inside her, stretching her around him. She sucked in a quick breath, stiffening a bit. He rubbed her belly, comforting, reassuring. He was big and she wasn’t, but he wasn’t about to hurt her by being too
fast or too rough. He went slow, savoring every inch, burnt through and branded by a year of wanting exactly this, and now having it, having her.

  She made a gasping sound, her body arching, her eyes closing. Watching her, he saw her nipples tighten and darken even more as he sank deep into her, pausing when he felt resistance, pulling back a little, then nudging ever deeper. Sharp pleasure arrowed up his spine, drawing his balls tight. Just the sight of his cock sinking deep into her, seeing the wet sheen on his skin when he drew back, was enough to send him dangerously close to climax and he willed himself to stillness, taking the time to look at her and memorize every detail of this first time.

  She lay there completely exposed and penetrated, her head tilted back, eyes closed, fists knotted in the sheet beneath her. She felt fragile to him, small and slim, her skin soft. His hand would span her hip bones. Inside her, slick, wet muscles gripped him, clasped and relaxed on his cock, gripped again. Jesus, she could milk him dry, make him come with just that inner pulsing.

  He pulled back, pushed in again, watching sensation ripple through her muscles.

  Her.

  The single word reverberated through his brain, shot power and heat and sensation all through his body. His balls tightened to the point of pain, his cock throbbed.

  Her.

  He stroked over the smoothness of her belly, up to tweak those tight little nipples, rub his palms over her breasts until they were harder and rounder, pushing into his touch. Jina’s eyes were still closed, her neck arched, her lips parted as she reached for every sensation.

  Shutting him out.

  She was taking his body, but she was closing him out and taking only the sex, masturbating with his cock. She wasn’t trying to touch him with her hands at all, wasn’t reaching for him, wasn’t gripping his thighs where they framed her hips.

  Fuck if he’d let her.

  Swiftly he changed position, letting his weight down on her, the movement sending him so deep she gave a small involuntary cry and her legs came up, clasping his hips as if she could control his penetration.

  Her.

  It had been her from the beginning—not just sex, not just interest or attraction or any of the other terms he was more comfortable with. This was a sea change, crossing a boundary into completely new territory without a map, GPS, or any other means of navigating. All he could do was what his instinct drove him to do . . . which was claim her.

  He captured her head with both hands, sinking his fingers deep into her hair, and ravaged her mouth with a kiss so deep he lost part of himself. He lifted his head, snarled, “Look at me,” and when her eyes flared wide, startled, he pushed in as deep as he could go, as deep as she could take him, and kissed her again. Angrily she bit at him and he laughed, kissed her again, fucking her mouth with his tongue as he fucked her body, wrenching a response from her and feeling her catch fire under him.

  Her.

  The knowledge slammed through him. Her. Only her. Forever her.

  He pulled her legs high and took her as he’d wanted to take her for this past damned year, deep and hard, giving her everything he had and taking everything she had, pushing her into pleasure, blasting through the mental barrier she tried to keep between them, feeling her lose control and bite and claw as she came, riding her even harder through his own climax. Fucking her was like fighting a wildcat and he exulted in it.

  Her.

  His.

  He stayed.

  Jina lay limply, exhausted and devastated by the almost violent response he’d forced from her. She had almost done it, she had almost managed to reduce their coming together to nothing more than sex, but he hadn’t allowed it and now, hollowed out and emptied yet again, she thought she might be glad. She’d thought this would never happen but now he was here with her, naked in her bed, and what they’d just done was more intense than she’d ever imagined. Levi made her feel. Even when she didn’t want to, when her bruised emotions wanted nothing more than to hide, he read her and destroyed her barriers.

  She expected him to leave—despite the scary presence of his duffel—but he didn’t. He got up and turned out the light, then got back into bed with her and pulled her tight against him. Having him there was a shock to her system; she wasn’t used to sleeping with anyone, much less someone so big and hard and hot. He threw off heat like a furnace. She thought about making him leave . . . for about two seconds, which was when exhaustion swamped her. She melted against him, finding a comfortable resting place for her head in the curve of his shoulder, and went to sleep with his muscle-corded arms wrapped around her.

  He woke her in the darkness a couple of hours later, his heavy weight on her, her body already lifting to his as if she recognized him even in her sleep. He stretched out a long arm and turned on the lamp, as if what was between them needed the light. The first time had been fierce and intense; this time was slower, hotter, and she gave up even the thought of keeping him at a distance. She couldn’t, didn’t want to. She felt richly feminine, strong enough to take him, to wring pleasure from him and also seize it for herself. She matched him, she fought him to a draw, climaxing twice before both of them were satiated and exhausted.

  Yes! This was what she had wanted, to see him sweaty and almost unable to move, his eyes heavy-lidded with pleasure, a faint smile curving that hard mouth. She loved feeling him come inside her, loved the deep sounds he made, the way his powerful body flexed and shuddered. She brought him to that, put that expression on his face.

  “We need to shower,” she muttered when she had her breath back. She hadn’t had a choice about going to sleep after the first time, but now she was acutely aware of how sticky she was. The realities of bareback sex were pretty great, but not neat.

  He groaned, but didn’t disagree. They showered together, slept, and he woke her again with her legs draped over his broad shoulders and his mouth on her, doing other things to her with his fingers that made her choke and cry out and come so hard her body bowed under his ministrations.

  She’d thought: just one time, and she’d be done with him.

  She was wrong.

  Waking up with him was oddly more intimate than what they’d done together during the night. They had slept tangled together, with her more on top of him than not, and even when she’d rouse and think she should probably move to her own side of the bed, she hadn’t. He made an excellent pillow and cover, all in one, giving off so much heat she didn’t need covers despite the air-conditioning. She liked the feel of that big muscled body next to her, the roughness of his chest and legs, the calluses on his hands when he stroked her. There was nothing smooth or soft about Levi, but she had her own smoothness and softness, she didn’t need more from him.

  It was startling to realize how well they fit together, how evenly they matched.

  Having him there while they prepared breakfast together was both strange and familiar, as if this might be the first time but it was also how things were supposed to be. The dichotomy kept her quiet; she didn’t want to think about their situation or wonder about the future, she wanted to rest for a while and let things happen.

  He let her mull; in that, he didn’t push. In every other way, he was all over her. Even eating breakfast—he pulled her astride his lap, onto his erection, and held her there while they fed each other, rocking her just enough to keep him hard, keep him inside her. It was a whole new way of eating pancakes.

  Though she wanted to keep that emotional distance, she couldn’t stay on guard through the day that followed, or the night, or the next day. Levi showed no signs of wanting to go home. He texted the guys, he went for long runs—she joined him for one, though her feet got sore before the run ended and she had to stop—but he didn’t go home. There were moments when she forgot, when the sheer joy of being with him burst through her dam of resentment. One was when she touched the PBJ tattoo on his bare shoulder and said, “Old girlfriend?”

  He snorted, glancing at her over his shoulder with a wry gleam in his eyes. “Peanut but
ter and jelly. I was drunk.”

  Surprised, she had to laugh. “You’re lying!”

  “God’s truth. I was drunk, and I was evidently hungry. I haven’t been drunk since. I don’t want to wake up with ham sandwich tattooed somewhere on my body.”

  His sense of humor unsettled her, though she’d seen flashes of it when he interacted with the other guys, but seldom with her. He would never be Mr. Fun and Games; his was the temperament of a hard-core soldier, normally wary, intense, dedicated. That he felt he could relax with her was—

  She pushed the thought away. Being different with her indicated intimacy and connection beyond that of sex. She could handle sex with him. She couldn’t handle anything else, not yet.

  He was obviously giving her time to think, to come to terms with what had happened, and for some reason that annoyed her. She wanted to forget, not keep gnawing at details, not think about what-ifs and maybes. She’d quit the team, and even though the decision had been what was best for her, forgiving herself for quitting would take a while, despite knowing deep inside that for her she’d hit a wall and leaving the team had been her only course.

  She was brooding about it, on the second day, when he showed an acuteness of understanding that alarmed her. Baseball was on TV and he was watching it, an opened beer by his hand because somehow beer for him had come to share space in her refrigerator, when he said calmly, “Quitting is hard for you.”

  She flashed him an angry glance, and didn’t take the bait. Probing at a sore tooth didn’t make it feel better, and the subject was a very sore tooth for her.

  “You’re the prototypical middle child,” he pointed out.

  “Do not analyze me! I figured it out for myself years ago.” She was squarely in the middle, nothing special about her at all. She was neither the oldest nor the youngest in anything; she had an older sister, and a younger one. She had an older brother, and a younger one. Every family slot with any built-in specialness had been taken by someone else. She had forged her place by sheer determination, never giving up, in constant competition with her brothers but not competing in any way with her sisters because she had the buffer of age between them. Ashley was several years older and they’d never been in the same age group until they were adults. Caleigh was several years younger, and ditto, though she was just now becoming adult enough for it to matter.