by Lora Leigh
She set aside the lotion, her hands gripping the shirt where it covered her abdomen and glancing down at it as she rose nervously to her feet.
Oh, baby, it would pay for you to be nervous, he thought with a mix of lust and anger. Because there were so many wild, wicked things he intended to do with that hot little body.
“You have lousy taste in pajamas.” She finally glared up at him. “There’s not enough material to them to cover a postage stamp, let alone me.”
He glanced over at the chair where some of the articles lay. The snug boy short panties and camisole tops would have covered more flesh than he liked, actually.
It wasn’t the pajamas he wanted to discuss, though.
“Tell me something, Crista.” He began unbuttoning his shirt. “When did you intend to tell me that you didn’t have just one lover but two? Lessing and his friend Ty Grayson?”
Her gaze flickered, her eyes narrowing back at him as the buttons released from his shirt and his flesh sensitized with the need to touch her.
Then, a slender brow arched tauntingly. “Why would I tell you anything, Dawg? It was none of your business. And that’s beside the fact that they weren’t my lovers. I simply lived with them.”
“You slept with them,” he snarled. “You admitted to sleeping with Lessing.”
She shrugged. “I slept with them occasionally.”
“Both of them?”
Her arms crossed over her breasts then. “Both of them,” she agreed.
“At the same fucking time?”
Her lips thinned, irritation sparkling in her eyes then. “At the same time.”
Crista had never considered herself to be the type of woman who walked heedlessly into danger, but she admitted to herself that right now, that was exactly what she was doing.
She would have thought that suspecting she had two lovers would have pleased him. She had expected him to suggest blackmailing her to sleep with Natches as well. Instead, he seemed angry.
“You ran away from me, by your own words, because I said I wanted to share you with Rowdy and Natches, yet you leave my bed and move in with two other men?” Incredulity filled his voice, causing it to rise as she stared back at him in surprise.
“What I did after I left you is none of your business.” She stepped back as he threw his shirt to the side of the room.
He looked enraged. Dark brows were lowered heavily over brilliant, light green eyes that seemed to glow in his dark face. His lips were a flat, thin line, his shoulders bunched with tension.
He wasn’t frightening; he was sexy. He should have been frightening. Instead, she could feel a sense of overwhelming eroticism, anticipation. She should have been enraged, at least as angry as he was. But she was seeing so much emotion in his face, something besides the mocking amusement or cynical awareness he normally displayed.
He was—jealous.
Dawg, jealous?
She felt her breasts become more sensitive, her nipples beading impossibly harder against the material of the T-shirt that she wore, and it made no sense. He had no reason to be jealous; she didn’t want him to be jealous. But he was.
Dawg had never been jealous about another woman. Never possessive. That possessiveness had every cell in her body hypersensitive and screaming for his touch.
Her clit was swollen, the folds surrounding it heated and wet. She stared at him, mesmerized, watching as his hand went to the wide leather belt cinching his waist, seeing as though in slow motion the loosening of the leather, the way he left it hanging to jerk the snap of his jeans free.
“What are you doing?” The words rose unbidden. He was furious with her; she could see it. Furious and aroused and so possessive she could see the emotions blazing in his eyes.
“You agreed.” His lips twisted, lost their flat, furious line, only to appear fuller, almost swollen, hungry.
The metamorphosis was hypnotizing. Watching anger fall beneath hunger, suspicion beneath possessiveness, and need overtaking his expression.
“You agreed,” he repeated as he toed his boots off and tossed them aside, “to sleep with me. To fuck with me.”
She flinched at the sound of his voice, not his words. It was rough, guttural, filled with lust. And it struck a chord inside her own sensuality that had her womb clenching violently.
“That’s my shirt,” he rasped when she continued to stare back at him. “Take it off!”
Crista shook her head slowly, watching as he advanced on her, as muscles rippled across his chest and shoulders, along his tight abs.
Below, pressing hard and tight against his jeans, his rampant erection demanded freedom.
She knew what Dawg was like when hunger beat him. She had seen him drunk and aroused but never sober and hungry. Not like this. Powerful, intent, focused only on the lust burning inside him. Burning inside her.
Even before, the one night she had spent in his bed, she hadn’t known the powerful draw he could be. Tanned and hard, strong and dominant. The determination glowing in his eyes was like chains, holding her still, silent, as he advanced on her.
Her head tilted back as he came within inches of her, her gaze locked with his as his hand lifted, thumb and forefinger gripping the material between her breasts.
“Eight years it’s tormented me,” he murmured, his voice a dark velvet rasp over her senses. “Dreaming of it. Aching for it to the point that some nights, I couldn’t even touch another woman because I ached for you to the point of pain.”
He couldn’t have ached more than she had. Couldn’t have known the brutality of remembering a touch that ruined her for any other.
“But you still took them,” she whispered hoarsely, trying to fight past the thickening eroticism building between them. “Alone. And with your cousins.”
“And you went to another man.” His lips drew back from his teeth in a hard snarl. “Two men.”
He moved closer, pressing her against the dresser behind her as she caught her breath at the savage lust rising between them now. “Did they hold you? Did my name scream in your head each time they touched you, as yours screamed in mine?”
“Don’t.” Show no weakness. She had learned that so many years ago. Show no weakness, never let him see the hunger or the need that ripped through her.
And yet she was showing exactly that.
Her hands gripped the edge of the dresser behind her as she strained away from him, knowing she couldn’t fight the hunger if he didn’t stop touching her.
And he wouldn’t stop. His hands gripped her waist, lifted her to the top of the dresser, then slid to her knees to draw them slowly apart.
“Dawg. Dawg, you don’t want to do this.” She was panting, certain she couldn’t breathe through this. He was stealing the oxygen between them, making it thick and heavy with lust.
“I don’t want to do it?” He drew the shirt up her waist, pulling it over her breasts, then forcing her arms up to tug it free of her body.
The cool air of the air conditioner washed over her nipples, sending a talon of sensation raking down her spine.
When he tossed the shirt aside, he didn’t release her wrists. They were bound in one large hand, stretched above her head, lifting her breasts high as he stared at her.
“I should have tied you to my bed that night,” he whispered hoarsely. “I would have kept you with me, rather than allowing you to escape.”
His other arm wrapped around her waist as he moved between her thighs, forcing them to part as he jerked her to him. A hard, quick motion that buried her nipples against his chest.
Sensation tore through her nerve endings. Crista felt her back arch, a shuddering breath ripping from her lungs as fire and ice seared her nipples, then tore a ragged, ecstatic path to her womb and the hungry depths of her pussy.
Before she could gather her breath to protest, before she could form the protest, his head lowered, his lips stole hers, and for the first time in eight years, Crista relived that first fiery kiss, that first trembling knowle
dge that every part of her, heart and soul, belonged to Dawg.
THIRTEEN
Crista wasn’t aware of when he released her wrists; she was only aware that the second his lips parted from hers, the velvety texture and flaming heat were gone.
Her hands tightened in his hair, she lifted closer, a keening cry leaving her throat as her nipples raked over his chest, and the denim-covered heat of his erection pressed against the saturated flesh of her pussy.
“You like that, don’t you, Crista?” He shifted against her, raking his chest over the sensitive tips, watching her face as she fought to hold back another cry.
“I like that,” she admitted, shivering violently as his calloused palms rasped down her naked back. “I always loved your hands, Dawg. Always loved your touch.”
She arched, her head falling back against the mirror behind her as his hands lifted her closer, his lips moving to her neck, his tongue licking her flesh before his teeth rasped over tender nerve endings.
“I dreamed of this.” Her breathing faltered as her eyes drifted closed. “So long. I dreamed of this.”
And she had. During those first pain-ridden months away from Somerset, through the loneliness of the years she had spent away from home, she had dreamed of him and his touch.
“Did you dream of this, sweetheart?” Rasping, rough, his voice was but a breath ahead of the silken rasp of the beginnings of a beard along his cheeks and jaw.
“I dreamed of this.” Her thighs lifted along his hips, clutching at him as her arms moved from his shoulders, moving between them, searching for the zipper of his jeans, for the fierce, thick flesh beneath.
His chuckle was a low breath of arousal and denial.
His hands caught her wrists, dragging them back up his body. “This time, I get to savor you.”
“No. Dawg.” She shook her head, moaning at the thought of what she knew he intended. What he had done that first time before taking her.
“Yes. Crista,” he growled.
Then he was drawing back from her, lifting her before turning and stepping to the bed, tossing her to it before he followed.
He didn’t give her time to protest what she knew he wanted, what she wanted. His hands immediately spread her thighs, pushing her knees up as his head bent to the wet flesh aching for his touch.
“Oh God. Dawg.” She arched, she moaned, as his tongue licked slowly through the saturated folds. “Yes. Oh yes, I need this.”
She needed. She hungered for it.
He growled against the swollen curves, licked, his tongue moving with velvet roughness around her swollen clit as she stretched beneath him, arched to his mouth and did nothing to hold back her cries.
“You taste like fucking summer.” His voice sounded angry. Harsh. But she knew that voice, it wasn’t anger that drove him, it was a surfeit of lust that poured from every cell of his body.
Dawg couldn’t believe how sweet and hot she tasted. Smoother than whiskey, yet more potent. Sweeter than candy and more addictive than drugs.
He buried his tongue in the sweetness, licked and sucked at it, tried to draw enough of the creamy syrup into him to sate himself on the taste of her.
If he could ever sate himself. With each lick, each taste, he only burned for more.
“Dawg.” She twisted beneath him as he drew the fragile bud of her clit into his mouth in a long, firm kiss. A tiny suck, a flick of his tongue before he released it.
“More,” she whispered breathlessly. “I like that. Oh I like that so much.”
“How much do you like that, sweetheart?” He was dying for more of her. He smoothed his fingers along the saturated curls, feeling her syrup cling to them, tasting the sweetness of her against his tongue as he licked around the swollen little bud of her clit once again.
“I love it,” she whimpered. “Oh God, Dawg. I love it.”
Her clit throbbed against his tongue, almost as fiercely as his cock was throbbing in his jeans. He was wild for her, driven by a hunger that made no sense to him, that had his senses consumed by her, his muscles tight with the need to taste her, touch her, fuck her.
She belonged to him.
And where that thought came from he had no idea.
But it was there, suddenly so much a part of him that it sent a hard shudder racing through his body.
“I can’t breathe,” she panted, arching, writhing beneath him as his hands held her still. Her voice was soft, light, echoing with her own hunger.
Dawg lapped at her; his tongue slid through the soft folds, ached for bare, creamy flesh all around. She would be visiting the spa soon, he assured himself. He needed her soft pussy bare to his lips, so sensitive that his breath washing over it would send her to the brink of climax.
As he moved lower, the snug little opening that drew him clenched and fluttered against his tongue. Sliding his hands under her hips, he lifted her higher, closer, then sent his tongue burrowing into the sweetest flesh he had ever known.
Crista knew she was losing her mind beneath his touch. Stars exploded against the backdrop of her closed eyes and sent her arching closer, desperate for more. She fought the hands holding her, the broad shoulders that held her legs wide, and pleaded for more.
“Damn, you’re sweet,” he muttered as his head lifted just enough to allow his tongue to lick back to her clit. Not that it brought her any semblance of control, because his fingers were moving in to replace his tongue, sliding inside her, first one, then two, stretching her with exquisite heat as she undulated beneath him.
“I could eat you for hours.” His voice was a rumbled vibration against her clit. “So creamy and sweet.”
His voice stroked over her senses, drawing her farther into the maelstrom of sensation tearing through her body. She was helpless against it, helpless against him.
His fingers moved inside her, fucking her with long, smooth strokes as she tightened around him and begged for release.
“Your pussy’s so tight, Crista.” He lodged his fingers inside her. Just his fingertips, rasping inside her, bringing to life nerve endings she couldn’t have possibly known existed.
“Stop teasing me,” she gasped, shaking in his hold, her hips lifting to his hot mouth as he licked around her clit with gentle strokes. “Please Dawg. Let me come. I need to come.”
“Just a little longer.” His breathing was harsh, the strokes of his fingers inside her pussy were deeper now, stronger.
Crista felt her pussy clenching, felt the wash of her juices and his tongue licking, stroking her.
“I want your pussy waxed,” he groaned. “All sweet and soft and sensitive. I want to lick your juices from every sweet inch of this hot little pussy.”
Her fingers tightened in her hair as a shaft of white-hot heat seared her womb. Perspiration gathered on her flesh, ran in rivulets across her chest and breasts. The air became heated despite the air conditioning, and Crista could feel her own body unraveling as Dawg’s lips surrounded her clit, suckled, licked, and gave her release.
She wondered if he gave her death along with it.
She was barely aware of her own screams, hoarse and broken, as he fucked her with hard thrusts of his fingers and sucked at her clit with deep, hungry draws of his mouth.
She twisted beneath him, fought the explosions of rapture, and finally fell beneath the force of pleasure overtaking her. Beneath the force of Dawg’s hungry touch.
There was no chance to gather herself for the next attack against her soul. How he had managed to shed his jeans so quickly she would never be certain, but before the last tidal wave of ecstasy had dissolved, he was on his knees, fitting his cock between the swollen folds of her pussy and pushing inside her.
Crista stilled, froze. Her eyes jerked open to stare in his piercing gaze as he rested on his knees, his eyes lowered to where he was slowly, oh God so slowly, penetrating her.
Inch by torturously pleasurable inch. Burning because the fit was so tight, because the width of his cock stretched her to the point of ple
asured pain as it stroked inside her.
“This is what I’ve dreamed of.” His breath was sawing, his voice guttural. “Watching you take me, hug me. Feeling your pussy tighten around me like a fiery fist.”
Her hips jerked upward, and between one broken breath and the next, his erection plunged forcefully inside her, and with the surge of sensation came a surge of primal ferocity she hadn’t known she possessed.
Her legs lifted, wrapping possessively around him, angling her hips up to him, taking all of him, deeper than before, harder than before.
Her nails raked over his hair-spattered chest, combing through the sweat-dampened black curls before skimming along his abdomen and back again. Just to touch him, to feel the shudders racing through his body.
Then she was moving beneath him, fighting for dominance as she watched his eyes narrow a second before he gave her what she wanted.
Surprisingly. He moved, going to his back as he lifted her above him, never dislodging from her, thrusting deeper as she settled astride him and began to move.
The feel of his cock moving inside her was exquisite. The way he stretched her, burned her. The throb of blood pounding into the shaft and rippling against her sensitive inner walls drove her crazy with need. She wanted more sensation, harder strokes, a deeper burn.
“Slow down.” His hands gripped her hips as she began to impale herself on him.
“No.” Crista shook her head wildly. “Not yet. Let me—”
“You’re not coming yet, Crista.” His voice was forceful. Dominant. As dominant as the hands that restrained her hips and kept her from riding him as she needed to.
“I need to come again, Dawg.” She would be embarrassed over the whimper in her voice later. “Just one more time. Just now.”
She flexed above him, straining as his cock stroked her internally.
“Soon, sweetheart.” He grimaced. “Soon…Ah fuck!”
She lowered her upper body, her lips moving to a flat, hard nipple that she nipped at gently, then licked, tasting the salty male taste of his flesh and the heat of his lust.