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So, if Crossfield wasn’t the employer, then who the hell was? It was a question he’d have to be certain to discuss with Ian.
Poppy didn’t know what time it was when she awakened later that night, but she knew she wasn’t alone, as she had been when she’d gone to bed.
Jack had brought her home, promising to return after he talked to his men. She’d gone to sleep waiting for him.
She knew who was holding her so close to his body. The heavy weight over her waist, holding her to him, was Jack’s arm. The steady, subtle thump at her back was the beat of his heart. And then there was that settled sense of well-being inside her. Inside, she felt warm, content, and secure.
She’d never felt so completely warm, so much a part of somebody else and yet so intensely aroused. She knew it could have something to do with the heavy length of his erection pressing so firmly against her rear. The hot, hard shaft and the knowledge that Jack was awake behind her had every nerve ending burning for him. Just the touch of him behind her, his naked chest and muscular legs tucked close behind hers, combined with the proof of his need for her, had her body heating, needing.
He had no idea how many times she’d masturbated, fought for release, and cried out his name as she came so close, so very close. And now, waking next to him, stepping from dreams to him—she could feel that overwhelming need only rising harder, hotter inside her.
She’d waited so long for him, dreamed of him, tortured herself with the belief that she’d never see him again, and that the hunger for his touch wasn’t going to go away anytime soon.
And she loved him. She loved him with all her heart and every fragile dream she ever had.
“I know you’re awake.” His voice was a rumbled growl, drowsy and hinting at amusement.
“So I am,” she agreed, fighting to keep her breathing normal despite the hard, desperate racing of her heart. “And you’re definitely awake.”
Her breathing caught, tension immediately tightening throughout her body as his fingers gripped the material of her sleep shirt and began to tug it up.
“I can’t breathe anymore without remembering your scent, your taste,” he whispered at her ear. “I could take you now, Poppy, and ten minutes later be aching for you again.”
Poppy whimpered as her stomach tightened in a hard spasm, and her breath caught as she felt the pressure swamp her. It was dizzying, flooding her body with heat and need.
“Oh, baby girl,” he crooned as the response shuddered through her. “Here. Turn over for me. Let me see what else I can do for you.”
She was so lost, and she knew it.
She followed as he eased her to her back, lifted her arms as he disposed of her shirt.
Her nipples tightened to pebble-hard peaks, her clit swelling to such sensitivity that the brush of her pajama bottoms against it was torture.
As the shirt cleared her head, Jack didn’t give her a chance to think, or to consider anything further. He hovered over her, all powerful, corded muscle and bronze flesh. His head tilted, his lips covered hers, and nothing else mattered but his kiss, his touch.
Greedy, starving for him, Poppy’s hands stroked his shoulders, his back. She could feel the muscle rippling beneath his chest, the toughness of his flesh, his body heat inside her. She loved the feel of him, the pleasure, the heat.
His kiss was a little rough, filled with male hunger. His touch was pure pleasure, his hand stroking up her side, cupping a breast, his thumb finding the incredibly sensitive nipple and rasping over it with sizzling heat. It sent arcs of sensation to her clit, causing her vagina to weep in need.
Deep, hard kisses drew hungry moans from her and harsh groans from him. The deep, powerful kisses rocked her to the core. They mesmerized her, filled her with arousal, had her aching to hold this moment in time for as long as possible.
“Jack,” she cried out as his lips slid from hers to brush over her jaw, his teeth scraping her flesh erotically.
“Damn, Poppy, I love the taste of you,” he muttered, his voice a rasp, his kisses rough and hungry as they moved to her neck.
His tongue licked at her sensitive flesh; his lips took stinging kisses that she knew would leave marks later.
Knew but didn’t care.
Tipping her head back on the pillows, she gave him better access even as she writhed in a pleasure so incredible she didn’t know how to combat it. But she knew she’d crave more of it, that she’d die longing for it and for him.
“Don’t stop,” she demanded when his head lifted and he leaned back. Forcing her eyes open, she stared at him, loving the dark, dominant, roughly handsome face. She’d never met another man who could compare to him. No other man could rival him.
“Damn, how pretty,” he whispered, both hands cupping her breasts and rasping the hard nipples. “And they taste so sweet.”
His head lowered, his lips covered one tight peak and immediately drank it in with deep draws of his mouth.
Poppy’s back arched, her hands digging into the bedsheets, her thighs clenching tight as sizzling bolts of sensations in her clit sent moisture spilling from her pussy.
