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Her control faltered, and something snide and impulsive took over. “Oh, honey, when it comes to reckless, you just saw the tip of the iceberg. You should run now, before I really show you the meaning of the word.”
He moved closer, until they stood toe-to-toe. “Bring it, baby girl. Take your best shot.”
The crack of her palm connecting with his cheek shattered the silence. His head snapped back and to the side. Vibrations shimmered up her arm while red bloomed on his cheek. A stunned part of her reeled at the unpremeditated violence inside her. She wasn’t above taking a shot at someone—she’d literally slapped sense into her own brother-in-law just a few months ago—but up until now she’d always known what she intended to do before she did it. This time she’d been a passenger in her body. A detached observer. Slowly, he turned his face back to her, his eyes cool and assessing. “Ten years, and that’s the best you can do?”
Detachment burned away so fast she went lightheaded, and control spun far out of reach. She felt her muscles tensing this time. Heard the whoosh of her hand cutting through the air, before another crack echoed around them. Words with a venomous taste coiled on her tongue, so foul and bitter she spat them out. “I hate you.”
Big hands cupped her jaw, holding her in place while hard shivers rattled through her. “No, you don’t,” he murmured and lowered his mouth to hers.
She wanted to pull away. She told herself to pull away. But God damn him, she couldn’t. And he knew it. He took his sweet time, moving his lips over hers in unhurried passes, co
nveying an unmistakable message with every slow assault. Hit at me all you want. I’m not going anywhere.
It shook her, that certainty—his absolute confidence, regardless of what she threw at him. Need swept in like a storm front, bigger than her anger and impervious to her boundaries. Her back arched to press their bodies closer, and his arm clamped around her waist to help her do it. “I do,” she insisted, knowing full well she was losing this battle. “I hate you…”
The words ended in a moan as he leaned into her, moving his chest over hers and dragging layers of fabric over her tight nipples.
“You hate this?” He reached under her poncho, under her camisole, and palmed her breasts. His hands were harder and rougher than they’d been in the old days, but it only made her reaction all the more forceful. Something far too intense to call pleasure tore through her, dissolving her muscles and buckling her knees.
He caught her, dragged her into his arms so her legs had no option but to wrap around his waist and her arms had no choice but to twine around his neck. Meanwhile, his mouth consumed whatever answer she might have given before it reached her lips. The trees whirled overhead as he moved, and the next thing she knew, he had her braced against the side of the Rover, one hand supporting her ass, the other busy inflicting an equally staggering caress to her other breast. “I hate it,” she managed, over another moan.
“I remember.” His ragged exhale fanned her raw lips. “I remember how much you hated this, too.”
A sharp cry of surprise jostled out of her when he hitched her up higher, shoved her clothes out of the way, and fastened his mouth on her breast. The contact immediately calmed something needy inside her, comforting an ache nobody over the last ten years had been able to soothe. Sensations, familiar and overwhelming as any long-overdue homecoming, wrung a grateful sigh out of her. She sagged forward, hugging his head, losing herself in the irresistible pull of the moment and the memories. Then his mouth began moving, and memories scattered as heat seared her from the inside out. Before, he’d always touched and kissed her breasts gently at first. Not now. He used lips and tongue and teeth to draw her in, widening his jaw to take…consume…devour.
His lack of restraint stripped her down to an elemental state, beyond flesh, or bone, to a few brutal pulse points—lips, nipples, and the biggest pulse of all, pounding relentlessly between her legs.
She couldn’t keep still. Her feet felt clumsy in her boots, but she dug the soles into his calves, clawed at his back through his sweater, and did the best she could to press every throbbing part of her against him. He must have felt her urgency. Must have. But he wouldn’t be rushed. He used that ruthless mouth on her until she couldn’t take any more. She gripped his hair and pulled hard enough to force his head up. Then she closed her eyes so she didn’t have to face him and slammed her mouth down on his.
After one heady moment allowing her ownership, he took control of the kiss. With a hand at the back of her head, he positioned her just where he wanted her and proceeded to plunge his tongue deep, retreat, and plunge again. Over and over, so her mouth filled with his taste, but it only made her hungry for more. Bigger, deeper, harder…more.
She struggled to work her hand between their bodies, but the way he had her pinned between cold steel and his hot, hard body prevented her from reaching her goal.
He eased back, lowering her by degrees until her toes scraped the gravel. When she was securely on her feet, he took her hand and guided it to the thick ridge straining the front of his jeans. Held it there, absolutely still for one long moment while a ridiculously attractive flush rose in his cheeks. He let out a tortured breath and lowered his forehead to hers. His dark gaze locked on her, he took his hand away and whispered, “How about this, Sinclair? Do you hate this?”
“Uh-huh.” Her hands shook as she tugged his fly open. “I hate it…” And then she was holding it, stroking, relearning landmarks the years had subtly altered—the smooth, blunt tip, the sensitive opening that still dragged a groan out of him when she explored it with her thumb, the flare of flesh marking the transition from head to shaft. It wasn’t until she’d wrapped her hand around the thickest part, wringing another low sound from his throat, that she realized the pressure in her chest was building to match the pressure at her core. Longing took many forms, and all of them were about to have their way with her. And she wasn’t strong enough to stop any of it. Gripping his hips for balance, she dropped to her knees. “I really hate it,” she said again, then put her lips against the tip.
His head dropped forward, and his fingers tangled in her hair. “Jesus. Show me. Punish me.”
She took him into her mouth, leading with her tongue, stretching her lips to surround him. Taste and scent unleashed vivid, sensory flashbacks…the thrill of discovering every mysterious inch of him, the pride of making him tremble for her, the joy of hearing him say her name over and over again as he lost control. The memories stung her eyes and tightened her chest. Then he groaned and gave a rough, potentially involuntary thrust. The move generated heat, and friction, and raw new needs.
Desperate to satisfy them, she planted her knees, tipped her head to the most accommodating angle, and offered him everything. Just the way she’d learned to do during those long spring nights a lifetime ago.
“Fuck, Sinclair.” He gripped her chin and stared down at her. “You have no idea how much I missed you. You couldn’t possibly. Leaving you felt like losing a vital organ.” Then he thrust again, and again, in rapid succession. She’d braced for fast, and deep. Wanted it. But he remembered a few things, too—like how easily he could reduce her to a quivering mess by holding back, teasing her with quick, shallow strokes. Punishment, she discovered, cut both ways, and could be unbearably sweet as well as heartrendingly painful. Despite his restraining hand, she went deep, gorging herself on all of it—past, present, sweetness, pain…him—knowing full well it was too much, but still would never be enough.
A sob pushed its way into her throat. She choked it back and hoped he attributed the artless noise to her overeager struggle to take as much of him as she possibly could. His big hand stroked her jaw. “Easy, baby girl,” he murmured and then sliced her heart open with one careful fingertip, running it over her lips, tracing the seam where their bodies met. How had she forgotten the way he did that? Or how one simple gesture could make her feel so…cherished?
Except he’d taught her she wasn’t the kind of girl men cherished, and now he’d come back and undermined the lesson with a single explanation. How dare he? Because in doing so, he also took away her justification for distributing blame for what happened that summer to him, which meant she had to accept it all. “I hate you,” she said, reminding him, reminding herself, and then lowered her head to finish him. Exorcise him. Claim one harshly honest moment and be done with him.
But a strong arm hooked under her shoulder and hauled her up until her face hovered just millimeters from his. Her lips throbbed from the friction of his cock sliding between them. His taste coated her tongue. Deprivation set in, sudden and painful, but maddeningly patient green eyes stared into hers, taking stock, unquestionably seeing the deprivation, and the need, but looking past them to things she didn’t want him to see. Didn’t want anyone to see.
“No, you don’t. You wish you did, but you don’t.”
“I do. I—”
His mouth slammed down on hers, cutting her off. The sense of deprivation immediately subsided, replaced by the bite of his teeth and the lash of his tongue. His leg slid between hers. A hand on her ass lifted her onto her toes. Her hands found his shoulders, and she held on as he rocked her against his hard thigh.
Her moan of pleasure couldn’t be stifled, nor her body’s greedy response. Within moments she was fighting the steady rhythm he’d set, grinding against him like some kind of animal, while their mouths came together, parted, came together again.
