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“You haven’t changed so much, Shane. You’re still a cocky motherf—” His tongue swept the curse off her lips. Another few seconds and he’d stolen her breath. By the time he raised his head, she had one leg wrapped around his hip and both arms clinging to his shoulders. She blinked her eyes open to find the smug smile firmly in place and wondered why her body still responded to it like a hormonal teenager after all this time.
“That’s no way to express your forgiveness.”
She gritted her teeth and willed herself not to give in to the urge to grind her hips against his. “I didn’t say I forgave you.”
“You do.” His expression went serious. “What’s it going to take to convince you to say it, Sinclair? Need me to say it first? No problem. I—”
“I didn’t do a damn thing requiring your forgiveness.” A little voice in the back of her mind whispered except…into the silence that followed, but she felt sure he wouldn’t call her on it. He wouldn’t dare
“Did you give me the benefit of the doubt? When you didn’t hear from me that summer, did you believe there was a reason I couldn’t get in touch, or did you lose faith in me?”
“I…you…” Her ability to construct a counterargument fled in the face of his quiet accusation, and bone-deep panic set in. The only thing more frightening than saying the words he wanted to hear was what might come streaming out of her mouth next. If she relinquished such a crucial stone in the wall of her defenses, would she be able to hold anything back, including feelings she’d banished for years? Feelings she’d have chosen not to have, if emotions worked that way. But here he was, slowly, surely stripping the choice away from her and asking her to trust him while he did it. She fought back the only way she could. She took a step back and shoved him away. “I don’t need this.”
Big hands caught her shoulders, stopping her retreat. A flex of muscles and she ended up plastered against his chest. “Yeah, you do,” he muttered and kissed her. Not hard. Not forceful. He simply brought her mouth to his, moved his lips over hers like he had all the patience in the world, and let her do the rest—as if he knew she would—and, God help her, she did. She drank deep, like a horse led to water.
Need immediately spiked, but her anxiety receded. Volatile as the chemistry was, it nonetheless felt safe. She knew what to do with physical needs—even ones this powerful. She embraced the power. Wanted the urgency. Wanted a driving desire so all-consuming it allowed for nothing else. No examination of feelings, and definitely no conversation beyond the occasional demand, curse, or plea. But when she gathered up a handful of his shirt and tore her mouth from his to pull it over his head, he broke her unstated rules.
“I forgive—”
“Shut up.” She reclaimed his mouth and shoved his shirt up his chest. The lure of his bare skin called to her, but she couldn’t abandon her post. She made do with her hands, touching every part of him she could reach—smooth shoulders, broad back, the hard planes of his chest, and the enticing little gulley chiseled down the center. She trailed her fingers lower, and his breaths turned fast and harsh in her mouth.
Her head went light from the forced synchronization. Luckily, there was more than one way to render a man speechless. She hooked fingers into the waist of his pants, popped the button, and lowered the zipper. He sprang right into her hand, hot, thick, and heavy. A groan rumbled in his chest, then another as she gripped his shaft and rubbed her palm over his wide, blunt head. A couple circles—not too hard, not too soft, exactly as he’d showed her all those years ago—and she coaxed forth enough fluid to make her palm glide.
She slid her other hand up his length, gripped the base with her lubricated hand, and began long, alternating pulls, adding a little twist at the end just the way he’d always liked.
He still did. His mouth crashed over hers, again and again, the kisses wet and reckless. Whiskers abraded her sensitive lips. Every other sensitive part of her body tingled in response, anxious to experience the same rough treatment.
Switching to a one-handed hold on his cock, she lifted him and cupped his balls. His shudder vibrated through her so deeply it might as well have been her own. No, he wasn’t a teenager anymore, but a man could only take so much. She wasn’t a teenager, either. She’d picked up a few skills of her own. Another hard pull—he groaned as she administered it—a feather-light brush along the nerve-packed zone behind his balls, and conversation would cease to be an option for him. Victory h
overed within reach, so close she could practically taste it.
Which only left her all the more stunned when she suddenly found her arms dragged above her head and pinned there by a big, domineering hand.
Chapter Thirteen
Shane made sure his hold on her wrists was firm, but not bruising. He walked that fine line to convince Sinclair she was well and truly caught—because he couldn’t let her touch him again—but he didn’t want her scratching the backs of her hands against tree bark in an effort to twist out of his grip. To increase his odds of success, he returned the unrelenting assault she’d made on his mouth and did his level best to kiss her into compliance. Only when her arms went limp and her body rubbed restlessly against his did he lift his head.
Desire and anger warred in her eyes. A combination he couldn’t resist. “I’m not going to come in your hands, Sinclair, or your mouth. I’m coming inside you, and you’re going to say the words right before you take my cock.”
She made a small, negative noise, but he swallowed it and then drowned out her moan with the rasp of the zipper running down the front of her vest. When it hung open, he pushed the padded fabric aside and palmed her breast through her thermal shirt. Whatever she had on underneath strapped her tight and denied him the feel of her soft, giving flesh. Frustrated, he tunneled beneath her shirt, all the way to the thick band of elastic under her breasts. It gave barely at all. He felt around for a clasp and came up empty. Finally, he just shoved it out of his way, manhandling her tits in the process. What might have started as a little cry of shock turned into a grateful sigh when those warm, soft globes sprang free from the unforgiving spandex confines. He soothed them in his hands. “Jesus Christ. How’d you get into that thing?”
“It wasn’t easy.”
Nothing about tonight would be, apparently, but he’d persevere because she wanted this, too, even if she wished she didn’t. As if reading his mind, she arched into his touch and pled, “Don’t stop.”
“Don’t make me stop.” He pinched one tight nipple. “Say it.”
She shook her head and wriggled her wrists out of his hold. Like a boxer readying for a fight, she shrugged her vest off. “I’ve never punched anyone before, but you keep this up, and trust me”—she broke off to pull her shirt and the torture device of an undergarment over her head—“you’ll be the first.”
Had he called her stubborn? She was downright ornery. He shed his shirt and then toed his boots off while she watched him with a defiant expression. With more calm than he felt, he got rid of his pants, straightened, and waited while her hot gaze raked his cock like a brutal touch before making its way back to his face. “You’re going to say it, baby girl. If I have to take a punch or two in the process, so be it, but you’re going to get down on your knees and say it like you mean it. The words are going to ring in your ears as I slide inside you.”
Her eyes widened, and her mouth fell open. Satisfied with the game plan, he dropped to his knees and turned his attention to getting her naked, first tugging off one shoe, then the other, and then the leggings. His whole body pulsed at the sight of her wearing nothing but lamplight. Memories didn’t do her justice. How could they? He leaned in and kissed her just below her navel.
“Is this your twisted idea of a challenge?”
He tipped his head back and looked at her. “It’s a promise.”
“We both want this. Why complicate things?”
