Page 173 of Extreme Danger


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It shamed her to her bones that it was working so well.

“Put that back on,” she said breathlessly. “Exhibitionist jerk.”

He shook his head, grabbed her hand and placed it on his scar again, trapping it under his own. “Do that again,” he said. “I liked it.”

She tugged, in vain, on her hand. “You think I give a damn what you like, Nick Ward?”

“I know that you do,” he said.

She wrenched her hand away with a growl of rage, and hauled off, as if she were going to hit him. She stopped herself, muscles locked.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Hit me. Whale on me, if you want.”

“I can’t,” she said crabbily. “You’re wounded, goddamnit.”

“That’s OK. I’m tough. I can take it.”

Oh, God. Something about the stoic acceptance in his voice just broke her heart all over again. That was the heart of the problem with Nick. He was always expecting a blow. Always braced for it. Never surprised when it landed.

She wouldn’t be the one to deal him that blow.

Tears were sliding down her face, her throat melting into a shimmering hot coal. “I don’t care if you can take it or not,” she said shakily. “You’ve taken enough, goddamnit.”

Of all times for the big thaw to come crashing down on her. Damn, damn, damn. This was so undignified. She grabbed tissues from the desk and hid her face in the fluffy wad of paper.

Nick pulled her against his hard, naked chest, wrapping her in the steely strength of his arms. His skin was feverishly hot.

It took a while for the backed-up tears to move through her. There was a lot to cry about: that awful night, that day that she’d steeled herself to leave him at the hospital. All the times she hadn’t let herself call to see how he was. The sleepless nights, staring at the ceiling.

She’d tried so hard to let him go. But she couldn’t.

And she wouldn’t. The relief of giving in was so sweet, such a liberating rush of emotion, she thought for a moment that she might swoon, like a Victorian maiden. But Nick held her up. He didn’t get bored with her protracted crying jag, either. He seemed glad for the excuse to touch her. He buried his face in her hair. Rubbed her back as if trying to memorize every bump of her spine, every muscle, every rib.

The tears moved through her and trailed away, leaving her limp and soft. Very light, as if she might float up and away if he didn’t keep a tight grip. Never one to waste an advantage, Nick tilted her head back and started kissing her wet, closed eyelids, her flushed red cheeks.

“Stop that,” she whispered. “We haven’t made it that far yet.”

“No? How about this, then?” He sank to his knees, staring up at her body. “I love this view. Your gorgeous tits, from below.” His hands swept up the outside of her thighs under her skirt. He hooked her panties with his thumbs and yanked them down around her ankles.

She sucked in a breath. Oh, whoa. No way. Not a chance.

She stumbled back, her bottom fetching up against the desk as he tossed up her skirt and pressed his hot face to her muff. He parted her labia gently with his fingers and his eager tongue licked and probed.

Her knees almost gave way and dumped her on the floor as the sensations swirled in her lower body, a liquid shimmer of heat, of light.

She panicked. She couldn’t bear it, as raw and emotional as she felt. She pushed his face away. “No. Please. Don’t, Nick.”

“No?” He wiped his mouth, looked up at her. “Pretty please?”

“Can’t take it,” she said, unevenly. “It’s too much. I’ll come apart.”

He stood up, standing between her parted legs so the length of their bodies were flush, touching at every point. “Sorry,” he said. “Oh, wait. It pisses you off when I say I’m sorry. Everything pisses you off.”

“Don’t you dare get mouthy on me.”

He shrugged, and stared into her eyes, waiting patiently for her to tell him what he could do. Vibrating sexual eagerness at her.

And now she wanted it, too. The bastard had gotten her whipped up into a state. Restless and anxious and hungry for him.

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