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Her chest ached suddenly, as if her heart squeezed. Her knees wobbled and she sank against him, melting into him, rising on tiptoe to meet his kiss with equal force, equal passion. He groaned, deep in his throat; the kiss changed, the anger fading, to be replaced by violent hunger. She had surrendered totally, but that didn’t seem to be enough for him because he sank his hand in her hair and pulled her head back, arching her neck and exposing her throat to his mouth. Rain spattered in her face, and she closed her eyes, helpless in his iron grip and not wanting to be anywhere else.
After the emotional upheaval of the past three days she needed to lose herself in the physical, to push all the grief and fear away and feel only Sam, think only of Sam. He lifted her off her feet and began walking with her, and she didn’t protest except when he stopped kissing her, didn’t struggle except to get closer.
“Damn it, would you stop wiggling?” he growled in a strained tone, shifting her to one side as he climbed his front steps.
“Why?” Her voice sounded smoky, sexy. She hadn’t known her throat would do that.
“Because I’m going to come in my jeans if you don’t,” he half-shouted in raw frustration.
Jaine thought about his problem for maybe half a heartbeat. Since the only way she could be certain not to overexcite him was to tear herself out of his grip and not touch him at all, that meant she would be depriving herself.
“Suffer,” she told him.
“Suffer?” He sounded outraged. He wrenched open his front door and carried her inside. It was dark in the living room, the only light filtering through from the kitchen. He smelled of heat and rain and wet hair. She tried to run her hands over those broad shoulders and found herself still encumbered by purse and shopping bags. Impatiently she dropped them to the floor, then attached herself to him like a limpet.
Cursing, he staggered a few steps and pinned her to the wall. He tugged at her slacks with rough hands, attacking the button and zipper until the button flew off and the zipper yielded. Her slacks slid down her legs and pooled around her feet. She kicked off her shoes, and he lifted her out of the circle of fabric. Immediately she wound her legs around his hips, feverishly trying to get closer, to meld their bodies and ease this wildfire of need that was burning her up on the inside.
“Not yet!” Panting, he leaned his weight against her to keep her in place against the wall and unwrapped her legs from his waist. Her ribcage depressed by his weight, Jaine could manage only the first protesting moan before he hooked his fingers in the waistband of her panties and tugged them down her thighs.
Oh.
She tried to think why she had been going to make him wait another couple of weeks, at least, maybe even a whole menstrual cycle. Nothing reasonable came to mind, not when making him wait also meant making herself wait—not when she was so scared that the same person who had killed Marci might also be targeting the rest of them and she would kick herself if she died without knowing what it was like to make love with him. Right here, right now, there was nothing more important than trying this man on for size.
She kicked her panties away, he lifted her high once again, and she coiled her legs around him. His knuckles brushed between her legs as he unfastened his jeans and let them drop. She caught her breath as the last barrier fell from between them and his penis pressed against her, naked and hot, searching. Pleasure zinged through her, making her nerve endings sizzle. She arched helplessly, seeking more, needing more.
He swore softly, under his breath, and hitched her just a little higher to adjust her position. She felt the head of his penis probing at her, smooth and hard and hot, then an almost incredible sense of pressure as he eased his support and let her weight sink down on it. Her body resisted at first, then began to stretch and admit him, inch by searing inch. She felt everything in her begin to tighten as sensation roared through her—
He stopped, breathing hard, his hot face buried against her neck. His voice muffled, he said rawly, “Did you go on the pill?”
Jaine dug her nails into his bare shoulders, almost sobbing with need. How could he stop now? Only the thick head of his penis was inside her, and it wasn’t enough, wasn’t nearly enough. Her inner muscles clenched around him, trying to draw him deeper, and an explosive curse tore from his throat.
“Damn it, Jaine, did you go on the pill?”
“Yes,” she finally managed to say, and her tone was just as raw as his.
He braced her against the wall and with one rough thrust pushed his entire length inside her.
She heard herself cry out, but the sound was distant. Every cell in her body focused on the thick shaft pounding back and forth inside her, his rhythm hard and fast, and she climaxed the same way. Sensation exploded in her, and she bucked against him, screaming, her hips jerking and her entire body shuddering. The rest of the world spun completely away.
He came a second later, driving into her with almost brutal force. She thudded against the wall with each deep thrust, her weight sliding down and forcing him even deeper, so deep that she stiffened convulsively and climaxed again.
Afterward, he rested heavily against her, his skin damp with sweat and rain. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving as he sucked in air. The house was dark and silent except for the rain drumming on the roof and the gasping sounds of their overtaxed lungs. The wall was cool against her back, but uncomfortably hard.
Jaine tried to think of something clever to say, but her mind refused to work. Th
is was too serious, too damn important, for quips. So she closed her eyes and rested her cheek on his shoulder while her galloping heartbeat slowly began to calm and her loins relaxed around his shaft.
He muttered something unintelligible and tightened his grip on her, holding her with one arm around her back and the other under her bottom as he stepped out of his jeans and unsteadily walked to the bedroom. He was still inside her, her body anchored to his, as he lowered them to the bed and settled on top of her.
The room was dark and cool, the bed wide. He stripped off her silk shirt and unclipped her bra, tossing both garments to the floor. Now they were both totally naked, his chest hair rasping her nipples as he began to move again. His rhythm this time was slower but no less powerful as each thrust took him in to the hilt.
To her surprise, the fever began to build again. She had thought she was too exhausted to be aroused again, but she found out differently. She hooked her legs around his and ground her pelvis up to meet each thrust, clinging to him, pulling him even deeper into her, and when she came, the paroxysm was even stronger than the others. He made a guttural sound, climaxing while she still shuddered beneath him.
A long time later, when pulses had slowed, sweat had dried, and muscles had become halfway responsive again, he levered himself off her and rolled onto his back, one arm draped over his eyes. “Shit,” he said under his breath.
Because the room was so quiet, she heard him. A tiny flare of temper made her eyes narrow. She still felt like a limp, overcooked noodle, so a tiny flare was all she could manage. “Gee, that’s romantic,” she said sarcastically. The man hadn’t been able to keep his hands off her for a week, and now that they had finally made love, “shit” was the best comment he could make, as if the whole experience had been a mistake?
He lifted the arm covering his eyes and turned his head to glare at her. “I knew you were trouble the first time I saw you.”
