whispered.
His jaw tightened at the gentleness of her touch; his heart rebelled from the care in her eyes—neither of which he’d asked for, nor wanted.
“You don’t believe I’m the worst kind of bastard?” She didn’t openly respond to his challenge, but the dare in her eyes spoke volumes, silently rebuking his judgmental claim, candidly inviting the trouble that brewed between them with the intensity of a summer storm.
The raging tempest within him gathered momentum, clashing with the tenderness she offered and the self-recriminations he’d cloaked himself in the past year. Refusing to allow this woman to breach those boundaries, and unwilling to let her think he was in any way virtuous or benevolent, he clung to the black reputation he’d earned.
In a quick, dizzying movement, he maneuvered her back three steps, until her spine flattened against the cool enamel refrigerator door and his hard, muscular body pressed intimately into her soft, lush curves. His chest crushed her full breasts, his belly aligned with hers, and one hard, hair-roughened thigh slipped between her slender, smooth legs. He trapped her with his superior strength, surrounding them both in a heat greater than pure fire. She sucked in a surprised breath, but didn’t attempt to push him away or struggle . . . didn’t even issue a token protest.
He buried his hands into her sleek hair, unable to resist the feel of those silken strands twining around his fingers, tormenting himself with what he knew he’d never have for more than this moment in time. He tilted her face up toward his, tried desperately not to lose himself in her soft, beguiling gaze, and summoned the gruffest voice he could manage.
“If you don’t believe I’m the worst kind of bastard, then let me prove it.”
He dropped his mouth over hers, bypassing any of the cajoling, tender preliminaries of a first kiss and going straight to the heart of the matter. His lips melded with hers, hot and insistent. His tongue was just as relentless, gaining entrance and gliding deeply, more possessively than he’d ever branded a woman.
He expected outrage for his audacity, at the very least her resistance. He certainly deserved a severe lash of fury for being so brazen. But instead of shoving him away like he half-wished she would, she tentatively slid her palm around the nape of his neck and pulled him closer, if that was even possible.
Oh, yeah, it was possible. Her fingers sieved through his still damp hair, and her spine curved toward his, until it was impossible to distinguish where his body ended and hers began. Her mouth was warm and giving beneath the onslaught of his, and so damned tempting he lost track of his original purpose. And since it had been forever since he’d kissed a woman, and never one quite so guileless and trusting, he greedily took what she so selflessly offered—salvation.
She moaned softly, sweetly, and stroked her tongue along his. Her breasts swelled, and he could feel her nipples tighten against his chest through her thin cotton nightshirt. Her response was inherently honest and real, and that open vulnerability completely unraveled him.
What had begun as a punishment, she turned into a seduction of wills. Anger melted into a hunger and need he’d denied himself for far too long. Pain turned to undeniable pleasure. With a touch, a kiss, she awakened the primal male animal in him, made him feel alive and whole.
A heavy, aching desire rushed through his veins, warning him where this interlude was headed if he didn’t cut it off at the pass—and fast. Lauren didn’t seem to fear any repercussions, or maybe she trusted him to halt their tryst before it spiraled out of control . . . the little fool. If only she knew he was seconds away from hauling her over his shoulder and carrying her off to his bed so he could lose himself in the softness of her body, the all-consuming redemption of her touch.
Furious with himself for letting things go so
His jaw tightened at the gentleness of her touch; his heart rebelled from the care in her eyes—neither of which he’d asked for, nor wanted.
“You don’t believe I’m the worst kind of bastard?” She didn’t openly respond to his challenge, but the dare in her eyes spoke volumes, silently rebuking his judgmental claim, candidly inviting the trouble that brewed between them with the intensity of a summer storm.
The raging tempest within him gathered momentum, clashing with the tenderness she offered and the self-recriminations he’d cloaked himself in the past year. Refusing to allow this woman to breach those boundaries, and unwilling to let her think he was in any way virtuous or benevolent, he clung to the black reputation he’d earned.
In a quick, dizzying movement, he maneuvered her back three steps, until her spine flattened against the cool enamel refrigerator door and his hard, muscular body pressed intimately into her soft, lush curves. His chest crushed her full breasts, his belly aligned with hers, and one hard, hair-roughened thigh slipped between her slender, smooth legs. He trapped her with his superior strength, surrounding them both in a heat greater than pure fire. She sucked in a surprised breath, but didn’t attempt to push him away or struggle . . . didn’t even issue a token protest.
He buried his hands into her sleek hair, unable to resist the feel of those silken strands twining around his fingers, tormenting himself with what he knew he’d never have for more than this moment in time. He tilted her face up toward his, tried desperately not to lose himself in her soft, beguiling gaze, and summoned the gruffest voice he could manage.
“If you don’t believe I’m the worst kind of bastard, then let me prove it.”
He dropped his mouth over hers, bypassing any of the cajoling, tender preliminaries of a first kiss and going straight to the heart of the matter. His lips melded with hers, hot and insistent. His tongue was just as relentless, gaining entrance and gliding deeply, more possessively than he’d ever branded a woman.
He expected outrage for his audacity, at the very least her resistance. He certainly deserved a severe lash of fury for being so brazen. But instead of shoving him away like he half-wished she would, she tentatively slid her palm around the nape of his neck and pulled him closer, if that was even possible.
Oh, yeah, it was possible. Her fingers sieved through his still damp hair, and her spine curved toward his, until it was impossible to distinguish where his body ended and hers began. Her mouth was warm and giving beneath the onslaught of his, and so damned tempting he lost track of his original purpose. And since it had been forever since he’d kissed a woman, and never one quite so guileless and trusting, he greedily took what she so selflessly offered—salvation.
She moaned softly, sweetly, and stroked her tongue along his. Her breasts swelled, and he could feel her nipples tighten against his chest through her thin cotton nightshirt. Her response was inherently honest and real, and that open vulnerability completely unraveled him.
What had begun as a punishment, she turned into a seduction of wills. Anger melted into a hunger and need he’d denied himself for far too long. Pain turned to undeniable pleasure. With a touch, a kiss, she awakened the primal male animal in him, made him feel alive and whole.
A heavy, aching desire rushed through his veins, warning him where this interlude was headed if he didn’t cut it off at the pass—and fast. Lauren didn’t seem to fear any repercussions, or maybe she trusted him to halt their tryst before it spiraled out of control . . . the little fool. If only she knew he was seconds away from hauling her over his shoulder and carrying her off to his bed so he could lose himself in the softness of her body, the all-consuming redemption of her touch.
Furious with himself for letting things go so
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