less than ten strides he was there, kicking open the broken gate and running up the cracked walkway, to the wraparound porch.
He took the three steps in one and rounded the side of the house, didn’t stop until he reached the back door. Which again, he kicked open.
Only then did he let himself slow. Think. Breathe.
Only inside did he release his death grip on her and let her move, let her body slide down his and her feet settle against the warped linoleum.
Only then did he take her face in his smoke-scarred hands, and crush her mouth to his.
Chapter 5
H is eyes. That’s all she saw. In the broken moment before his mouth came down on hers, she saw something steely glowing in his eyes, a neediness that grabbed deep within her, even as her mind shut down. Then she only felt. His mouth slanting against hers. The scrape of whiskers against her cheek. His hands, so big and hard, cradling her face. There was a desperation in his touch, a tenderness that—
A tenderness that made her heart strum low and deep.
It took effort, but she forced herself to pull back, forced herself to open her eyes and look at him. See him. The dirty and torn camouflage pants, the smoke-stained olive T-shirt and field jacket, the solid chest and powerful arms, the hard jaw and the cleft in his chin, the closely cropped dark hair, the impossibly full mouth—the same mouth that had kissed her in her dreams every night for five weeks.
“You,” she whispered, then his mouth was on hers again, and nothing else mattered. She pushed up and lifted her hands, let them touch his face as his touched hers. Beneath her fingers she felt the line of his cheekbone and the warmth of his breath, the softness of his whiskers. And she wanted. She shifted and opened to him, drank him in as greedily as she’d gulped those first few breaths of fresh air.
His body was big and strong and powerful, and in his arms, she felt safe. The horror of the fire faded, the stark realization that she’d made a terrible mistake. There was only the man, and the kiss, and the reality that he’d come for her. He’d emerged from the smoke and—
He’d emerged from the smoke.
Which meant he’d been there. At the old hotel.
Which meant—
In that one cruel instant, everything fractured. She ripped away from him and shoved hard, staggered back.
He made no move to go after her, just remained standing in the shadows of the rickety house and watched with the strangest light in his eyes. “You’ll want to breathe—”
“Don’t—” Against her raw throat, the word escaped.
“Don’t what?” The hoarseness to his voice said he’d inhaled as much smoke as she had. She saw more now that the shadow of life and death had passed, not just his face, but the soot smeared over his cheeks and forehead, the ash on his neck and forearms.
And it hurt. Because when she saw, she remembered. And when she remembered, she felt. And when she felt—
The urge to step closer and wipe it all away had her hands curling into tight fists.
“Don’t help you?” he pressed. “Don’t tell you how to make it better? Don’t touch you? Don’t make you remember—”
With a fierceness that came from hidden depths, she angled her chin. “Don’t pretend.”
“Why not?” He stood so horribly still, all the passion and intensity that had boiled around her moments before congealing into something cold and dangerous. “Isn’t that what we do best?”
The words should not have hurt. The words should not have punished. She stood there in her battle stance, refusing to look away, even as she did a quick inventory of her surroundings. The house was abandoned. From the looks of the dilapidated kitchen, had probably stood empty since Katrina. A gas stove remained, but the spot for the refrigerator stood empty. There was no furniture. Nothing to grab as a weapon—except broken glass.
“This was all just a game, wasn’t it?” The way he’d touched her. Looked at her. Made her feel. The way
He took the three steps in one and rounded the side of the house, didn’t stop until he reached the back door. Which again, he kicked open.
Only then did he let himself slow. Think. Breathe.
Only inside did he release his death grip on her and let her move, let her body slide down his and her feet settle against the warped linoleum.
Only then did he take her face in his smoke-scarred hands, and crush her mouth to his.
Chapter 5
H is eyes. That’s all she saw. In the broken moment before his mouth came down on hers, she saw something steely glowing in his eyes, a neediness that grabbed deep within her, even as her mind shut down. Then she only felt. His mouth slanting against hers. The scrape of whiskers against her cheek. His hands, so big and hard, cradling her face. There was a desperation in his touch, a tenderness that—
A tenderness that made her heart strum low and deep.
It took effort, but she forced herself to pull back, forced herself to open her eyes and look at him. See him. The dirty and torn camouflage pants, the smoke-stained olive T-shirt and field jacket, the solid chest and powerful arms, the hard jaw and the cleft in his chin, the closely cropped dark hair, the impossibly full mouth—the same mouth that had kissed her in her dreams every night for five weeks.
“You,” she whispered, then his mouth was on hers again, and nothing else mattered. She pushed up and lifted her hands, let them touch his face as his touched hers. Beneath her fingers she felt the line of his cheekbone and the warmth of his breath, the softness of his whiskers. And she wanted. She shifted and opened to him, drank him in as greedily as she’d gulped those first few breaths of fresh air.
His body was big and strong and powerful, and in his arms, she felt safe. The horror of the fire faded, the stark realization that she’d made a terrible mistake. There was only the man, and the kiss, and the reality that he’d come for her. He’d emerged from the smoke and—
He’d emerged from the smoke.
Which meant he’d been there. At the old hotel.
Which meant—
In that one cruel instant, everything fractured. She ripped away from him and shoved hard, staggered back.
He made no move to go after her, just remained standing in the shadows of the rickety house and watched with the strangest light in his eyes. “You’ll want to breathe—”
“Don’t—” Against her raw throat, the word escaped.
“Don’t what?” The hoarseness to his voice said he’d inhaled as much smoke as she had. She saw more now that the shadow of life and death had passed, not just his face, but the soot smeared over his cheeks and forehead, the ash on his neck and forearms.
And it hurt. Because when she saw, she remembered. And when she remembered, she felt. And when she felt—
The urge to step closer and wipe it all away had her hands curling into tight fists.
“Don’t help you?” he pressed. “Don’t tell you how to make it better? Don’t touch you? Don’t make you remember—”
With a fierceness that came from hidden depths, she angled her chin. “Don’t pretend.”
“Why not?” He stood so horribly still, all the passion and intensity that had boiled around her moments before congealing into something cold and dangerous. “Isn’t that what we do best?”
The words should not have hurt. The words should not have punished. She stood there in her battle stance, refusing to look away, even as she did a quick inventory of her surroundings. The house was abandoned. From the looks of the dilapidated kitchen, had probably stood empty since Katrina. A gas stove remained, but the spot for the refrigerator stood empty. There was no furniture. Nothing to grab as a weapon—except broken glass.
“This was all just a game, wasn’t it?” The way he’d touched her. Looked at her. Made her feel. The way
Similar Books
