Sandra Marton - Wild Revenge

This was magic, and only a fool would question it.

Jake was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a fool. He was a man with a beautiful woman in his arms, her mouth warm against his.

She whispered something against his lips. Was she asking him to stop?

No.

Thank God, no, because stopping the kiss would have killed him.

If anything, he wanted more.

And she gave it, her lips parting eagerly so he could taste her hot, honeyed sweetness.

She slid her tongue against his. And moaned.

The sound went straight through him.

She went up on her toes, the flashlight tumbling to the ground.

His arms tightened around her as she wound her arms around his neck.

He could hear his blood roaring in his ears.

On a low, rough groan, he tilted her head back and took the kiss deeper.

She trembled, pressed her body more tightly to his.

The kiss went on and on; the moon and the stars spun around them. They were the center of the universe, its source of light and heat—

And the kiss wasn’t enough.

Jake stumbled back against the truck and lifted Addison into him. She clung to him. He moved his hips against her and the sound she made when she felt his erection was raw with need.

Everything within him responded.

He was steel. He was granite. He was dangerously close to losing control.

“Addison,” he said in a warning whisper, “Addison …”

She sank her teeth delicately into the tender flesh of his bottom lip. Rocked against him. Said his name in a hoarse whisper, and whatever remained of his sanity fled.

He hoisted her off the ground, one arm under her bottom, his free hand beneath her skirt. She wrapped her legs around him.

He sought her heat, found it, found the wetness that was for him, only for him, and cupped her with his palm.

She gave a sharp, keening cry.

“Please,” she sobbed, “Jacob, Jacob, please …”

Beyond thought, beyond everything rational, he wrapped his fingers around the small bit of silk that kept him from her and tore it away.

She gasped.

Now he could feel her against his fingers.

Wet heat. Soft curls. The delicate petals of the flower that was her feminine heart.

He stroked her. She screamed. The intensity of her response almost finished him.

Quickly, he reached between them, unzipped, freed himself, lifted her higher …

And drove into her.

She clamped around him, a velvet vise.

Hold on, he told himself, don’t let go, not yet, not yet, not—

But she kissed him. Lifted herself. Came down on his aroused flesh. Once. Twice. Again …

She screamed again. Convulsed around him.

And the cosmos whirled them away in its star-studded embrace.

His heartbeat slowed.

He felt hers slowing, too.

The sounds of the night settled around them.

So did his ability to think.

What in hell had just happened?

He’d been with a lot of women. Until the last year and a half, more, perhaps, than most men.

He’d always liked sex, liked the tastes, the textures of a woman’s body, and he was no stranger to sex as a sudden, exciting encounter.

But this—

This wasn’t like anything he’d ever known.

Part of him said it was because he hadn’t had a woman in a long time.

Liar, a voice inside him whispered.

He’d gone without sex before, during long combat missions, even during self-imposed periods of celibacy before combat when instinct told him that self-imposed deprivation would make him stronger.

There was no explanation for what had just happened. He’d lost his self-control.

No finesse.

No tenderness.

And, sweet Jesus, no condom.

Still, he wanted to take her again. Slowly. With time to do all the things he hadn’t done.

Undress her.

Taste her.

Kiss her breasts, suck on her nipples …

“Put me down.”

Her voice was toneless. Even a man still trying to figure out if he’d lost his sanity could tell that wasn’t a good sign.

“Listen,” he said, “about this—”

“Did you hear me? Put me down.”

He nodded, lowered her carefully to her feet and searched his head for something intelligent to say. Nothing happened, so he went for a time-honored classic.

“You okay?”

She didn’t answer. Yeah, well, why would she? Surely, what he’d said was among the stupidest lines a man could utter.

What was she thinking? He couldn’t tell, couldn’t see her face. Her hair was a wild tangle, obscuring her features.

“Hey,” he said softly. He scrunched down, just enough so they were at eye level, and put a hand under her chin. “Addy?”

Her head came up. “My name,” she said, “is Addison.”

No, Jake thought, that was definitely not a good sign, either.

“Look, I’m just trying to ask if you’re—”

“I know what you’re trying to ask. I’m on the pill.”

He felt a sense of relief, but that hadn’t really been what he was asking. He meant, had he hurt her? Disappointed her? Was she already filled with regret or, like him, did she want more?

Most of all, did she understand this any better than he did?

“Good,” he said, nodding his head like one of those silly dolls you saw in the windows of cars. “Good. But what I meant was, you know—”

Hell. He was stumbling around like a boy after his first conquest. He cleared his throat and tried again.

“I know this was a little fast—”

“Such a smooth talker, Captain.” She jerked away from his hand. “Besides, it’s a little late to worry about that, isn’t it?”

Jake’s mouth thinned.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

His tone was suddenly cold. Addison couldn’t blame him. He’d asked a damned good question.

What had just happened—down-and-dirty sex with a man she had just met, a man who’d accused her of trying to seduce him into bed or maybe into accepting a job—had involved the both of them.

There was no way she could blame it on Jake Wilde alone, much as she wanted to.

She’d been part of it.

Her throat constricted.

More than part.

She’d been an eager participant.

The proof was in each wild, exciting memory.

The taste of him, still on her lips.

The scent of him, still in each breath she took.

The echo of her own voice, feverishly repeating his name, asking him, begging him to—to—

Her belly knotted.

She thought of how they must look, he standing with his back to a truck in the middle of nowhere, she standing before him, what they’d just done stamped all over her.

His tie was askew.

More to the point, she didn’t have her panties on.

She wanted to weep with humiliation. That she, of all people, would do such a thing. She’d grown up with a mother whose attitude toward men had devolved to something about as complicated as her attitude toward potato chips.

Why have just one if more are available?

As for her … she wasn’t a virgin. She wasn’t some sad little innocent. She’d had sex before.

A few times …

Very few.

The truth was, she was on the pill to regulate her menstrual cycle, not for anything more exciting.

For one crazy second, she thought of telling him that.

And almost laughed.

What would she say? I’m not the kind of girl who has sex up against a truck with a man I’ve known for five minutes… .

But she was. And there was no explanation for it that would make her feel better.

“Look,” he said, his tone conciliatory, “I know you’re upset….”

She took one quick look at his face, all hard angles and planes in the moonlight, and then she turned away.

The flashlight lay at their feet, still lit, the beam illuminating—she shuddered—illuminating what remained of her panties and one shoe.