Sandra Marton - Wild Revenge

What had become of the other?

As if it mattered.

She bent. So did he. His hand closed on hers as she reached for the flashlight. She pulled her hand free, picked up the light and the scrap of silk that was proof of her shame.

“Dammit,” he growled, “talk to me!”

She looked at him. The muscle in his jaw was flickering. What did he expect her to say? Thank you for the good time?

“Listen, lady, I’m not going to let you pretend this didn’t happen.”

“ You’re not going to let me pretend this didn’t happen?” Addison tossed her tangled curls back from her eyes. “Here’s a news flash, Captain. What I do or don’t do isn’t up to you!”

He caught her by the wrist again; she gasped as he pulled her closer. “We’re a little past the ‘Captain’ routine. And, yeah, you’re damned right, what you do is none of my business.”

“I’m glad we agree,” she said coldly.

The pressure on her wrist increased; he tugged her the last few inches toward him until there was virtually no space separating them at all.

“But there’s no way I’m going to let you look at me as if I forced you to do this. We made love,” he said bluntly. “Why can’t you accept that?”

“We had sex,” she snapped. “And if you don’t know the difference, I feel sorry for you.”

The quick change in his expression terrified her. She stared up at him. Even in her stilettos, she’d had to look up to see his face.

Now, she had to tilt her head back.

It made her feel powerless.

“Do not,” he said, very softly, “do not ever make the mistake of feeling sorry for me.”

His hand fell from hers. He turned on his heel, swung the Tundra’s door open and climbed behind the wheel.

“And you’re right, Ms. McDowell. We had sex. Nothing to write home about, either.”

Addison forced a little smile. “At least we agree on something.”

It was the worst kind of lie and it left the taste of ashes in her mouth, but the look he shot her told her it was a small victory.

God knew, she needed it.

Head up, shoulders back, she marched away from him toward her car, still shoeless. No way was she going to give him the pleasure of watching her search for that miserable missing shoe.

She waited for the sound of the truck starting up.

Nothing happened.

Her spine tingled. She could feel his eyes on her. She wanted to run but she wouldn’t do it.

This was her property.

He was still watching as she got behind the wheel, started the engine and turned on her lights. It wasn’t far to the house, only a couple of hundred yards.

Would he follow?

Would he expect to have sex with her again?

Her heart began to race as she imagined what would happen if he came after her. If he took her not against a truck but in a bed.

Naked, skin to skin. That hard, powerful body under her hands.

He was like no one she’d ever known before. Beautiful. Proud. Complex.

And wild.

God, so wild …

She reached the house, stumbled from the truck and went to the porch.

She was alone.

His truck, engine idling, stood unmoving.

He wasn’t coming after her.

Still, she didn’t take an easy breath until she was inside the house with the door closed and locked. She leaned back against it, panting.

The truck roared to life. The engine faded.

Jacob Wilde was gone.

Shaken, she slumped against the door.

“Damn you,” she whispered.

Tears filled her eyes. Not tears of sorrow. She had never believed in feeling sorry for herself.

It was just that after all this time, she’d behaved exactly the way the world had always seen her, first when she was a girl and an entire town seemed to hold its breath, waiting for her to become her mother’s daughter, and then after Charlie’s death.

What had happened with Jacob Wilde made no sense. You slept with a man after you got to know him. After you decided you liked him, had things in common. You went to dinner, to the theater; you took long walks, came home, made popcorn, watched a movie.

Addison tossed her purse and the flashlight on a small table.

Okay, so she wasn’t an expert on when-to-have-sex protocol.

But she knew one thing for certain.

You didn’t have sex with a stranger.

She didn’t, anyway. Never mind that it had been exciting and, God, incredible; never mind that she’d never had an orgasm before and on this night, in, what, five minutes, she’d had two.

Three, she thought, and she shut her eyes, remembered the liquid, hot feeling of Jake inside her, Jake taking her up and up and up …

Her eyes popped open.

“Are you out of your mind?” she said.

She had to be.

Or maybe she was just worn out.

Losing Charlie had been painful. The whispers had been agony. And then she’d come down here and found a ranch that looked like something out of a bad dream …

“Okay,” she said briskly.

Forget what had just happened.

Forget Jake Wilde.

Forget everything.

She would blank all of it from her mind. She’d blank out Texas, too, and Wilde’s Crossing. She belonged in New York, where life was a lot easier to understand.

She’d had enough.

To hell with finding out exactly what the ranch was worth.

“Charlie,” Addison muttered as she made her way upstairs, “forgive me, old friend, but I don’t like this place one little bit.”

Tomorrow, she’d contact the Realtor.

And go home.

JAKE SLEPT badly.

The truth was, he hardly slept at all but there was nothing new in that. He spent most nights tossing and turning, only to fall asleep and dream things that made him wake with his heart pounding, his skin drenched in sweat.

At least last night’s dreams had been different, he thought as he stood in the shower and let the water sluice down over him.

They hadn’t been nightmares about firefights and IEDs and men dying because he hadn’t been able to save them.

Last night’s dreams had been about the feel of a woman’s skin. The taste of her mouth. The scent of her hair.

The dreams had been about Addison, how it had felt to make love to her….

Jake frowned, shut off the water and reached for a towel.

Not love.

Sex.

She’d been right about that, and so what? There was no reason to disguise a basic human need with layers of phony hearts and flowers.

It was her attitude that ticked him off.

They’d had good sex. Hell, he thought, knotting the towel around his hips and glaring at his face in the mirror, they’d had great sex.

The problem was, when it was over, she’d acted as if what had happened was ugly. As if he’d somehow forced himself on her, or coerced her into giving in to him.

“No way,” he muttered as he lathered his face and reached for his razor.

She’d been a willing participant.

More than willing, he thought, remembering the way she’d wrapped herself around him, her moans, her cries, her wetness and heat ….

His hand slipped. The blade bit at his flesh. A tiny dot of blood appeared high on his cheek.

He cursed, tore off a square of toilet tissue and dabbed at it.

It was true, though.

She’d been with him all the way. Clinging to him. Riding him. Kissing him, biting his lip …

“Dammit, Wilde …”

He was turning himself on. And wasn’t that interesting, for lack of a better word?

He hadn’t had an erection since he’d been wounded, even though the docs had assured him that his equipment still worked. Now, just remembering what he’d done with a woman he didn’t even like was giving him a hard-on.

What he needed, he thought coldly, was a trip to Dallas, a night at a singles bar where either some hot-looking babe with enough booze in her to ignore the face staring back at him from the mirror or one who’d find his face a turn-on would take him home to bed.