Sandra Marton - Wild Revenge

Addison stared at the man looking up at her from the porch.

What did she say to that blunt admission?

That blunt, incredibly sexy admission?

The man was a puzzle. He confused the hell out of her.

Just looking at him was confusing.

No uniform today. Instead, he was dressed like a, well, a cowboy. Faded shirt. Faded jeans. Boots that she could tell had nothing to do with style. Even here, in the heart of ranching country, she’d seen a lot of that. Style, no substance.

And, of course, he was wearing that eye patch, hiding what the war had done to him from the world.

He looked—there was that word again—beautiful. And so masculine she was finding it difficult to remember how much she despised him.

It was quite a combination. Arrogance and vulnerability in one gorgeous package …

She’d never known a man like him. And the sex— the sex , she thought, almost hearing the italics in her head—as for that …

Why lie to herself?

It had been … there had to be a better word than fantastic .

Sex was okay. But it wasn’t mind-blowing.

Until last night. Until he’d taken her in his arms. Was that why she’d heaped all the blame on him? Because it was less embarrassing than the truth?

Those moments when he’d been inside her, when their mouths and bodies had been fused …

“Okay.”

Addison came back to reality. Jake was still looking at her but he’d gone down the steps, even backed up a couple of feet.

Now that he had, she could see that he had a bouquet of flowers in his arms.

“You don’t want to talk to me,” he said, “I guess I can’t blame—”

The window sash fell into place. The dishwater-gray curtain swung back to cover the glass.

He put the bouquet down on the porch. Then he tucked his hands into his back pockets and headed for his car.

And felt a moment of ineffable loss, and wasn’t that ridiculous? He’d apologized. She’d refused the apology. End of—

“Hey.”

Her voice was soft but it stopped him in his tracks. He turned and saw her in the open doorway.

His gaze swept over her.

No black silk dress.

No stilettos.

She wore oversize gray sweats. Her feet were bare. Her hair hung loose around her face, a shining curve of darkness.

Something seemed to turn over inside him.

As beautiful as she’d been last night, she was even more beautiful now.

The sight of her made him wish they could start over, even though all they’d have was today.

She cleared her throat.

“I was just going to make some fresh coffee. Would you … would like some, Captain?”

Jake looked at her for what seemed forever.

“It’s Jake,” he said gruffly. “And coffee sounds … it sounds great. Thanks.”

He retrieved the bouquet. She took a step back as he climbed the porch steps. When he reached her, she felt her pulse leap.

“Actually,” she said, “actually, it really won’t be great. The coffee, I mean. The pot I found in the kitchen is—is just about as—as antiquated as the rest of the—the rest of the—”

“Addison.”

The way he spoke her name, the way he was looking at her, told her everything she wanted to know, including the fact that coffee was the last thing on his mind.

Or hers.

“Jacob,” she whispered, and he dropped the flowers as she stepped into his arms.

JAKE KICKED the door shut behind him.

The interior of the house was dark and cool; the silence of the empty rooms was all around them. There was a scent in the air—her scent. The scent of flowers he hadn’t been able to define.

“Addison,” he said softly.

She turned her face up to his. Her eyes filled with him, and a rush of something primitive and possessive swept through him.

“Be sure,” he said in a rough whisper as he tunneled his fingers into the silken darkness of her hair. “Because once we start—”

She rose to him and pressed her lips to his.

“Make love to me, Jacob,” she said.

Jake groaned, drew her hard against him and claimed her mouth with a deep, possessive kiss.

Just that quickly, last night’s hunger blazed inside him again. His big body shuddered; his blood beat hot and heavy in his ears. The driving need to make Addison his was all that mattered….

No.

She was all that mattered.

He wanted more than her body.

He wanted her.

In bed. Naked. Her dark hair spread over the pillows.

He wanted her needing his touch, pleading for it, as desperate for him as he was for her.

Teeth gritted, fighting hard for control, he caught her up in his arms.

“Hold on to me,” he whispered.

She wrapped her arms around his neck. Buried her face against his throat. He could feel her heart thundering against his, her breath on his skin.

The stairs were just ahead. Another couple of minutes, he told himself as he climbed them.

He could last that long.

Only one door was open on the second floor. Jake shouldered his way past it. He knew this old house, its gray rooms and dark walls, but this room—Addison’s room, without question—had been transformed.

Polished wood floor. Shiny brass bed. Brick fireplace, neatly stacked with wood. White walls, white curtains, white bed linens and duvet—and the faintly mingled scent of flowers and fresh paint.

The room was a reflection of her.

Honest. Elegant. Beautiful.

He lowered her to her feet beside the bed, did it slowly so she could feel how hard and ready he was, so he could feel all her lovely, soft curves.

She was trembling.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said in a gruff whisper. “This will be different, I swear it.”

Her eyes, pools of liquid silver, lifted to his.

“I’m not afraid. Not of you, Jacob, never of—”

He kissed her. Parted her lips with his. Feasted on the exquisite taste of her.

She caught his collar in her hands, lifted herself to him, sucked the tip of his tongue into the heat of her mouth.

He groaned with pleasure.

His hands cupped her breasts. He could feel her nipples tightening, lifting even through the heavy cotton of her shirt. Groaning, he slipped his hands under it.

Ah, God!

She was naked. No bra. Nothing between his calloused fingers and the silk and satin of her skin.

“Jacob,” she whispered. “Jacob, please …”

The one word, so filled with need, almost took him to his knees. He pushed up the sweatshirt, bent to her, sucked at her nipples, pressed them against the roof of his mouth with his tongue.

She tasted of cream and honey.

“You are so beautiful,” he said thickly. “So very beautiful …”

His thumbs rolled over her nipples. She moaned; he watched her face as he caressed her, saw her eyes go dark with pleasure.

Sweat beaded his forehead as he tugged her sweatshirt over her head and tossed it aside.

He could see her breasts more clearly now. They were high, rounded, just right for his mouth and his hands.

He kissed them. The curves, the slopes, the apricot nipples. He couldn’t get enough of their silky feel, their delicate flavor; he couldn’t get enough of watching her face as he brought her closer and closer to orgasm from this, just from this.

She began undoing the buttons of his shirt. He helped her. Then he swore softly and the remaining buttons went flying.

His shirt landed on the floor, and she went into his arms.

Skin against skin. Heat against heat.

He knew he couldn’t last much longer.

He drew back. Hooked his thumbs into the sides of her sweatpants, pushed them down …

And went still.

She was wearing panties.

White cotton this time, not lace. They were simple, innocent, dotted with tiny blue flowers.