Raising the Stakes

He kissed her, threaded his fingers into her hair, tilted her head back and kissed her again, and when she parted her lips, let the tip of his tongue slip inside her mouth, he groaned with pleasure.

“Then let’s uncomplicate it.” His words were a low, rough whisper in the darkness of the narrow hall. “Come to bed with me, Dawn. Let me make love to you and you’ll see, baby, you’ll see how simple it can become.”

She put her hands against his chest. It almost killed him but he gave her the space she needed to take a step back.

“I’m married.” She took a deep breath. “I left my husband long ago, but I’m still—”

“I know.”

She blinked. “You know?”

Gray cursed himself for a fool. This wasn’t the moment to tell her why he’d come to Vegas. He had to show her how much she meant to him before he admitted that he’d deceived her from the beginning.

“I know the kind of woman you are, sweetheart. You said you’re married, and that means you still believe in the vows you took.”

“I did, for a long time, but—”

He drew her into his arms again and moved his mouth over hers in a soft, silken caress.

“Kiss me back,” he whispered.

She told herself not to, that this was a mistake, but his mouth was hot on hers, his arms strong, and every beat of her heart whispered yes, yes, yes.

“Dawn.” He pressed his open mouth to her throat, to the pulse racing in its hollow. “Tell me what you want, sweetheart. Let me hear you say it.”

No, she thought. Oh, no. This was nice but she didn’t ever want to be with a man again. She didn’t want sex, didn’t like it, didn’t need to lie on her back, staring at the ceiling, while somebody grunted and sweated and buried himself inside her…

Gray brushed his hand across the front of her T-shirt. Her nipples rose, stabbed the soft cotton fabric and she caught her breath, stunned by pleasure that swept through her, pleasure so intense it verged on pain. He dipped his head, kissed first one straining patch of cotton and then the other. Dawn rose toward him, head back, and buried her hands in his hair. Somebody moaned. Was it she? She knew the sounds men and women made. They were ugly. They weren’t sounds like—

Yes. Oh, yes. Her breath hissed as Gray slid his hands down her back, inside her underpants. His palms curved over her bottom; the tips of his fingers sought more, almost found it, drew back. Don’t stop. Don’t stop, she thought, and then she was saying the words, sobbing them…

“Tell me you want me,” he said thickly, and she wound her arms around his neck, pressed her mouth to his and answered with her body, her heart, her soul.

Gray swept her into his arms and carried her to the bedroom.

The room was dark, the curtains drawn tightly against the night and the street, the only illumination a soft light seeping from the half-opened bathroom door, but even that felt harsh against her closed eyes. Without warning, the old, familiar panic began rising in her throat and she waited for the pressure of the mattress against her buttocks, against her back, for the smothering weight of a man’s body bearing her down onto the bed.

“Wait,” she said quickly. “Gray? Maybe we should wait. Maybe—”

He kissed her, his hands in her hair, his mouth warm and soft and gentle on hers as he lowered her slowly to her feet. She felt the quick, potent kiss of his erection against her belly and the flutter of panic became more insistent. He was so hard. So big. He didn’t want to hurt her, she knew that, but he would. She knew. She remembered. Oh God, she remembered…

“Dawn.” Gray put his hand under her chin and lifted her face to his. “Sweetheart?”

She shook her head and kept her eyes downcast, as shamed by her fear as she was filled by it.

“Baby, please. Look at me.”

His voice was soft, and she loved the sound of the names he used with her. Sweetheart. Baby. Such soft, loving words—but they wouldn’t change anything. No matter how he tried, this would be—

“Look at me, Dawn.”

It was a plea, not a command, and maybe that was the reason she finally lifted her lashes and did as he’d asked. Their eyes met and what she saw in his stunned her. She’d expected the hot blaze of conquering passion but what she saw was tenderness and concern…and a banked anger that she knew, instinctively, had nothing to do with her.

“Are you afraid I’ll hurt you?” He traced her cheekbones with his thumbs. “I won’t. I promise.”

“Thank you.” She swallowed dryly, then gave a hollow laugh. “I’m sorry. I know this isn’t the way it should be.”

“There’s no script, baby. This scene belongs to us. We get to write it any way we want.”