Jaimie: Fire and Ice (The Wilde Sisters 2)
Page 47
“No,” he said roughly, “never before. Never like this.”
He drove into her one last time, so deep there was no way to know where he ended and she began. She sank her teeth into his bicep; a long, hot shudder rolled through him. He was close, so close—he felt it happening, the tightening in his scrotum, the rush of adrenaline sweeping through his body.
Hang on, he thought, hang on, hang on…
Her cry rose into the night. He could feel her orgasm taking her, consuming her, and he threw back his head, came apart in her arms as she came apart in his.
She was weeping.
He drew her even closer.
Kissed her tear-filled eyes. Her tender mouth.
She whispered his name and he kissed her again, kissed her with a tenderness he’d never felt before.
This time, when she drifted off to sleep, so did he, still with her held tightly in his embrace.
* * * *
He came awake in a rush, heart racing, pulse pounding, rising out of a disjointed dream of looming mountains, destroyed villages, danger and death.
He was lying on his belly, face buried in the pillows, the linens tangled low on his hips.
Something was wrong. He sensed it. Yeah, but what?
Zach forced himself to remain still. Habits formed by years of waking in places where danger lurked had taught him that there were times survival depended on not making any fast moves.
After a few seconds, he felt his muscles start to uncoil. His heartbeat slowed. Carefully, he opened his eyes, rolled onto his back—
And remembered.
The power outage. The darkness. The woman.
Gone.
He swung his legs to the floor and sat up.
Sunlight poured in through the floor-to-ceiling windows and through the enormous skylight that was centered above the bed. The time display on the clock radio on the nightstand was blinking on and off.
The power was on.
And the bed beside him was empty.
Was Jaimie in the bathroom?
He rose, searched until he found his jeans and stepped into them, zipping up the fly as he padded, barefoot, across the room.
The bathroom was empty. So was his dressing room.
Where was she? Downstairs, in the kitchen? He sighed. Of course. She’d awakened, found that the electricity was on and she’d taken that as an invitation to do what women who spent the night in his bed always did, or at least tried to do. Making breakfast was in the DNA of the female of the species, he thought as he went back into the bathroom, did his thing, washed his hands and, as a last-minute consideration, took a swig of mouthwash, rolled it around his mouth, then spat it into the sink.
Zach turned on the water, looked in the mirror and ran his hands through his hair.
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Too bad that the last thing he ever wanted was that I’m-making-you-bacon-and-eggs bit, that little touch of domesticity that women figured should punctuate a night of sex.
He turned off the water, dried his hands and face and headed for the stairs.