Dirty Games (Tropical Temptation)

d bawling, and drenching his shirt. Jesus, she hadn’t broken down like this since…hopefully she’d never broken down like this, but now that the dam had burst, she couldn’t seem to stop the tears. The realization created its own kind of panic, but maybe Luke picked up on it, because even as she stiffened, he tightened his hold and kept her in place.

His patience helped her get control of herself. Sort of. Her breaths still ended in pathetic little whimpers, but she started to notice other things—the solid cushion of his pec supporting her forehead, and the slow, steady drum of his heart. “You’re looking for an excuse to leave.” Even as she said the words, she snuggled into him, lifting her face to the underside of his jaw so she could inhale the scent of his aftershave.

His hand stilled on her leg. “I’m not leaving you, Trouble.”

The genuine surprise in his voice sent her heart into a reckless little spin, until he added, “I made a commitment.”

“To Eddie,” she muttered, as disappointment shackled her chest.

“To you, Quinn.” He tried to lift her chin, but she burrowed her face against his throat. “I made a commitment to you, and I’m not going to break it. Behave badly. Push all my buttons. Do your worst, because I can take it. There’s no way I’m leaving.”

Chapter Eight

Luke wasn’t sure what possessed him to admit that out loud. He blamed the soft caress of her breath on his neck, the weight of her breasts against his chest as she rested her weary frame against him, and the little quiver in her thigh…just under his fingers. His body immediately reacted with an involuntary response of its own.

“You big bully,” she said against his throat. Her voice was still watery, but there was no malice in it. “You let me think that if I didn’t leap up the moment you said jump, you’d cancel the contract.”

“I never said that.” He ran a palm along the back of her head and down her hair. “I told you if you weren’t prepared to follow my instructions, you were wasting your money and we might as well call it quits. I’m not going to quit on you, Trouble. I’m always going to do right by you, and I’m trying to make sure you do right by yourself.”

It sounded proper, didn’t it? Like the promise of an invested professional. Nothing in the words revealed the fucked-up truth—he was getting far too invested in her, and there was absolutely nothing professional about it. But just in case, he forced some exasperation into his voice and added, “It took me three damn weeks to wear your stubborn ass down. We’re finally making real progress. There’s no way I’m giving up on you now.”

“So these past weeks, while I’ve been running, jumping, and training like a bitch, you’ve been setting me up to…what? Cry uncle?”

The indignant accusation helped bank his lust. Slightly. He smoothed his hand along her ponytail. “To know your limits, Trouble. I need to be able to trust you to tell me if you can’t take anymore, and you need to trust me, too.” Another spasm rippled through her tight abductor. He dug his thumb in and slowly circled. “Trust me to help you.”

She moaned. The sound vibrated directly into his chest.

He swallowed and eased off the muscle a fraction, but circled again. “Does it hurt right here?”

“Everywhere. I hurt everywhere.” Her confession fanned his collarbone, but he detected relief in her voice as her muscle relaxed.

“Huh. I thought I heard something.”

“Me, complaining?”

“That, I’m so used to, I block it out,” he teased. “I could have sworn it sounded like… No.” He shook his head. “Couldn’t be. I must have misheard.”

“What?” She drew back and looked at him with huge, curious eyes.

He stared right back at her, not bothering to restrain the brow he felt lifting. “Are you asking for my help?”

Her response consisted of a quick hiss as another spasm tensed her thigh. “Ow. Ow…Jesus!” She clamped a hand to the pain point and groaned.

“Breathe,” he said, and swatted her hand aside so he could squeeze the protesting muscle.

She sagged against him again, her exhale unsteady as she fought the cramp. Keeping the pressure on her thigh, he eased his free hand down to tend to her other leg, to prevent more spasms before they started. After a few moments spent concentrating on the sound of her labored breaths as he carefully worked the tight abductors, he slowly became aware of other things. Things like the small, needy moans coming from her throat, and the tangle of her fists in his T-shirt.

“Better?” He told himself to stop moving his hands over her thighs. “Or does it still hurt?” His question sounded inappropriately hopeful to his own ears.

“Hurts,” she gasped and scooted closer, coming up against the constraints of the machine. “So bad.”

“Where, exactly?” he countered, struggling to keep things clinical.

“Higher.” She rubbed her upper body over his, like a cat.

“Quinn…” But his hands were already gliding higher, while his self-discipline slid away. He was losing this battle.

“Please, Luke. I’ve been hurting for weeks. It never lets up. It never goes away. You have no idea.”