Driven by Fire (Fire 2)

The words filled her with despair, and she shook her head wordlessly.

“Please put your mouth on my breasts and suck?” he suggested softly. “Is that what you want?”

“Yes.” She couldn’t believe it was her voice. “Please,” she said again.

“Yes, please,” he echoed with light mockery, and she felt his mouth at her breast as desire flooded her. He wasn’t gentle, and she didn’t want gentle. She wanted him to take her, to bite and suck and lick her, and when his teeth grazed one nipple when he pinched the other one she jerked in a swift, powerful reaction.

She hadn’t even realized that he was taking her panties off until they were halfway down her legs, and he pulled them off before she could protest, would protest.

“I don’t think . . .” she said, suddenly frightened of him once more, of his size, his strength, his hands.

“Good. Don’t think,” he said, his hands sliding up her calves to her thighs, and he put his mouth between her legs.

For a brief second it tore her from her erotic daze. No one had ever done this for her—no one had used his mouth, his hands—and the feel of his tongue was a shock, as he slid one long finger inside her, withdrew and slid two. She was tight around him, the invasion a surprise, but he caught one thigh with his hand, holding her still for him. She reached out to push him away, when the first wave of pleasure hit her, and instead she wound her fingers in his too-long hair, caressing him as he licked her, as thorough as he’d been with her breasts, pumping his fingers into her until she stiffened and cried out in unexpected climax, her hips arching off the bed.

He didn’t stop. The second climax was even more powerful, shaking her to the core, and she let out a soft sob, her fingers digging into his scalp. He needed to stop—she couldn’t take any more—but he kept on, and it went through her like a lightning bolt, her skin sizzling, her eyes blind, her entire body spasming in an orgasm that was almost painful in its intensity.

He slid up and over her, wiping his mouth on the sheet, and she realized he’d lost his shorts at some point, though she couldn’t remember when. She should touch him, pleasure him, get him ready—the thoughts swirled through her brain—but then she felt him, rock hard against her, and his solid thrust went in deep, so deep, and she slid her arms around him, pulling him tight against her. Her nipples were so hard they hurt, pressed against the silky smoothness of his muscled chest as he moved, sliding his hands under her butt and lifting her up so he could go deeper still. He was huge, so big she wasn’t sure she could take all of him, but he whispered in her ear, his tongue tracing her lobe, reading her fears. “You can take me. Just relax.”

Relaxing was the last thing she felt like doing. Her entire body was rigid with the renewed onslaught of desire, and she lifted her knees, cradling him, pulling him deeper, so awash in sensation she couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. He was all around her, in her head, in her heart, in her cunt, and she wanted to devour him, own him, never let him go. His slow, steady thrusts made her gasp, getting her used to the size and power of him, stilling her apprehension, stoking her desire, as sweat slicked their bodies until they were slapping against each other, hard, fast, again, again, again.

Jenny cried out as she felt one last, sweet climax, and she wanted to hold him against her, hold him in her arms until he reached his own, but he wasn’t finished with her. He slid his hands between their bodies, put his thumb on her clitoris, rubbing, and she exploded off the bed, just as she felt him go rigid in her arms, flooding her with his semen.

He was holding her, partway off the mattress as he slammed into her, and he lay her down carefully, gently. He pulled out, and she wanted to protest, but she was beyond words.

He looked down at her for a long moment and said succinctly, “God damn it to hell.” A moment later he was gone.

What in God’s name had she done? It was growing light in the room, when Jenny wanted nothing more than darkness to cover her. Shame washed through her, at war with the lingering incandescence of his possession, and she curled up into a ball, burying her face in her arms. He hadn’t used a condom. For God’s sake, she’d just had the best sex of her life with a man who’d hurt her to get information from her, a man who’d kill her baby brother if he got the chance, a man who was dangerous and heartless and cruel.

But there had been nothing cruel about his lovemaking. Should she call it that? No—it made it sound too pretty. They’d fucked, like rabbits, like animals in heat, like . . . She couldn’t think of anything basic or shameful enough. And it had been her fault. He’d warned her, and instead of pushing him away she’d kissed him, invited him with her mouth, and there was no going back.

And she was lying to herself again. He would have stopped at any time—for some reason she knew that. He had the kind of self-control that he could have pulled away from her if she’d gained an ounce of intelligence and told him to. But she hadn’t, and he hadn’t, and now she was lying alone in a bed in a seedy hotel room with his semen between her legs, and she hated him and she hated herself.

She heard the shower, and for a brief moment she wondered whether she could slip into her clothes and simply disappear. The thought of facing him again, of the knowing smirk on his face was more than she could bear. How could she have been such an idiot? It was all the fault of her dreams, sabotaging her. It had been so long since she had slept with anyone, felt a strong, warm body entangled with hers when she was at her most vulnerable, that it was little wonder the dreams had come.

But she knew the difference between dreams and waking, and she’d known exactly what she’d been doing, even if she hadn’t allowed herself to consider it too clearly. She had been warm and needy as she lay sprawled on top of him, and she would have done anything he wanted her to do.

Instead, she hadn’t even touched him. She realized that with sudden shock—she’d lost count of how many orgasms she’d had, and yet she’d done nothing for him. He’d gone down on her, something no man had ever done for her, and expected nothing back.

She just needed to move, to get out of there before he came back in, get away . . .

The bathroom door opened, and Ryder walked out, unashamedly naked, ignoring her as he went to his duffel and grabbed some clothes. She immediately closed her eyes, keeping her head tucked down. Most people slept after sex—she was one of those few unfortunate ones who ended up feeling more energized.

She heard the creak of the other bed as he sat down on it, but she didn’t move. Go away, she thought fiercely.

“I know you’re awake, Parker.” His voice was flat, cool. “I’m going out to see what I can find about Soledad. Don’t even think of trying to disappear.”

She turned her back on him, ignoring him, and she heard him sigh. “Don’t be a baby, Parker. We fucked. Get over it. It wasn’t like it was my idea.”

Shame flooded her, and she blinked away sudden tears. “You real

ly are a rat bastard, aren’t you?” she said in a muffled voice, keeping her face turned.

“Did you just figure that out?” She heard the sound of his zipper, the clank of his belt, and then he rose. “Stay put. I’ll bring back something for breakfast. In the meantime you can beat yourself up for your sins.”

Enough was enough. She turned, her eyes narrowed to hide the brightness of tears. “Just tell me one thing, Ryder,” she said in a deceptively cool voice, when she wanted to scream and weep. “Do you always go down on the people you torture? Is it your way of making up for it?”

She’d hoped to infuriate him. Instead he laughed, sounding almost lighthearted. “That’s my girl,” he said obscurely, and a moment later he was gone.