Wildfire (Fire 3)

The words, casually spoken, were a shock. He rose to his feet, effortlessly, and she stared up at him, knowing he was coming for her. She was by the door—she could run, but there were too many security cameras. She could scream, but it wouldn’t do any good—no one was around. She didn’t move, like a rabbit caught in a snare, but she wasn’t going to be a victim ever again.

“You touch me and I’ll break your hand,” she said steadily.

“You can try.” His voice was calm, pleasant, as he came up to her. Huddled against the wall was no fighting position, and she pushed herself up so that she stood facing him, only a foot of space separating them. Too close. Too far. He reached out his hand for her, and she slapped him across the face as hard as she could, so hard that it jolted all the way up her arm. He didn’t react.

“You have too many tells,” he said in a conversational voice. He was wearing a gray button-down shirt, and he pulled it from his jeans, unbuttoning it while his eyes bore into hers. Deep, hypnotic eyes, and she wondered if she could fight him. Her whole body felt alive, tingling with sensation, and he hadn’t even touched her. “I can see what you’re going to do before you even realize it.”

“Touch me and I’ll kill you.”

“You and what army?” Before she knew what was happening, he’d crossed that last bit of space, slid his arm around her back, and yanked her against his hard body. “Don’t be a hypocrite. We both want it, and it helps the mission. Man up, Jordan.”

It was a shock, hearing her maiden name for the first time in years. She could feel him, his hard cock unmistakable beneath his jeans, pressing against her stomach. “I don’t think that’s exactly what you’re expecting me to do.” He was right, damn him. It was taking everything she had to keep her body stiff against his, when she wanted to sink into his warmth. “We don’t have to do this.”

A slow smile crossed his face and he shook his head, his green eyes hot and slumberous. “Maybe not, but we want to.” He put his other hand behind her neck, pulling her head up for his mouth, and she didn’t move, letting him kiss her, letting the feeling flood through her body, heat and need, so long denied her. He was right. She’d wanted this from the moment she first saw him, whether she wanted to admit it or not, and his tongue in her mouth was the first claim—her response, the first acceptance.

His body pressed hers against the wall, and she felt him reach between them, unfastening his jeans, and she panicked for a moment, lashing out at him. He caught her wrists, holding them tightly together, and began to pull up her skirt. She wanted to shove him away, she wanted . . . she wanted . . .

She yanked her arms free and put them around his neck, slamming her mouth against his. She grabbed his shirt, trying to pull it away from him, wanting his skin against hers, and he’d managed to pull the top of her dress down, exposing her breasts. A moment later he’d hoisted her up in his strong, strong arms, and her legs wrapped around his narrow hips, and she was suddenly blind with hunger.

He shoved into her, and she gasped, shocked at the unexpected size of him, the thick cock deep inside her, so good . . . so good . . . and she tightened her arms and legs around him as spasms of pleasure washed over her. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, she just wanted to feel. She needed this to last forever, and she rode him, his hands on her hips, sliding her up and down on his cock. She threw her head back, wanting to scream, and he sank his head against her neck, his teeth against her shoulder, the sting of his bite sending her over the edge.

She had always been noisy during sex. But she came in powerful, urgent silence now, her entire body trembling, shaking, falling apart, as he thrust into her, over and over again, his hips sinuous, pinning her against the wall, until it was too much, and she tried to say

something, but all she could do was push tighter against him, taking more, needing more.

Another wave hit her, and this time she did cry out, a wordless sound of rich pleasure, and he pulled away from the wall, turning around, still holding her as he moved, in and out, his thickness a wicked torment, harder, deeper, until he was suddenly rigid in her arms, in her body, his breath rasping as he poured himself into her, punctuated by each jerk of his hips, and she let go, let go of everything, drowning in sensation, in him, in Mal.

She lost all sense of time. Slowly, slowly, his arms loosened around her. Her heart was slamming against her chest, his own heart rate barely elevated, and when he pulled free from her, she wanted to cry out in anguish at the loss. There was no way that her legs could support her, and she dropped to the rough flooring at his feet, curling in on herself. She could feel the wetness of his semen between her legs. He hadn’t used a condom—of course he hadn’t.

She heard the creak of the wood, and looked up to see he’d collapsed against the wall, his eyes closed, his elegant face a sheen of sweat. There was no way she could read his expression. She drew her knees up and buried her wet face against them, unable to look at him. Unable to look at him and not want him again.

She had no idea how long the silence lasted. How long it took her heartbeat to return to normal, for his ragged breath to calm. She just needed to be alone. “Go away,” she said in a harsh whisper, her arms tight around her up-drawn knees, her face buried.

She didn’t expect any mercy, any tenderness from him. She felt his hands on her arms, pulling them away, and she had no choice but to look up into his impassive face. At least there was no triumph in his green eyes. “You ready to go back to the house?” he asked in a perfectly calm voice.

She jerked her head up completely then, staring at him. He’d already fastened his jeans, though his shirt was still open, exposing his strong chest, and she could see his pulse at his throat. Clearly he was not as unmoved has he’d have her believe.

Her dress was down to her waist, still exposing her breasts, and she quickly yanked it up, covering herself, then used her arm to wipe the wetness away from her eyes. There could be no better way to punish her for her stupid treachery than making her want, need, ache for a man who had no use for her.

“I’m going to kill Archer,” she said in a low voice, “and then I’m going to kill you.”

His face creased in a faint smile. “Go ahead and try.”

She shook her head, trying to dispel him from her mind, just as she needed to wash him from her body. She wanted to hate him, to blame him, but he’d been nothing but truthful. They’d both wanted it. She just wasn’t going to let it happen again. “Take me back,” she said. “I need a shower.” Her voice was filled with honest disgust. Not with him. With herself. With her stupid, mindless desperation, with her orgasms, with her need to be back in his arms, her need for some small sign of tenderness, of sweetness.

Instead, he had the same enigmatic expression he usually wore. “All right,” he said, pushing away from the wall. “But no shower until Archer comes back. We didn’t go through this to have all evidence washed away.”

Go through this? Like it was some form of torture? As it should have been for her? But he knew far too well it hadn’t been torture for either of them—it had been a pleasure so exquisite that she wanted any witness, including both of them, dead.

He rose, towering over her, and she knew she should scramble to her feet, to lessen her feeling of weakness, but she still wasn’t sure her legs would hold her. She was still trembling, so slightly he wouldn’t see it, and her legs felt like rubber bands. It had been so long since she’d had sex with anyone that she couldn’t remember what it had been like. Couldn’t remember it ever feeling this powerful.

She looked up, way up, past his endless legs to his unreadable face. “I hate you,” she said.

“You sound like a child,” he said coolly.

“You fuck any children lately?”

“You’ve got a nasty tongue on you, don’t you, sweetheart?” he said.