"Trust me." He massaged gentle persuasion along the slight flare of her h*ps until she relaxed under his hands.
His hold firm, he guided her down. Stopping. The first touch of her moist heat against him battered his better intentions. Her impatient wiggle threatened to send him deeper, faster, when he knew well they needed to take this initial entry slow, careful. Excruciating.
His muscles trembled more from the effort of holding back than from holding her until finally he breached the thin barrier. Her wince, followed by instinctive tensing of internal muscles had him tensing in return, clenching back the surge of pleasure from her vise grip around him.
Again he forced himself to wait until she relaxed under his caresses before moving, thrusting, all the while watching her watching him and finding in her eyes an echo of what he felt certain scrolled across his own.
Heat. Need. Pleasure.
He moved with her as she discovered her natural rhythm and grace here, as well. Then they found the pace and style unique to the two of them together. Moving with and against each other in the darkened room until perspiration sheened her smooth skin, sweat beaded along his brow. And he knew that soon, damned soon, he wouldn't be able to hold back any longer. But he wasn't going solo.
Reaching between them, he stroked her where their bodies joined. Her head lolled forward, her hair sliding past her shoulders in a black curtain.
He increased the pressure, allowed himself to thrust harder, quicker, until the increasing rise and fall of her rose tipped br**sts reassured him she was seconds away from finding her...
Release.
A moan built, swelled up from her mouth in a torrent of foreign words as a fresh wash of goose bumps swept her flushed skin. She trembled beneath his hands, and again until slowly her lashes slid open and she peered at him through her curtain of hair with astonishment.
He stared up at her staring back down at him. What did she see in his eyes now? Her hand glided from his chest to cradle his face. She smiled and she moved, some sort of instinctive womanly roll of her h*ps against his. Hell.
His restraints tore, sent him plummeting hard and fast like tripping out of an airplane into the wide-open sky, all the more surprising since he damned well should have more control at his age. But who the hell was he to argue? Instead he let the all-out force whip over him like the wind against his body in a free fall that just kept pulsing over him because of this woman.
Yasmine.
His hand still between them, he stroked high against her slick folds again, intense, deliberate until she joined him this time. Her spine bowed, her head falling back until the tips of her hair swished along his other hand bracing her waist, sending another jolt of pleasure shuddering through both of them.
Finally she crumpled onto his chest with a purr, as well as an exhausted sigh that stirred masculine satisfaction. Along with a hefty dose of confusion over how one woman could shift everything so quickly.
He'd set his course long ago when Glenna walked out on him, dragging their daughter and any sense of family along with her. Sometimes when a man heard a calling as strong as his, he had to choose. And he'd opted for the Army and nights camped out on nothing more than packed earth rather than the comfort of a wife's bed.
With the hard ground under him and soft Yasmine over him, he wondered if maybe a man could have the best of both worlds after all.
Monica rested her head against the shower wall and watched the blood-tinged water swirl down the drain. Any residual hold over her shredded emotions spiraled away, as well.
She'd lost patients before. Not many. But it happened and it was never easy. Yet this one tore a new hole in her heart.
Rocked her confidence.
Her grasp on the threads holding her world together was slipping away faster than the water down the drain when she prided herself on controlling her destiny. Her science, scalpel, boots, it was all about being in control of her world on every front.
What a joke. She controlled nothing. She couldn't save Santuci. She and Jack were still a mess. She might be here for Sydney, but she sure as hell wasn't saving her. Jack was taking care of that. She hadn't ever felt this out of control, except when Sydney was captured.
Or had she?
Water chilled on her body. She'd felt exactly like this the day her mother left. The day Cheryl Lynn Hyatt clicked off Saturday morning cartoons to explain to her girls why she couldn't be their full-time mama anymore.
Anger steamed through Monica hotter than the water scouring her skin. Strange, but she hadn't felt even a fraction of this much rage when Hunter had issued his final ultimatum after her job wrecked their wedding plans for the fifth time.
Was she truly unable to commit as Hunter had accused her of? Had she led Hunter around by the nose for four years as Jack said?
She shut off the water, sagged back against the wall and tried to scavenge the energy to step out.
The shower door popped open instead. Jack filled the void, wearing a flight suit and a face full of worry. How had she missed him entering her room? Some warrior she made today.
A big towel in hand, he waited, not a normally expected wisecrack in sight. She was too soul weary for modesty. A ridiculous notion around him, anyway.
He backed to give her room to follow, then wrapped the towel around her, pulled her against him while the fluffy cotton soaked up the water on her skin.