Hero, Come Back (Cynster 9.50)

She’d expected panic to overwhelm her, but it wasn’t fear that raced down her veins. She’d never felt excitement, expectation—exhilaration— to match this.

His eyes, furious, cloudy, roiling with anger, held her gaze mercilessly. “All, however,” he enunciated softly, “is not right—nowhere near right—on the Reggie front.”

Raising his hands, he slapped them, palms flat, on the panels on either side of her head—and leaned nearer yet. He was very close. The temptation to drop her gaze to his lips—to lick her own—grew.

She fought to hold his gaze. Managed to find breath enough to ask, “Why are you so angry?”

His eyes searched hers; she saw something shift behind the turmoil, then his features hardened. “Be damned if I know.”

The words reached her ears as he bent his head, and his lips found hers.

Not gently. Yet neither was he driven by anger—even in that first instant, she understood that. It was another passion that drove him; she shivered at the first contact, at the realization, one too delicious to resist.

He seemed to know, to sense her recognition; his lips firmed, demanded—she surrendered on a sigh, parting her lips, welcoming him in.

Glorying when he surged in, slow, deep, exploring. Branding, inciting.

She’d been kissed before, but never like this— never had any man wanted her like this. With a clear, unbridled passion, one so lacking in guile, in any attempt at concealment, that it was almost innocent.

Infinitely more powerful.

Her hands rose of their own volition and rested on his chest. She felt the heavy thud of his heart against her palm. She kissed him back, felt his breath catch—felt his chest swell as he drew breath, then took her mouth again.

She gave it gladly, pushed her hands up and twined them about his neck, and lifted away from the wall. He shifted, easing upright; his arms slid around her, then closed, steadily, gradually, until he had molded her to him, until she’d pressed as tightly to him as she could.

The heat was intoxicating, pouring through her, from his lips, his mouth, from his body enfolding hers. She wanted to get nearer still, wanted—very definitely—more.

He drew back for a moment, releasing her lips, albeit with obvious reluctance. She lifted her lids, suddenly heavy, and met his gaze. They were both breathing rapidly, both heated—both consumed by what, looking into his eyes, she recognized as mutual desire. One part of her mind mentally blinked in amazement; most of it sang with hunger. As for her body, it was quivering with a need she had never felt before, but saw absolutely no reason to deny.

Something of that decision must have shown in her face. His features were set, unreadable, but his eyes saw; desire flashed, welled. He lowered his head once more; her lips throbbed. His lips were barely an inch from hers—a mere breath—when he hesitated. She grasped the moment, made the decision. Tightening her arms, lifting her head, she sealed their fates.

Reggie drew her deeper into his arms as their lips fused, as she gave herself without reserve, as she tempted him to plunder, her mouth, and her.

Her message was very clear. He didn’t even need to think to know he was the first man she’d ever wanted like this, the first man she’d invited even this far. The knowledge sang through his bones, stoked a desire that had already grown far beyond his previous experience.

He wanted her now, with an urgency that was driven by so much more than mere lust, so much more than physical desire. The feel of her, soft, supple, and slender in his arms, pliant under his hands, set his pulse racing. He was giddy, deliciously so, his body aching with a need made all the more potent by knowing it would not have to go unslaked.

Without breaking the kiss, he lifted her, swept her up in his arms, and carried her to the sofa. He’d locked the door after Thomas, more from instinct than design. Thank God for instinct—he didn’t think he could leave her now to go even that far. The taste of her was like a drug, one he craved more with every breath, every kiss.

He sat on the sofa, tumbled her down, leaned over her. She murmured encouragingly, arching closer, as urgent as he. He pressed her back, laid a hand on her breast—instantly, she stilled. Not in fear but in concentration; he could sense it through their kiss, feel her attention tracking every movement of his fingers as he learned her shape, stroked her softness until it firmed.

She very quickly wanted more; when he laid her breasts bare, she sighed with pleasure, then gasped when he set his hand, skin to skin, to one soft mound. The peak was already tight; he rubbed it to aching hardness while with her mouth she pleaded eloquently—for what, he was perfectly well aware she didn’t know.

It was that knowledge that made him draw back, that drew a line over which his honor would not allow him to step.

His blood thundered in his ears when he eased free of the kiss, drew his lips from hers, raised his head. His hand was still at her breast, his touch possessive, his thumb circling the pebbled nipple.

A moment passed before she drew in a shuddering breath, opened her eyes, and stared into his.

There was no hesitation in her gaze, nothing but a roiling storm of passions and emotions, a mirror to his own. She drew in a deep breath; the movement pressed her breast more firmly to his palm. She glanced down, then back at his face. Raised her brows, tilted her head slightly in question.

His features were locked; he knew precisely what she was asking, what, indeed, she was suggesting—her eyes made no pretense, considered no excuse.

Drawing breath was difficult. “Not yet.”

Holding her gaze, he bent his head and touched his lips to her breast, kissed the aching peak infinitely delicately.

He felt the shudder that racked her, felt his body harden—knew she felt it, too.