Mark (Mallick Brothers 3)

"Did you burn off that sexual frustration?" a voice asked, making me jerk hard enough that I almost flew backward into the shallow end again. My hand flew out, grabbing the railing while simultaneously dropping the damn towel into the water and leaving me without anything to cover my very near nakedness.

It was right about then that I was pretty unhappy with myself for choosing a pink sports bra. Because, let's face it, you nipped like crazy in a bra like that and black would have hidden that situation better.

"Jesus," I snapped, looking off to the side to see him leaning back against the side wall, leg propped back on it, arms over his chest, face looking way too amused at my current towellessness. "Were you watching me, you creep?" I asked, forcing my legs to carry me out of the water when every instinct in me was telling me to jump back in, that it was safer there.

"I did announce myself when I came in. You were in a zone."

"Which was, of course, an invitation to stare at me."

"Was just waiting for you, Scotti. You can retract the claws."

Of course he was perched directly beside the damn towel cabinet. It was like he knew I would drop my own. With a deep breath, deciding I wasn't going to stand there almost fully naked, freezing, and dripping everywhere, I moved toward him, grabbing a towel, and trying to ignore him as I wrapped myself in it.

I mostly succeeded until I got the towel tucked by my breast and felt a strong, wide-palmed, calloused hand grab me around the bicep and pull slightly.

My eyes fell there for a second, seeing all the criss-crosses of scars across his fingers and the top of his hand, many aged, just as many new. In fact, I think there were more scars than there was unharmed skin. Somehow, that was almost unbelievably sexy to me. His fingers weren't all perfectly straight either. They weren't deformed or anything, but a few showed telltale signs of having been broken more than once, of being allowed to heal themselves instead of being splinted which might have kept them perfect.

But who wanted perfect anyway?

I liked the flaws.

I liked the rough edges.

"Scotti," his voice rumbled, a low, deep, sexy sound that seemed to move through my veins then settle inside my belly, managing to turn it into mush somehow. When I could finally move my eyes from his hand, which I was pretty sure was about twenty minutes later, I found him watching me with those unreadable light eyes, something intense there that I couldn't name for whatever it was.

"What?" I managed to get out though speaking was proving as hard as swallowing with a mouth as dry as mine was right then.

"You done playing your games?" he asked in that same, way too sexy, way to effective tone.

"I'm not playing..."

"Really?" he asked, pulling slightly, making my stupidly cooperative feet follow as he dragged me into his little corner, right up into his personal space. "Because you want this every bit as much as I do, and yet you're trying to act like you don't. That's a game. I get it. But I'm asking if you're done or not. So we can move on."

"Move on to what?" I asked.

Before I could even finish speaking, I felt myself turned as he moved outward, putting me against the cold wall and him blocking me in.

"To this."

And with that, I got what I had needed since the day at the shack. Hell, since the day of the holdup at the store.

His hands moved to frame my face, both gentle but possessive at the same time, just enough pressure to show dominance, but not enough to hurt.

And his lips crushed into mine.

And this time, I got to really experience it.

There was nothing hesitant, nothing uncertain about him. His lips seared into mine, hot enough that I would swear he was leaving a brand, like he was claiming me for all to see after he was done with me. Somehow, I was even okay with that.

His hands slid from my face, moving down the sides of my neck, my shoulders, the sides of my breasts, then around to close around my lower back, dragging me forward, crushing my whole body to his, completely unconcerned with me soaking him through.

And at the second of impact, a low, unexpected, needy whimper escaped my lips as my hands slid up the corded muscles of his arms to close around his solid shoulders.

My breasts- already crushed to his chest- felt weighted, heavy. My cold-hardened nipples seemed to tweak even further, almost to the point of pain as a rush of need started between my thighs and spread outward until it seemed to uncurl through my whole system, until it was a fire in my very veins, burning me up from the inside out.