Sarah's Seduction (Men of August 2)

“Kidnapped you?” He grinned over at her, the sexy quirk of his lips making her heart race. “I didn’t kidnap you, honey, I rescued you.”

“Rescued me?” She harrumphed. “That wasn’t a rescue, Brock, and you know it. You kidnapped and seduced me.”

She fought the blush rising to her cheeks at the thought of the night she had spent in his arms. He hadn’t just made her scream during that stolen hour in the jeep. He had awakened her once again before reaching the ranch, his hot erection easing into her with a slow measured thrust, and within minutes had her screaming again. She had barely had the strength to walk into the ranch house and up to his room. He had carried her though, his lips moving over hers, his tongue mating with her mouth as he stumbled his way to his room where he drove her higher, taking her breath, stealing her will as he forced the harsh cries of completion from her there as well.

Her throat was raspy this morning, her body pleasantly sore.

“Did you get the pills?” he suddenly asked her, his voice incredibly husky and hot.

Sarah’s face did flush then.

“No,” she bit out. “I took the shot instead.”

His body tensed.

“You’re safe now then?” he asked her, and she could hear his battle to appear merely curious.

“I am not having sex with you in this jeep, in broad daylight.” She flashed him a hard, measured look. “Do you understand me, Brock?”

He grinned again. Damn, she hated that grin. It made her stomach all fluttery, her thighs weak. She wanted to spread her legs right then and invite him in. She was insane. If the rumors were to be believed, then the last thing she wanted or needed right now, was Brock August taking a serious interest in her.

“I understand you, Sarah-love,” he said on a slow drawl. “Don’t worry darlin’, I won’t make you scream again until I have you in that big new bed you have waiting on you.”

She shivered. Damn she hadn’t meant to shiver like that. And she knew he didn’t miss it.

“I don’t like screaming.” She winced, wondering if lightning would strike her for that lie. It was a biggie.

He laughed now. No grin this time, she thought morosely, he knew better than that. But she liked that little, husky laugh. It was rusty, inexperienced, but a spark of enjoyment all the same.

“Sarah, darlin’, why are you fighting this so hard?” He handled the vehicle easily as he pulled onto her street.

Her small house was further down the lightly inhabited street, hidden by evergreens and elms from curious eyes. It wouldn’t help her though, she knew the curious eyes that tracked the progress of the jeep down the street. They would see it turn into her drive, then begin counting the hours before it left again.

“Because you’re dangerous,” she told him, twisting her fingers nervously as they lay in her lap. “I told you last night, Brock, I don’t think I can handle this. I don’t think I can handle you.”

She expected him to argue immediately. When he didn’t, she looked over at him worriedly. He was frowning a bit, his hands tense on the wheel as he pulled into her driveway and followed the one lane drive to her sheltered carport. He cut the engine, but rather than moving to get out of the jeep, he sat there silently for long moments.

“I’ve wanted you for a long time, did you know that?” he asked her, his voice soft as he stared into the wooded backyard behind the carport.

Sarah’s system went wild. The blood began to pump rapidly through her body, her stomach clenching and the moisture between her thighs building as it prepared her for his invasion. Dammit, she didn’t have a lick of sense.

She took a deep, calming breath. It didn’t help a bit.

“I didn’t know.” She shook her head.

“Yes you did,” he told her, his voice sure and confident. “You were eighteen years old when you knew, Sarah. The night you ran from me, after the barbeque out at the ranch. You knew I wanted you. You married Mark Tate the next week. Why?”

Because he terrified her. Because she had known she would do anything he wanted, any way he wanted her to do it, and the thought of that had burned terror into her mind.

“I loved Mark—”

“You wanted me.” He turned on her then, anger burning in his gray-blue eyes, vibrating in his body. “I know you did, Sarah. I felt it the minute I touched that hot little cunt of yours, you wanted me. You were drenched, begging for it. And you still ran off and married that pint-sized little bastard. Why?”

“Why do you care?” She shook her head in confusion. “You act as though I betrayed you, Brock. As though we were somehow committed to each other. We weren’t.”

“You didn’t want him,” he accused her, refusing to answer her question. “You wanted me, Sarah.”

“I wanted Mark more—”