Wildfire (Fire 3)

“Because if it is, it’s the first nice thing you’ve ever said to me,” she went on, trying to ignore the treacherous need that was building inside her. She wanted, needed the words, but in a few more moments she wouldn’t care what he said to her, as long as he kept touching her.

He moved his mouth down to the side of her neck, his teeth against her smooth skin. “I’ve said other nice things to you,” he said absently, clearly not caring.

“Name one.”

He laughed again. “You are such a woman,” he said.

“Were you confused about that fact?” she countered, and then she felt his cool hand slip down her stomach, between her legs. “I guess not.”

“I guess

not,” he echoed wryly. “And I have a very good idea.” He was barely touching her, and she was ready to leap out of her skin with need.

“You do?”

“I’ve been wanting to taste you for days,” he said softly, moving down her body.

Oh, God. She’d never cared much for this part of things, particularly when the men always seemed so pleased with themselves about it. They probably wouldn’t do it at all if they didn’t think it guaranteed them a blow job.

But she’d already gone down on Mal. In fact, she wanted to again. The crazy thing about that was she’d liked it. More than liked it. “I don’t think . . .” she began to protest.

“That’s for the best,” he said, sliding his palms along her inner thighs, pulling them apart. “Thinking is highly overrated.”

Oh, God. She could feel his breath warm between her legs, his fingers sliding in the dampness that seemed to have come out of nowhere, and then she felt his tongue against her clit, nothing more than a light, teasing touch, and she stiffened. “You don’t have to do this,” she said somewhat desperately.

“Oh, yes I do. Try and stop me.” He did it again, and a ripple of pleasure went through her body. She hadn’t felt that before—and it had been a long, long time. Archer had never . . .

He lifted his head, looking at her. “What are you thinking about? You suddenly stiffened.”

“Archer,” she confessed.

His response was impressively obscene, and he surged up her body, pinning her there, cupping her face with both hands and holding her still while he stared down into her eyes. “Archer doesn’t exist,” he said with grim certainty. “There’s just you and me in this bed. Do you need me to prove it to you?”

“I think you are,” she said in a small voice.

“Then stop remembering Archer. Lie back and think of England, Sophie,” he said, sliding down again, and when he put his mouth on her this time she arched up in the bed in surprise. It wasn’t supposed to feel that good. She knew from using her own hands that a tongue wouldn’t have enough strength or friction, but she felt the first stirrings of reaction, and she pushed into him.

She knew he smiled against her. He slid a finger inside her, then two, and she almost jumped off the bed. She put her hands down to clutch his shoulders, and he was warm now, blazingly warm, as he licked her, everywhere, using his mouth, his lips, his teeth. And his tongue . . . Oh my God, his tongue. His fingers were pumping in and out, and she knew she couldn’t come this way, but damn, it felt good, it felt wonderful, it felt like . . .

With no warning at all the orgasm slammed into her, and she clutched at his shoulders, digging in, a low, keening wail coming from the back of her throat as wave after wave of reaction flowed through her. She started to shove one hand against her mouth to silence herself, but he must have had some preternatural sense of what she was doing, because he reached up and yanked her hand away, putting it back on his shoulder. “I want to hear you scream,” he said in a low, tantalizing whisper. “I want you to scream so loud they hear you all the way down to the Caribbean.”

Oh, God, he had slid three fingers into her now, and she was incoherent as she shuddered against him, drowning in sensation. It lasted forever; each time the waves slowed he did something with his mouth or his fingers that would make it start again, and she was sobbing, begging him, not knowing if she wanted more or needed him to stop.

But he knew. He pulled away from her, surging up her sweat-slick body, and he was hot too, his damp skin sliding against hers, as he kissed her, deep and hard. She tasted herself on his mouth, she tasted the ocean, she tasted Mal, and God, if he kept kissing her like that she was going to come again, and she wasn’t sure her body could handle it.

His hard, hard hands were gentle on her as he pushed her legs apart, and she felt him there—big, strong. He was taking the tip of his cock and rubbing it against her, around her, spreading all the endless moisture, and she lifted her hips, waiting for him, breathless, needing him.

He dropped his head to look down at her, but he said nothing as he began to push, slowly, filling her, their eyes locked in silent communication. He stilled, giving her a moment to get used to him, but she ignored his steadiness, needing him, now, and he pulled out, pushing into her again, slow and hard, filling her. She wanted to weep. She’d been empty for so long, all her life, it seemed, and now she was whole.

She wrapped her legs around his slim hips, her fingers tight on his shoulders as he moved inside her, steady, deep, and she wanted more, needed more. This was like nothing she’d ever felt before, it was sex, it was fucking, it was making love. Her heart seemed to flow through her body, into his, a total joining that beckoned her, frightened her, almost destroyed her. He was so big it hurt, a sweet pleasure-pain that simply moved her deeper into this dark, magic, scary place where there was no Sophie, no Mal, just them, sliding together in the murky light, and she felt another orgasm building inside her, deep and powerful, and she knew if she climaxed her heart would explode, and she didn’t care, didn’t care at all.

Conscious thought had disappeared. This was a simple animal need brought to a different level, something almost surreal, and her body convulsed. She felt like she was floating, awash in endless sensations, with nothing to tether her to safety. All she could do was cling to him, eyes closed, waiting, until he shoved in deep, so hard she cried out, and she could feel him pulsing inside her, life inside her, and she was gone, into the night and the darkness and the magic, into Malcolm, part of him forever.

Damn, she was crying, she realized some endless time later. She rarely cried, no matter how bad the pain, how cruel the treatment, how much she’d screwed up, how empty and lonely she felt. For the first time in memory she was no longer alone, and now she finally cried. It was ridiculous, she thought, fighting it. She wasn’t going to cry over some damned man.

A little sob broke through, and she tried to cover it with a cough. Mal had pulled out, collapsing beside her, and she hoped to God he was asleep. If she just managed to stop crying, he’d stay that way, and she dug her fingernails into her palms, remembering that someone had told her it was a way to stop unwanted tears.

That person had lied.