The Fall of Shane MacKade (The MacKade Brothers 4)

He was calm, he told himself, listening to the steady, if loud, beating of blood in his head. So he spoke calmly, quietly. “Are you sober now, Rebecca?”

“As a judge.” She nipped at a slice of bacon. “And I’m going to stay that way for a long time.”

Slowly, he nodded, his eyes on hers. “Head clear, all your faculties in order?”

She started to answer, but something in his tone tripped a warning bell. Warily she looked over at him. The dark, dangerous gleam in his eyes had her backing up a step. “Shane—”

He yanked her back and sent the coffee cup she still held flying. “So you weren’t tempting?” His mouth, full of fury and frustration, crushed down on hers. “I was sweet?” he added, swinging her around until her back rapped into the refrigerator. “Understanding. Patient.” Between snapped-off words, he continued to assault her mouth.

“Yes. No.” How was she supposed to think, with all the blood roaring in her head?

“You damned near killed me.” He jerked up her chin and plundered, shooting vicious spurts of fire into every cell of her body. “You know how much I wanted you? Get the picture?”

He gave her one, a very vivid one of hard, impatient lips, rough, ready hands, a body that was tight with tension and steaming with heat. She fought for breath, fought to stay upright as what was left of her mind went to mush.

She was melting against him again, soft, fragrant wax. His blood pumped in response to those soft, sexy sounds she made in her throat. Eager, helpless sounds that turned frustrated lust into a rage of desperate need.

“That’s it,” he muttered, and swung her up in his arms.

With a jolt of panic, she pushed a hand against his chest. “Wait.”

“The hell I will.” His eyes flashed at hers, all but searing her. “You’d better say no, loud and clear, and say it fast, Rebecca. Tell me you don’t want me, don’t want this. And make damn sure you mean it.”

Under her palm she felt the furious beating of his heart, and her hand trembled. She’d thought it was fear, but it wasn’t. Oh, no, it wasn’t fear. It was longing.

“I can’t.” She let out a whoosh of breath. “I wouldn’t mean it.”

Triumph suited him. “I know.”

Chapter 8

She wanted to remember everything, to seal somehow every moment, every sound, every taste, into her mind and heart. She wanted to be able to recapture this incredible feeling of being carried in strong arms, of being wanted, and wanted with such ferocity, by a beautiful man. Of being sampled every few steps by skilled and hungry lips.

She didn’t care if he was gentle or rough, patient or frenzied. As long as he didn’t stop wanting her.

Then he paused on the stairs, his mouth swooping down on hers in a way that made any thought of the future float away to make room for the all-encompassing present.

On a moan of sheer delight, she wrapped her arms around him and let her own greedy mouth savor the taste of his face, his neck. The tangy flavor of him poured into her until her head swarmed with sound, revolved with half-formed images. The sheer force of her appetite made her shudder. This, she thought, dizzily, was only the beginning.

It no longer surprised her to find that her fingers were fighting with the buttons of his shirt. She wanted to feel him, touch him, everywhere, all at once.

He was out of breath and laughing by the time he made it to his own bedroom. “This is a lot like last night.” He tumbled to the bed with her. On top of her. “Only better.”

“Can’t you get this thing off?” She was laughing, too, hadn’t realized it was possible when desire was squeezing every throbbing inch of her body with sweaty fists.

“Yours is easier.” With one expert stroke, he parted her robe. She was milk-pale, narrow of torso. With a low animal sound, he took her breast in his mouth.

The shock of it screamed through her, incited an avalanche of new and unexplored sensations. Even as she struggled to clear her mind to record them, the hands that had been busy on his shirt dropped away to grip frantically at the neat spread beneath.

Each tug, each nip, of his clever and hungry mouth shot arrows of golden heat straight to her center. Each arrow erupted into a dozen more flame-tipped missiles that streaked under her skin, over it, with dizzying speed.

How could anyone survive these sensations? she wondered. How could anyone live without them?

He had her naked in seconds, and feasted on her.

There was panic now—panic at the thought that it was possible to die from pleasure. Her skin was hot and damp, quivering at each pass and stroke of those big, callused hands. Tossed by a tidal wave, she rolled over the bed with him, desperate to keep up.

He couldn’t get enough. All that baby-smooth skin, those long, narrow bones, the small, apple-firm breasts. He could smell her shower on her, and simple soap had never been so arousing. He thought he could eat her alive, bite by ravenous bite.