Twisted (Burbank and Parker 1)

“Yes, there is. We’re very different people. We have different coping mechanisms, different ways of thinking, different priorities. To make things worse, we have several things in common, none of which bode well for a lasting relationship. We’re both stubborn. We’re both proud. We’re both strong-willed. And we’re both intense about whatever it is we’re into.”

“Including each other,” Derek noted drily.

“Fair enough. We’re not just intense, we’re passionate—and, yes, that includes about each other and what we had. But that’s moot. Because the bigger issues aren’t going away. We’ll never agree about who let whom down after I got stabbed. Neither of us will ever back down. And we’ll never forgive or trust each other. So we’re at a stalemate. Effectively, nothing’s changed. Given that, what’s there to talk about?”

“You’re right.”

Sloane was totally unprepared for what happened next.

In one swift motion, Derek shoved aside his Burger King wrappers and slid over onto the bed. He caught Sloane’s shoulders and pulled her toward him, until she could feel the warmth of his body through their sweatshirts.

“There is nothing to talk about,” he said in a husky voice. “Not now. Maybe never.” He tilted back her head so their gazes locked. His eyes were blazing with midnight fire. Hers were startled, growing smoky with awareness. His thumbs trailed up the sides of her neck, felt her pulse beating faster. Then they shifted up to trace her lips, her cheekbones.

And suddenly the past was the present.

“I don’t know if we’ll ever fix things,” Derek muttered, his breath grazing her mouth. “But you’re right about nothing having changed

, at least where it comes to how much I want you. Since you left, I’ve woken up more nights in a cold sweat than I can count. And from the moment I walked into that surprise meeting you arranged two weeks ago, from the second I saw you again, all I’ve been able to think about is getting inside you. My gut tells me you feel the same way. Am I right?”

Sloane didn’t—couldn’t—answer. The wall of Derek’s chest pressing against her breasts, the woodsy, ambery scent of his Burberry cologne, the heated look in his eyes—it was all too wildly erotic and familiar.

She was stunned, not by her reaction, but by its magnitude. Hers and Derek’s sexual attraction had always been off the charts. Their lovemaking had surpassed even that. She knew that passion as overpowering as theirs didn’t vanish just because the relationship didn’t work out. But this? It was like a dam had burst open, and they were being sucked up by the rushing waters.

“Sloane,” Derek repeated, his voice rough with restraint. “Answer me. Am I right?”

“Yes.” She exhaled the word in a rush.

Derek’s eyes darkened to near black. “Then screw our differences. Screw our similarities. Screw everything except this.” His hands worked their way under her sweatshirt, cupping her breasts, rubbing her nipples until they hardened.

Sloane’s entire body began thrumming, alive in a way it hadn’t been since Cleveland. Breathing became difficult, thinking impossible.

Her hands, of their own volition, slid under Derek’s shirt and up the hair-roughened planes of his chest. Even the bandages couldn’t dull the sensation of touching him again, nor did they stifle the rough sound he made in his throat.

“This is a big mistake,” Sloane announced, leaning up to brush her lips across his—first in one direction, then the other. “A really big mistake.”

Derek shoved his hands into her hair, anchored her head so he could deepen the kiss. “I don’t give a damn.” He devoured her mouth, his tongue probing deep, rubbing against hers in a hungry, rhythmic motion. “Do you?”

“No.” Sloane was right there with him. The taste of him, the sensation of his tongue taking hers in a blatant imitation of what was to come, was enough to drive away all coherent thought. She shifted onto her knees, wrapped her arms around his neck, and threw herself into the kiss.

“Your hand,” he muttered, hesitating long enough to cover her right hand with his. “We have to be careful.”

She tugged it free. “We will be. But only of that. Everything else is fair game.”

“You’re on.”

There were no more words spoken.

Derek pulled the sweatshirt over Sloane’s head, taking care to ease the right sleeve past her hand, and tossed the shirt to the floor. He then turned his efforts to getting rid of his own clothes, unzipping his jeans and tugging them down, while Sloane peeled off his shirt. Derek vaulted to his feet, shedding everything, his gaze locked on Sloane as she lay back on the bed, waiting.

She didn’t have long to wait.

He lowered himself on top of her, pressing her into the mattress. They both shuddered at the contact. The idea of prolonging the moment, savoring the preliminaries—it definitely wasn’t in the cards this time. Derek’s knees wedged Sloane’s apart, and she spread her legs wider, lifting them until she could hug his flanks. He propped himself on his elbows so he could watch her expression as his erection probed her, and pushed—deep—until he was all the way inside her.

Sloane’s back arched and she cried out, her arms going around his back, her legs tightening, lifting higher around his hips. Derek made a low, guttural sound, sweat breaking out on his forehead as her body closed around him. He began moving, penetrating her in fast, uncompromising strokes. Their gazes held until neither of them could take it anymore. Giving in to their bodies’ demands, he lowered himself fully onto her, his hands gripping her bottom so he could lift her into each forceful thrust.

The unraveling was fast, furious, and simultaneous.

Sloane’s climax boiled up inside her and erupted. Hot, gripping spasms racked her body, radiating from her core, milking Derek even as his own orgasm slammed through him. He came in a rush, spurting into her and grinding their bodies together. He rasped out her name, and Sloane gave a wild little cry—the only sound she could muster—her nails scoring Derek’s back.