Fatal Burn (West Coast 2)

There it was. Right out in the open. The simple fact that they shared parentage of a missing girl.

“Yes. To finding Dani.” Shannon’s throat tightened and she nodded, fighting sudden tears. Staring at Travis over the rim of her glass, she took an experimental sip.

Despite the ice, the liquor burned a warm trail down her throat, heating her blood, easing the tension that had become her constant companion the past few days. She should have felt uncomfortable with him, she supposed, but didn’t. When she finished her drink, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to leave her glass in the sink, stand on her tiptoes and gently scrape her lips over his. “Thanks.”

“For?”

She cocked her head. “Oh, you know.”

“Nope.”

“Being here. I, um, usually don’t worry about being alone. In fact, I prefer it, but tonight, with all that’s gone on…” She flipped a palm into the air. “…it’s just nice that you’re here.”

“You know, I feel the same way,” he admitted, then looked away as if suddenly embarrassed. “I know damned well that the smart thing for me to do is call one of your brothers or friends or someone else to stay here with you. I should pack it in and go back to the motel.” He nodded, as if agreeing with himself, then looked back at her. “But I don’t want to.”

“And I don’t want you to.”

She suddenly swallowed hard. Felt incredibly vulnerable. Biting her lip, she heard him mutter something under his breath. “Damn it, woman,” he growled, one strong arm slipping around her waist to pull her tight against him. His mouth slanted over hers and he kissed her hard, with an urgency that made her tremble. Everything about him was tough. Strained. Tense. Her knees threatened to give way and she could scarcely breathe, couldn’t think, didn’t care.

It had been so long since she’d been with a man, so very long, and this man, though he was the worst possible choice, was the one she wanted. Desperately.

She closed her eyes as he kissed her temple and sighed against her ear. “What is it about you?” he whispered before his lips touched her eyelids.

Something inside of her cracked.

Emotions she’d dammed rushed through.

Dear God, she wanted him, wanted to get lost in him, in sex, in the fusing of two live bodies.

His lips found hers again. One of his hands pressed flat against her spine, the other caressed her neck, thumb stroking her throat, fingers wrapped around her nape.

His breathing was rough and shallow, and pressed against him, she felt his erection, pushing against his jeans, insistent against her.

“Oh, lady,” he said, holding her close. For a heartbeat she thought he might tell her that this was a mistake, that they were losing their heads, that they couldn’t be distracted. Crushed, she opened her mouth to speak just as he lifted her off her feet, looked over his shoulder and, holding her close, ordered, “Stay!” to the dog.

Khan didn’t move a muscle.

“I can’t believe it,” she whispered, her heart pounding in expectation, one hand caught behind his neck. “He doesn’t pay attention to anyone but me.”

?

??I’ve got a way with animals.” Travis’s smile was a wicked slash of white. With a slap of one hand he cut the lights, then kicked the door to the kitchen closed. Her boots fell off, one at a time, clattering to the floor as he mounted the stairs, carrying her upward to a room where she’d never made love, never felt a man’s presence. Since claiming and renovating the upstairs after Ryan’s death, not once had she allowed a man to step into her private sanctuary.

Until now.

Her throat worked as they tumbled onto her bed and she felt a little jar of pain from her ribs. He began kissing her again and the pain disappeared, chased away by a new hot emotion, a yearning that began deep within. His mouth was warm and sensual, touching and tasting of her, causing her flesh to chill and heat at the same time.

She kissed him eagerly, tasting the salt of his skin and smelling a musky blend of aftershave and smoke that had lingered. Anxiously her fingers dipped beneath his collar, touching hard, sinewy flesh.

His tongue slid between her lips, pressing against her teeth. She moaned, opening her mouth to him, feeling the tip of his tongue touch her own, flicking and teasing, causing desire to flow through her veins.

He reached beneath her shirt, a finger tracing the edge of her jeans where the waistband hugged her hips. Her nerve endings screamed, and when his fingertips slid beneath the fabric, skimming the top of her hips, she squirmed to get closer, yanked his shirt over his head, ran her hands down the sweaty, sinewy strength of his shoulders and arms.

He was so male.

So sleek.

So hard.