The Hotter You Burn by Gena Showalter
"Well, well. Miss Glass certainly has my number. In more ways than one." For one drawn-out moment, all he did was stare at her lips. "First secret. As a teenager, I was arrested twice."
"How naughty of you." An outlaw who lived by no rules but his own. She should have guessed.
And oh, wow, my romance-novel roots are showing.
Gaze intense, studying her every nuance, he slipped his fingers up her calves, played a game of tickle and retreat at her knees. "Once for theft, and once for beating the crap out of a guy, though there should have been dozens more arrests after that. I needed money, so I fought men twice my size and age. Anyone others were willing to pay to see beat down."
"That's good info to have," she said, aching all over, "but hardly your best-kept secrets. I'm sure Jase and West know."
"You're right. They do." He rubbed his jaw, and she heard the light scrape of stubble. "You don't want to know about my sexual conquests, and you don't want to know about my record. What do you want to know?"
Hands itching for contact, any contact, she plucked at the collar of his shirt. "Tell me about one of the worst foster homes you lived in."
He stiffened, and several moments ticked by in silence. This was it--the moment of truth. If he deflected, she'd know he wasn't ready for this. If he didn't, well, he would surprise her.
He surprised her.
"There are several to choose from," he said. "There was one... The dad had a problem with his temper and knew how to hide bruises. He hit me, whipped me with branches and paddles. Sometimes just looking him in the eye set him off."
Bile rose, swift and sure. "Oh, baby." She wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tight, offering all the comfort she could. "I'm so sorry." At first, he remained stiff. Second by second, he relaxed until he was hugging her back, holding on so tight she'd wear the bruises tomorrow, but she didn't care, loved being his lifeline.
"There was another foster home," he whispered. "A worse one. The mother would sneak into my room at night..."
The sickness intensified, a blistering burn. "How old were you?"
"Fourteen."
Too young. Far too young. Rage came out swinging. "I'll kill the bitch!"
"I was big for my age."
"Like that matters. What she did was wrong in every way, and she knew it. I won't just kill her. I'll torture her in ways you can't even imagine."
He kissed her collarbone once, lingered, then kissed again before pulling back to cup her face, his palms rough and callused, utterly perfect. "You want to know another secret? You are one of the best things to ever happen to me, Harlow. So sweet."
"Sweet for wanting to torture the worst piece of scum ever to walk the earth?"
"Yes." His thumbs stroked her jaw, heating her skin, the fire he so easily stoked stirring and blazing with new life.
The need to comfort him, to make up for the traumas of his past, smoldered beneath it, vibrant and undeniable, an obsession, an addiction without end.
This amazing warrior wasn't a he-slut, she realized. He was a man trying to survive the hand he'd been dealt. How dare she judge him? How dare she make him feel bad for his choices?
She'd handled things poorly with him before, but she wouldn't this time. Denying him--denying them both--had been the wrong way to go. She wanted him more than she'd ever wanted another, so why not have him? Why not enjoy him?
Afterward, if the worst happened and he cut her loose, well, the worst happened. She would have tried for happily-ever-after. She would deal.
"Beck," she whispered, and rubbed her nose along his jawline. "You are one of the best things to ever happen to me, too, and I want to be with you."
He went still, even seemed to stop breathing. "I'm not the best, I'm the worst. You don't."
"You are the best. And I do. I really do. Let me prove it." Fighting past her shyness, she placed her palm between his legs and stroked up...down, and oh, wow, he was big and hard and perfect. So amazingly perfect.
He sucked in a breath. "Harlow."
Her name on his lips never failed to enchant her. "Please, Beck."
A groan that did not sound human sprang from him. "Yes, beauty. I'll give you what you need. What I need." He cupped her breasts and despite the robe and tank, the effect he had on her had to be obvious. "I'll give you..." He frowned.
"What's wrong?"
"Someone else." He stumbled back, out of reach.
"Someone else?" Her brow furrowed with confusion. "I don't understand."
"I'm not what you need. You said so."
Her blood cooled, the words she'd once uttered in haste now coming back to bite her. "You are."
"No. I decided I'm going to do whatever is necessary to make sure you're happy." He stumbled to the fridge to grab a beer.
"Uh, are you sure you need that?"
"Never been surer." He popped the top and drained the contents. And he did seem steadier as he placed the bottle on the counter, removed his jacket. He tugged off his tie as well, and unfastened the first three buttons on his shirt, as if the material choked him.
"Is the heat on?" he asked. "Why is the heat on in the middle of summer?"
"It's not on."
Three more buttons.
"Are you feverish?" His lips had burned so sweetly. She flattened her hand over his forehead, his skin as hot as his lips, but it wasn't clammy or sickly.
He leaned into her touch, his eyes closing, but all too soon that golden gaze was back on her and narrowing. "I'm tired," he said, and he sure sounded it. "I should go to bed."
Though her body shouted in protest, her mind sighed in relief. They desperately needed to discuss what had just happened--about what she wanted to happen still--but it would be better if he were sober.
"All right. I'll walk you home."
He shook his head. "Don't want to leave. Not yet. You suggested we watch TV, remember?" He linked their fingers and led her into the bedroom. A short journey, and yet an eternity seemed to pass. He settled atop the mattress.
He's in my bed. Trembling, she drew the comforter over him. "Forget the TV and get some rest."
"Stay with me." He caught her hand, tugging her beside him.
He's in my bed--with me. Her mind had trouble processing the extraordinary event. Women all over the world experienced the wondrous phenomenon of being held like this, but Harlow never had. It was a first, and it took only a second to realize she did not want it to be an only. The heat of him cocooned her, buffering her from the world that had once been so cold to her. His strength anchored her, his hard planes offering resting places for her soft curves. His intoxicating champagne scent fused with her natural fragrance--became their scent.
"Tell me your secret." His warm breath fanned over her forehead. "I have to know more about you. It's a compulsion. A necessity."
"Not now." She would ruin the moment.
"Please, shortcake."
"I... I'll tell you in the morning." When the alcohol was out of his system. "All right?"
"You promise?"
She drew in a deep breath, held it. Exhaled slowly. "I promise."
He kissed her temple. "Sleep, then."
She didn't want to fall asleep. She wanted to stay awake and enjoy the feel of being held, almost cherished. But his arms tightened around her, intractable steel bands, as if, in this vulnerable moment, he feared losing her, and it didn't take her long to drift away with a smile.
Whether he'd admitted it to himself or not, she mattered to him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
HARLOW BLINKED UNTIL the fuzz cleared from her eyes, her bedroom coming into view. All was as she'd left it, save for the man's shirt and tie hanging from the edge of the curtain rod over the window.
What--
Something shifted on the bed, warm breath fanning her neck. She stiffened, slowly turned her head--and came face-to-face with a sleeping Beck.
Beck!
That's right. He'd come over in the middle of the night, wanting but not wantin
His soft expression made him appear boyish, carefree, and inside her, a well of tenderness bubbled over. She remembered their talk, his hands on her skin, and she instantly went up in flames, her desire for him returning--had it ever really left?
Why not pick up where they'd left off?
Yes, oh, yes.
As stealthily as she was able, she crawled from the bed and tiptoed into the bathroom, took care of business and brushed her teeth, then crawled back into bed. Beck, who hadn't stirred, now curled around her, as if he'd been waiting for her, his warm breath a caress against her neck.
"Beck," she whispered, hoping to ease him awake.
He sighed softly, inserting a leg between hers and draping a hand over her rib cage. Anticipation caused her to tense. If he moved that hand up just a few inches...
Up...up...it slid, and she held her breath--do it, please do it--but he stopped just before he actually cupped her. Hot tremors swept through her, and she swallowed a whimper.
"Beck. Wake up." Please.
His thumb brushed upward again and again, sending heated shivers through her. More desperate by the second, she squirmed against him. When the not-quite-enough torment continued, she inched downward, forcing him to cup her at last. All the while his thumb continued to brush up--but still he made no contact with her distended nipple.
The air deflated from her lungs. "Beck," she repeated, arching up, rubbing against his thigh--yes, yes!--practically driving herself insane with the promise of more.
The movement of his thumb slowed as it drew closer, closer to where she needed it most--but not close enough.
Argh! "Beck. I mean it. Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey."
Again his thumb brushed up--and this time...this time he stroked her. A cry of delight parted her lips, lances of pleasure shooting through her. Realization, too. He couldn't be doing this in his sleep. He just couldn't. The effect was too masterful, the touch too skilled.
She flipped open her lids--and found him smiling at her with wicked intent.
*
"YOU SMELL LIKE cinnamon and mint, baby. Did you brush your teeth hoping I'd kiss you?" The thought wrecked him. She'd wrecked him.
"Yes. Yes."
Beck knew he should resist. He'd come here with every intention of telling her the plan. He would be setting her up with someone else. But look where he'd ended up. In her bed, wrapped around her, desperate for her.
He couldn't resist her. He'd always been a sexual man, but never like this. She'd somehow caused him to devolve, stripping him of etiquette and turning him into little more than an animal.
"You want me, even though I won't commit to you?" Let there be no misunderstandings between them. "You're willing to be with me?"
She stiffened. "Even though."
Guilt pricked at his gut-wrenching desire. Her reaction, despite her words... He should definitely get up, dress and leave. He nuzzled her neck instead, the need for her, only her, undeniable. "I'm going to make you feel so good, baby."
"This," she said, arching into his touch like a needy little kitty, "is a wonderful start."
This was only the beginning. "Good." He lifted his head. "Do not move from that position."
"But--"
"I mean it." He dragged himself out of bed and padded to the bathroom, where he quickly brushed his teeth, using her brush and paste. She wouldn't be the only one with minty-fresh breath. That done, he returned to the bed, any lingering resistance dying as he peered down at her. A flawless treat, ready to be devoured.
Urgency rode him hard--take her, now, now--but he stood in place. "So there are no misunderstandings, I need you to tell me how far I can go."
She licked her lips. "You can put your hands...your mouth on me. Give me pleasure. I dreamed about you...ached for you all night."
Ruthless need battered at him as he crawled toward her. "Pleasure...as in sex?"
Now she hesitated. "I don't... I..."
All right. He'd take that as a no. No matter. He could do plenty with his hands and mouth. And she could do plenty with hers. "I believe we ended last night with your hand right...here." He placed her palm flat against his erection, hissed at the razor-sharp desire careening through him.
"Yes," she moaned, squeezing him. "You're so big."
He gently bit into her bottom lip, drawing the tender flesh between his teeth. "The better to please you." He pushed up her tank, baring her breasts. Her beautiful, rosy-tipped breasts--
"Wait." She began to struggle against him, frantic. "Don't. I'll leave the shirt on."
But it was too late. He saw the scars. A collage of them began just below her collarbone and stretched all the way to her navel, even covering her breasts. There were jagged pink lines and patches of puckered skin, as if someone else's skin had been sewed to her. The sight almost proved to be his undoing, not because it was ugly--nothing about her was ugly--but because of the pain she must have endured.
A wave of tenderness overtook him, and he kissed the tip of one scar...the tip of another. He had to know what had happened to her, and he had to know now. But when his gaze flipped up to her face and he realized she was staring just over his shoulder, that she'd gone stiff as she waited for his verdict, his rejection, he decided he couldn't do it. Not now.
"You only grow more beautiful with every second that passes, baby. How is that possible?" He lowered his head again, kissed the edge of one of the scars and this time he traced his tongue over the puckered edge.
Slowly the tension melted from her. She wound her arm around him, her nails soon digging into his back. "You don't have to lie. Not with me."
"I'm not lying. In fact, I will never lie to you. Not about this or anything else. You promised me, and now I promise you." He fit his lips over her nipple and as he sucked, she cried out, her hips lifting from the bed. "Like a wild strawberry, sweet and addictive, and I can't have just one." He turned his attention to the other, sucking it hard, harder, then flicking his tongue back and forth to soothe the ache. The little bead swelled under his ministrations, a silent plea for more.
"Beck." A gasp, her hips undulating with need.
He yanked the tank over her head. Every obstacle had to go. Strands of inky hair fell over her shoulders, the pillow, and as he ran his fingers between her breasts, down her stomach, he felt the evidence of more scars. Far more than he'd realized. He kicked off the covers, baring the rest of her. Some of the scars were bigger than others, clearly deeper.
Aching for her, he kissed another scar, then another, his fingers still traveling down, down...finally tunneling under her panties. His eyes nearly rolled back into his head. She was wet. No, not just wet. She was soaked, and she was white-hot, burning him so deliciously.
She'll taste as sweet as candy.
As he rubbed...rubbed...spreading her moisture, building her desire, stoking his own desperation, he croaked, "Part your legs for me, Harlow."
The moment she obeyed, he thrust a finger deep, and oh, hell, she was tight. Sweat beaded on his brow, the urge to rip off her underwear and sink inside her a tangible thing.
Control! "Can you take another one?"
"Yes. Please, yes." The way she clung to him, as if he were as necessary to her as breathing, only magnified the sensations blasting through him, and in that moment, she was necessary to him.
Precious girl. As he thrust in a second finger, she gave a strangled cry and lifted her hips. An instinctive action, and an irresistibly greedy one. The heel of his palm pressed where she ached most, and as her body's shivers vibrated into his, that very necessary control slipped farther and farther away.
"Touch me," he demanded.
"But...aren't I already?" Then understanding hit her and she eagerly shoved his underwear out of the way.
What had been a delight only seconds before became a glorious
He knew women, knew their reactions, and knew Harlow wasn't gifting him with pleasure by rote, but through the most primitive compulsion. The same was true of him. With her, he was too swept up to stick to routine--a hand here, his mouth there, give this so he could take that. He thought only of branding his woman now, now, now, hanging on and never letting go. Owning her--the way she owned him.
"I know you can take another." He wedged in a third finger, and she gasped. She moaned. Her head thrashed atop the pillow, ribbons of jet-black silk tangling around her face.
"Too much? Am I hurting you?" It would kill him, but he would stop.
"Just need...a moment...to adjust."
He waited, his every muscle vibrating with the urge to move...have to move...but her enjoyment mattered more to him than anything else. "You feel so good. Never felt anything better." His thumb caressed in circles, pressing...pressing closer to the heart of her.
Her knees parted farther, and she dissolved into the mattress, close, so damn close, to release. That's when he removed his fingers.
With a disappointed cry, she latched on to his wrist. "No! Stay! It doesn't hurt anymore."
"I'll be back, don't worry." Nothing would keep him away.
Reluctantly she released him, and he spread her essence down his length, moistening it from base to tip. He put her hand back on him--put his fingers back inside her. She sighed with contentment, gripping him hard and tight, just the way he liked.
"Look at me," he commanded.
Those baby blues were almost too hazed to focus. Her pupils were blown, nothing but twin pools of desire, drowning him...but what a way to go. "As I thrust my fingers in you, ride my length up. As I pull out, ride my length down."
"Yes, yes."
As he slanted his lips over hers, thrusting his tongue against hers, he thrust his fingers deep, deeper inside her. Her groan filled his mouth, and her hand, her sweet, sweet hand, rode up his length. He pulled his fingers back, and she stroked down. A growl rose from somewhere in his chest, a place he'd never known existed, where a spark of possession had never quite died.
Mine.
The claim would have freaked him out--did freak him out--but he was past the point of caring. His skin was pulled too tight over muscle and bone; any second he would burst apart at the seams.