Twisted (26 page)

Her fingers were cool against his skin and she smelled just as fresh and young and beautiful as she actually was. He had to get out of here. But he had this compulsive need to make things right first. As if he could.

“Allison.” A bitter lump rose up in his throat. “I want to erase what happened, but I don’t know how.”

Her hand dropped from his cheek, and he instantly missed it.

“I do.” She took his fingers. Slowly, she turned his palm up and kissed it. The touch of her lips electrified him. She pressed his fingers gently against her throat, right beneath her bruise.

He gave up trying not to look at her—at the curve of her neck, at the deep V where her robe came together. She slid his hand over all that soft skin and underneath the fabric and cupped his palm around her breast.

Mark needed to leave. He knew that. But when she smiled up at him, he couldn’t bring himself to move. Except his thumb, which was stroking circles around her nipple now. She tipped her head back and sighed.

And it was that soft, tiny sound that finally sealed his fate.

Allison felt the exact instant when he surrendered, and the sweet thrill of it was something she knew she’d carry with her the rest of her life. He pulled her against him and crushed his mouth against hers. His kiss was hot, hungry, and the fierceness sent a shot of lust straight to her core. He tasted like heat and sex and the whiskey she’d offered him, and she grew dizzy just from tangling her tongue with his. There was no finesse here—just raw, desperate need that confirmed everything she’d always suspected about him.

He pulled back and gazed down at her, and the intensity in his eyes made her legs weak. She stroked her hands up behind his neck to pull him down for another kiss.

“You taste good,” she murmured, rubbing against him, and the texture of his damp suit and the coolness of his tie against her skin sent a shiver through her. Her fingers combed his hair. She opened her eyes and smiled up at him, so relieved that he was finally touching her. This closed-off, powerful, impossibly unattainable man wanted
her
. And he was done resisting. She’d been fantasizing about him, but the reality of him was so much better. She had him
here,
in her kitchen, damp and mussed from rain and with a day’s worth of beard darkening his jaw.

She backed out of his arms and he stopped, breathless just like she was. Smiling, she planted her palms on the counter and hitched herself up so she’d be closer to his height. His gaze heated as she hooked a leg around him and pulled him to her.

“I’ve been dying to do this,” she said, reaching for his tie. She kissed him and tugged at the knot. After a few fumbled tries with him watching her intently, she managed to get it loose. She jerked it from his collar with a
snap
and draped it over her thigh. Next, his shirt. His big hands slid down from her breasts and circled her waist possessively as she worked the buttons. She pulled the shirttail from his pants. He was still wearing his holster. She made a low growl of frustration, and he took it off.

She leaned back to watch. Her robe was open now, and she loved the way his gaze locked on her body as he got rid of his shirt and assorted weaponry. When at last she had him naked from the waist up, she ran a hand over his chest and wrapped her legs around him.

Her breasts brushed against his skin. He had well-muscled shoulders and flat abs, and although she’d known he kept in shape, she’d been prepared to overlook some extra pounds because of his age. He didn’t have any, though. He looked good in a suit, but he looked even better like this, and she felt lucky to be one of the few people who probably ever got to see him this way.

She kissed him deeply, wanting to swallow him as his hands stroked up the backs of her thighs and he dragged her hips to the very edge of the counter. He glanced around desperately. His gaze landed on her breakfast table and she saw him consider it briefly, then change his mind.

“Here,” she whispered, pushing him away and hopping down from the counter. She took him by the hand and led him to her bedroom, where she’d left only the closet light on. She turned to look at him.

Uh-oh. Second thoughts. She could see it in his eyes. He was overthinking this again, and she wanted him to stop.

She tugged him toward the bed and got on her knees on it.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” His voice was low and rough, and she responded by hooking a finger into his pants and pulling him to her.

“You won’t,” she whispered. She shrugged out of her robe just to erase any lingering doubts he might have that they were doing this and they were doing it
tonight.
Her skimpy black panties seemed to have the desired effect, and he quickly got rid of the rest of his clothes. She saw his gaze dart to the nightstand where she’d left a condom. His eyes locked on hers.

Okay, busted. Yes, she’d planned to lure him back here. But that wasn’t much of a secret, now, was it? She’d wanted him from the very first night, and those dark glances he’d been giving her had told her he wanted her, too, despite his brush-offs. And the brush-offs were over, evidently, as he came to her again and pulled her into his arms. He kissed her roughly, deeply. He planted his knee between hers and eased her down onto the bed.

Her throat closed. She made a panicky sound, and he jerked back.

“Sorry, just—” She got to her knees again. “Sorry.”

He stood up, and she knew that was it. She’d spooked him. But instead of backing off, he cupped his hand around her face and gazed down at her, and the total concern in his eyes had her heart melting. He felt responsible for what had happened. He had this protectiveness about him that both touched her and drove her crazy,
because how crazy was it for him to feel responsible for everyone everywhere and all the bad things that happened?

She brought his hand to her mouth and kissed his knuckles. “Let me be on top,” she whispered.

His eyes heated at the words. She pushed him back onto the bed and loved the raw desire she saw on his face as she straddled his thighs.

All at once she felt exhilarated. Energized. Whatever she’d lost earlier today, she was determined to get it back, right now, this moment, and with
this
man. Mark Wolfe was the most powerful, commanding man she’d ever known, and it was a huge rush to have him utterly at her mercy.

She stroked her fingers over those strong shoulders that were always so burdened with responsibility. She stroked his chest, his arms. He watched her intently and his fingers gripped her thighs as she ran her hands over his body. Then she bent over him and felt a jolt of desire as he pulled her forward and his mouth fastened on her breast. His hands moved over her hips, pulling off her last bit of clothing.

She rubbed and writhed against him, and suddenly he surged up and rolled her onto her back. He pressed his weight against her, and she was elated all over again because it felt good instead of terrifying, and she wrapped her legs around him and pulled him closer.

He kissed her mouth, her neck, her breasts. His hand slid between her legs and stroked her until she was panting and moaning and mindless. He watched her face and knew exactly where to touch her, how to touch her, how to make her forget everything in the world except
him
. And right when she thought she was going to fly apart, he pulled away from her and sat back on his knees.

She made a whimper of protest, but then she opened her eyes and he was putting on the condom. He bent over her and kissed her mouth again as his legs parted her thighs. He pushed himself inside her, and all she could think of was
yes.

She squeezed her legs around him and fisted her fingers in his hair as he drove into her again and again. She finally had it, right there in her arms—that fierce intensity she’d sensed from him since the very beginning. That relentless, driving power that defined who he was and everything he did was directed at
her
now. He was losing control with
her,
at last, and knowing she’d done this to him made her feel giddy, greedy, empowered. And then the heat of it was all too much and her control shattered. He made a raw, guttural sound and with a forceful thrust, his shattered, too.

She lay there panting, staring up at the ceiling, as the weight of his hips pinned her to the bed. Every inch of her body was in shock. She drew a deep breath and let it out with a sigh.

Something felt different. She could breathe. She glanced around and realized he was propped on his elbows, trying to keep from crushing her as she wallowed in bliss.

Carefully, he shifted her thigh and pulled their bodies apart. He rolled over onto his back and lay there, chest heaving, gazing up at the ceiling of her bedroom. Before she could think of anything to say, he got up and walked into the bathroom. When he came back, he stretched out beside her on the bed. They lay in the dark without
words—only the dull pitter-patter of rain against the windowsill.

She studied his profile in the dimness. He had strong, manly features and a chin that was maybe a little too big. She decided it was her favorite feature.

He turned to look at her. “What?”

“I’m just admiring.” She propped up on an elbow and smiled down at him.

“Are you okay?”

“Very okay,” she said, making the comment about sex even though she knew that wasn’t what he’d meant. She didn’t want him to worry about her.

He looked at the ceiling again. Something came over his face, and she sensed it was reality, crashing in on him.

She flattened her hand on his chest and felt his heart thudding against her palm.

“Stay,” she said.

He looked at her, and his expression told her he’d been thinking the exact opposite.

Without giving him time to respond, she nestled her head against his side and pretended the decision was made.

Regrets already. Something pinched inside her. She’d at least hoped she’d have him until morning. But this had been her idea, not his. She’d pressured him into it, using every tactic she could think of. And now that the lust was satisfied, he was thinking clearly enough to see exactly what had happened. He was probably lying there realizing that she was manipulative and calculating. Or wondering how soon he could tactfully leave.

Allison closed her eyes. The bubble of euphoria she’d created gradually started to deflate. Here it came—the
crash after the adrenaline-soaked day. She’d been expecting it, but still it hit her out of nowhere. She suddenly felt more exhausted than she’d ever been in her life. Every muscle seemed immobilized. The whole day sank down on her all at once, and she felt too weak to even lift an eyelid.

“Hey.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” she murmured, and drifted off to sleep.

Mark awoke with a hangover that had nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with the woman sleeping soundly beside him.

The gray light of dawn slanted through the blinds. The rain had stopped. He glanced at the fan of hair across his arm and felt a sharp pang of guilt.

Mark squeezed his eyes shut. He’d refused her. He’d flown across the country to get away from her. And still he’d managed to end up naked in her bed—a situation he’d never intended to let happen.

Except, of course, in his fantasies. In his fantasies, Allison was naked and smiling and pulling him into bed with her. In his fantasies, her bed was a place where he could forget the chaos and the loneliness and the gut-churning stress that had become his life, a place where he could pound himself into her and get rid of this clawing
need
that had somehow taken hold of him.

But it was no longer a fantasy, because that was exactly what he’d done. And because it was reality instead of a dream, there were consequences.

One of these, apparently, was that all that need he’d hoped to get rid of hadn’t gone anywhere.

What the fuck had he been thinking? He couldn’t blame it on alcohol. Or even fatigue, really. He’d been tired his whole career, and he’d somehow managed to keep his baser impulses in check until last night.

The smooth, slender thigh resting on his leg shifted, and he looked down at her.

God, she was young. And warm. And so beautiful he didn’t want to touch her for fear she’d . . . he didn’t know. Vanish, maybe. Along with the faint feeling of contentment he’d been sensing for the past six hours. Mark stared at the ceiling. When was the last time he’d felt this way? When was the last time he’d gone an entire night without getting up to pace or open his laptop or sift through case files? It had been years—since before his troubles with Trisha.

She shifted again, and it was more purposeful now. He needed to get up before this grew awkward. He needed to leave.

Only his body hadn’t quite received the “time to go” message his brain was sending.

“Are you always this tense in the morning?”

She propped up on an elbow and looked at him, and he realized she was fully awake. And she was smiling. The slight curve at the corner of her mouth reinforced what her leg was saying—she was feeling playful.