Riding the Storm (5 page)

"Don't
tease, Haley," he said gruffly. "I can't… it's too dangerous…

He
couldn't finish the sentence because she took him deep into her mouth, and the
only thing he could do was spear his fingers through her hair that had come
loose from her pony-tail, and thrust upward. She hummed or moaned or groaned—he
couldn't tell which, but the vibrations rippled from the head of his cock to
his balls, and the sensation almost sent him over the edge.

A
crash. In his head. In the cabin. Shit. Another window had blown in the
kitchen, and the storm continued to try to pound her way inside.

Dammit.
He couldn't do this to her. He wouldn't. No matter how his body had tensed to
the point of breaking, he wouldn't be responsible for breaking
her
.

Grasping
her head with shaking hands, he lifted her away. "Go to the bathroom and
stay there. It's the strongest part of the house." He'd stay here and take
care of his raging need, send the storm packing.

He
pulled them both to their feet, and as her hair whipped wildly about her face,
she stared him down. "No. We're finishing this."

Anger
and need collided in one massive ball of rage in the pit of his belly.
"The goddamned hurricane is here! Go. Now!"

Instead
of obeying, she reached for him again, closed her fingers tight around his
cock. A strange buzzing noise bounced off the inside of his skull, and his mind
whirred so fast, he couldn't think straight. He shoved her away, propelled her
toward the bathroom and stalked to the broken window, his flip-flops crunching
glass.

Standing
in the wind, he closed his eyes, took three deep, long breaths.
Get it
together, man. Get it together
. He needed to get out of here. Draw the
storm away. Take care of his needs far from here, where the wind howled her
fury at Haley like a jealous mistress.

"Remy!"

He
whirled, teeth bared, darkness closing in on his thoughts and the cabin. She
was walking toward him, her shadowed body wet, dripping, the dark triangle at
the juncture of her thighs a beacon that made his cock jerk toward her.

"Not.
One. More. Step," he heard himself say, though that voice wasn't his, not
the way it sounded torn from the depths of hell. "You have no idea what
I'm capable of."

"I
need to know," she said, reaching for him. "Show me."

He
shook his head, a last desperate attempt to hold on to control, but the moment
her fingers touched his skin, the battle was lost. His tenuous hold on sanity
snapped, and with a roar that drowned out the storm, he spun her around, bent
her roughly over the back of the stained orange sofa.

The
whirring in his head spun faster. The howling wind outside picked up speed. He
grasped his cock, engorged to the point of agony, and thrust inside Haley's
waiting sex. She cried out, and dear God, he hoped it wasn't in pain because he
couldn't stop.

Gripping
her hips with trembling fingers, he pounded into her, each thrust pushing her
and the couch forward. Her pulsing walls sucked him deep, squeezed him so hard
that his concentration centered only on the place where their bodies joined.

Son
of a bitch, she felt good. Hot and silky and tight.

He
looked down at his shaft, glistening with her juices, as he drove into her.
Riveted by the sight of their mating, he trailed his thumb across her firm
bottom and then spread her wide with his fingers. Lightning spanked her pale
ass cheeks as he skimmed a finger along her crevice, circling her opening,
making her squirm and moan.

"Remy…
She arched her back, taking his thrusts even deeper, testing his control.
Normally he'd orgasm quickly and end the storm and the danger that came with
it, but this was different, Haley was different, and he ground his teeth until
he thought one would crack. He needed to do this right. He needed to taste her,
needed every part of their bodies to meld.

With
a growl, he bent over her, positioned his mouth against the gentle slope of her
shoulder. He couldn't help but bite into the soft skin and hear her whimpers of
pleasure when he didn't let go.

Every
muscle screamed as he drove into her. Thunder shook the house, sent shock waves
up his legs and into his balls, which slapped against her soaked lips.

"Harder,"
Haley cried hoarsely, and he couldn't believe she wanted more, not when every
other woman he'd been with had begged him to ease up long before he'd made it
to this point.

She
reached between her legs, used two fingers to stroke his sac, and he knew he
wanted more too, wanted to see her eyes when she came.

He
grunted as he pulled out of her, and he didn't need to spin her around this
time. She turned, thrust a leg between his to hook his calf and pull him down
to the floor with her. They dropped heavily, and he barely had time to twist
his body to take the brunt of the impact.

Somehow,
he kicked off his flip-flops and stripped out of his pants, and then she was
all over him, legs spread and wrapped around him. Strong legs that hugged him
firmly around the waist and wouldn't let go.

He'd
stopped thinking the second she'd touched him a moment ago. Now, sunk deep
inside Haley's body, her center slick from orgasm but still tight enough to
cause her to gasp, thoughts were starting to come through, thoughts about how
she wasn't the least bit afraid.

And
she was holding him, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her eyes focused on
his and dark with pleasure.

He'd
been murmuring things to her, words, phrases in Cajun French, and somehow she
was answering him, telling him she loved it.

"You
like this," he murmured. "Like my cock buried deep inside you."

"Mmm,
yes."

"Fucking
you so hard you don't have any control," he said, pushing his palms
against the floor for support; his knees scraped the old wood, and he didn't
care because he was so deep in the rut.

She
was still clutching him like he was more than just a screw, stroking his back,
kissing his neck while she kept pace with the rocking he couldn't stop,
matching him thrust for thrust.

He
must have been talking, because she was telling him to come, telling him not to
worry about hurting her, telling him it was okay to let go.

She
had no idea what she was saying, but she'd said it, and that was all he needed.
He rammed into her, dug his short nails into the soft skin of her shoulders. A
red-hot spear of pleasure burst in his pelvis. A clap of thunder shook the
house.

He
shuddered as he came. Spilled inside her because the storm hadn't provided him
enough time to think about protection and he didn't care—loved the way her
tight heat milked him up and down, the way it felt to fill her up completely
with his seed, which spilled out from between them and lubricated him for the
next round.

He
was still hard, steel encased in softness. And he was so far from done.
Slowing, he caught his breath for just a second before he was thrusting into
her again.

Haley
crushed Remy between her thighs, lifted her hips to take him deep, arched so
her nipples rubbed against his damp chest. Never had she been with a man who
could match her hungers in bed—not that she and Remy had made it to a bed. But
now, this was the best kind of research she'd ever done.

He
spoke sexy things into her ear as he alternately nipped her lobe and then
soothed it with his tongue. His voice was softer, gentler than it had been
before his orgasm, and crazily enough, so was the storm.

Maybe
there really was something to Remy Begnaud and the weather thing. Part of her,
the curious, dedicated scientist, wanted to scrutinize every move he'd made
since she'd met him, analyze how his behavior had paralleled weather events.
But the extremely aroused female part of her didn't care about any of that, as
long as Remy kept doing what he was doing. If the weather made him the
strongest, most intense lover of her life, then let the heavens roar.

"Tell
me what you want,
chere catin
," he murmured into her ear.
"Tell me while I can still think."

"That,"
she said as he inserted a hand between their bodies to circle her clit lightly
with one callused finger, his hot touch releasing an eruption of fiery ripples
at her center. "Just. That."

Silver
bursts of lightning made shadows dance on the walls, the floor, the skin of his
shoulders, but the thunder was muted, allowing her to hear his whispered
words—which she didn't recognize as English, but that spoke volumes
nevertheless.

She
closed her eyes, let herself feel and not think, because if she let her mind
go, it would go places it shouldn't venture. It would wonder how Remy would
react when he found out she was here to study him for possible recruitment into
a super-secret agency. Or how he'd feel about being betrayed by his father. Or
if he made other women come as hard as she had.

But
really, none of those thoughts mattered, because she didn't care. This was a
job. Remy was a job. And he was doing a damn fine job at what he was doing.

She
arched up, taking all of him, forcing his hand to touch her where she needed
him to, forcing his cock to rake the place inside that made her wild. When he
slowed the tempo of his thrusts, she dug her nails into the knotted muscles in
his back. His response, a harsh breath that hissed between his clenched teeth,
made her smile against his skin, especially when he drove into her harder than
before. Her back scraped on the rough wooden floor, but she didn't care; the
pain only made her more aware of the pleasant sensations between her legs.

Her
body gripped his length so tightly that she could feel every ridge, every bump,
every texture along his shaft, and she cried out at the sweet tension that
began to coil in her core. The slide of his cock massaged her G-spot with each
slippery stroke, dredging moans from the depths of her chest, urging her hips to
roll frantically against his. Somewhere in the background, her mind registered
the sound of the wind blowing open the front door, and then the crash of
something heavy inside the house.

"I'm
sorry," Remy said hoarsely, and plunged deep inside her.

"Don't
be," she returned, her voice barely more than a moan. "This is… mmm,
yes, oh, right there…

The
remaining windows rattled, and the roof creaked and popped like it was going to
peel away like a can lid. Remy increased his pace, grabbed her head in both
hands and forced her to look into his eyes. His eyes that had gone feral and
luminous in the continuous flashes from the storm.

"Ground
me."

It
wasn't his voice. It couldn't be. Not unless he was the storm personified,
because he sounded like the thunder. Only more powerful.

Goose
bumps pebbled her skin. He'd asked her to ground him… ground him in the here
and now? How odd that he'd used an electrical term.

But
she did what she could. She locked her gaze on his, watched the lightning
reflect in his eyes, watched it emanate from somewhere deeper as well, from
somewhere inside him.

"That's
it, Remy," she breathed. "Let go. I've got you."

The
fierce hunger in his eyes intensified, and he slammed hard, fast strokes into
her. Her skin tingled and heat seared her flesh. Tendons strained in Remy's
neck, his jaw clenched, and then he came, this time in silence, his hot semen
burning her from the inside out like a current from a live wire.

The
relentless pressure that had been building shattered, and shards of pleasure
ripped through her body. The bone-deep orgasm tore her apart, left her panting,
shaking, feeling at once wrung out and energized.

She
couldn't recall the last time a man had worked her into more than one orgasm in
a night, but she knew for sure that no man had ever done it so well.

As a
meteorology geek with a passion for severe weather, she'd always harbored a
secret fantasy, one that took her into the heart of a tempest with a man who
was strong enough to stand up to Mother Nature.

It
had been a safe fantasy, because no one was that crazy.

Wrong.
Remy was that crazy. Even if the thing with the weather was a hoax or was all
in his imagination, it didn't matter. Because he'd gotten off on the storms,
and oh, man, so had she.

Remy
Begnaud Sr. looked out Widow Johnson's window at the pouring rain and backdrop
of lightning. Thunder shook the house. Snarling gusts of wind bent trees until
their branches scratched like fingernails across the old tin roof.

T had
come home.

Shit
on a stick. He rubbed his jaw, rough after not shaving for two days. His mind
had been elsewhere, on his newest inventions, on Widow Johnson's talent in bed,
on the fact that he might have made a whopper of a mistake by telling that
pretty little meteorologist about T-Remy's association with Mother Nature.

He'd
done it for T's own good, and he dared anyone to think otherwise. Sure, Haley
had given him a shitload of money for the info, but that had been gravy. The
important thing had been to make sure T got help for his weather problems and a
steady job outside the Navy so he wouldn't ruin his life the way Remy had. That
Haley girl had promised T would get both if what Remy told her was true.