The Hotter You Burn (15 page)

He stopped, a flash of rage in his eyes, quickly gone. “Let's not talk about that right now.” He started up again, prowling toward her, backing her against the kitchen counter. Heat radiated off him, and a whimper escaped her. “I missed you tonight. I wanted you with me, hated that you weren't.”

Could he hear the swift pound of her heart? “Where were you?”

“A banquet for the soccer team West and I coach. Shhhh, don't tell.” He placed a finger over her lips, and she fought the urge to lick him, relief and desire pouring through her. “Women go crazy when they find out.”

No kidding. She just happened to be one of them. “I already knew you coached underprivileged kids. I've been handling bits and pieces of your business, remember?” Like fielding calls from moms who suddenly couldn't recall when the next practice happened to be, even though it fell on the same day every week. “Did the kids have a good time?”

“The best. And I sent Donna/Dana away. I didn't want her.”

“Donna/Dana?”

He nodded. “She would have slept with me and wouldn't have asked for more.”

Jealousy delivered a strong kick to her insides, but it was followed by the sweet caress of surprise. He'd nixed a potentially easy bedmate—while drunk—to come be with Harlow, who was as far from easy as could be?

“Go on,” she urged, melting against him.

“I'd rather enjoy you while I can.” He nuzzled his nose against her jawline and played with the lapels of her robe. The silk brushed against her flushed skin, tickling her. “I'm sorry I was so rude to you. You've got me tied in so many knots I'm not myself anymore.” He nipped at her ear. “And damn me, but I'm starting to think that's a good thing.”

Her already weak knees threatened to buckle. She would have fallen, but he caught her and set her on the counter. His big hands settled on her bare thighs. Her robe was short, but seated as she was, it was micromini.

He pushed her legs apart and stood firmly between them, as if he had every right to be there. “You are so beautiful.” His gaze remained on his fingers as they continued to trail up and down those lapels. With every upward glide, he parted the material even more.

She wasn't nude underneath, but she might as well have been. She wore only a tank and a pair of panties. Little protection against such potent desire. “I'm not. Beautiful, I mean. I'm really not.” She didn't want him to see how not-beautiful she really was, but she couldn't bring herself to stop him from exposing a bit more of her skin. Not yet.

“You are more mysterious than the Voynich Manuscript, you know that?” he said. “Maybe that's how you've managed to keep me hooked. I want to solve the puzzle you've created.”

“You like puzzles?”

“I never have before.”

“But you want to solve me?”

He didn't seem to hear her, his gaze on her shoulders and the robe about to fall. “Such pretty skin.”

Stomach twisting, she covered herself at last. “Why don't we watch TV, hmm?” She motioned to the only television set—in the bedroom.

“I'd rather watch you.” As he clasped her ankle and lifted her bare foot, she gasped, only to moan when he began to massage spots she hadn't known were tender. “Tell me the last time you went on a date.”

“In high school.” Once she'd healed from her injuries and realized no one in town would ever forgive her, she'd spent all her time at the farmhouse, transcribing medical documents for her mom, whose eyesight had deteriorated over the years. Unfortunately, Harlow hadn't been able to keep the job after her mom died, unable to admit she'd done any past work without putting
all
of her mom's contributions in question.

“As I suspected,” Beck said, “which means the bar is set pretty low.”

“Definitely. High school boys are pigs.”

He pressed deeper into her arch, dragging another moan out of her. “What's your longest relationship?”

“Only a few weeks.” She eyed him warily. “I used to move from boy to boy, depending on who wasn't paying any attention to me. If the one I wanted had a girlfriend, well, he soon didn't.”

“There were boys who didn't pay attention to you?”

“Only the smart ones,” she said, surprised by his takeaway from her speech.

“But you changed. What changed you?” he asked softly, pushing for answers, always pushing.

Argh! Her body temperature dropped from white-hot to bone-cold, and she pulled away from him. He let her, taking hold of her other foot. “I should have known you'd circle back to the Incident yet again.”

“The incident. Meaning a single circumstance. Tell me,” he said.

“No. I don't want to talk about it.”

“Have you
ever
talked about it? Or have you let it fester?”

She pressed her lips together, refusing to reply to even that. If she gave the slightest bit, he would take more and more until she had nothing left.

“What if I tell you a secret about
me
?” he asked. “Something I've never told anyone else.”

In a snap, desperation hit her. She would do
anything
to learn more about him—even an exchange. “Yes. Okay. Tell me a secret, and I will tell you about the Incident. But only the bare minimum facts.”

He snorted and shook his head. “As if I'll give my secret away so cheaply. You'll tell me every detail.”

“Five details for five of your secrets.”

“Ten details, two secrets.”

“Four details, four secrets,” she countered.

“Twelve details, no secrets,” he insisted.

Her eyes narrowed. “Tell me
all
your secrets and I'll tell you one of mine.”

“You'll tell me everything about it?”

“Everything,” she agreed with a sigh.

His smile stretched wide. “You've got yourself a deal, baby.”

He hit a particularly tender area, and she released another moan, her back arching, her breasts straining against her top.

“That feels... Oh... Oh!”

Voice nothing but mist and seduction, he said, “I could make you feel even better...all over. If only you'd let me.”

Desire thrummed, more insistent, until she teetered on the brink of ultimate surrender.

This flower is dead...

With what little willpower she could scrounge up, she pulled her foot from his grip and crossed her arms over her chest, hiding the twin beads trying to play peekaboo. “You go first,” she muttered. “All your secrets.”

“And let you welsh?”

She gave him the look most of her teachers had given her over the years. Authoritative yet pitying. “And let you tell me lame secrets about your sexcapades?”

“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.”