Witness to Passion (Entangled Ignite) (Guarding Her Body) (8 page)

As his jagged breathing evened and eventually quieted, she pressed a last gentle kiss to his flesh, scattering small presses of her lips to his hip and thigh. Just moments before the room had been soaked with serrated groans, carnal demands, and hoarse curses. But now, after the storm had crashed and ebbed, the silence rolled in like a dense fog. Bringing with it the cold, the confusion, the dark.

Shivering, and not from the unsated desire that thrummed under her skin and between her legs, Fallon inched off the bed, her gaze on his thighs, on his ridged abdomen, on the cock that still remained long and thick in spite of his recent release.

Anywhere but his face. If she spied greed there, she might not leave the room, or him. But if she spotted the cold reserve there, the rejection, she might go Lorena Bobbitt on him. She couldn’t handle that with the taste of him still strong in her mouth. The feel of his dominant thrusts still echoing on her tongue…

A hard, unyielding hand gripped her wrist.

She jerked her head up.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Shane’s voice, hoarse from his orgasm, danced over her skin, stroked between her legs. He sat, drew her back onto the bed, and flipped her over so he loomed over her. His palms pressed the mattress on either side of her head, his knees nudging her inner thighs. “We’re not finished.”

Slowly, without breaking the hot connection of their gazes, he lowered until his torso covered hers. No way he could miss the rapid, harsh puffs of breath escaping her lips or the tight points of her nipples poking his chest. As he slid down, her stomach muscles contracted almost to the point of pain. Anticipation. Terrible, delicious anticipation pounded in her blood, clenched her abdomen, quivered in her sex. Part of her brain struggled with the reality of it, certain she was dreaming and any second would wake up, trembling, hot, sweaty, and unsatisfied.

But the cool rush of air tickling her thighs assured her this wasn’t a fantasy. Shane was pushing her T-shirt up her legs, baring her shamefully damp flesh to his gaze. Spread wide, she couldn’t hide her reaction to him. And the thin panel of her panties might cover her sex, but it most likely wasn’t concealing how aroused and wet she was for him.

He knelt between her legs, rising like some unholy god of all things carnal. His narrowed study branded her as he pushed her shirt higher. She shivered, as much from the lust racing through her as the slight, air-conditioned drafts licking across her hips, stomach, and breasts.

“I knew you would be gorgeous,” he uttered, his tone gruff, almost reluctant. “And I knew…” He didn’t finish, instead dipped his head and captured a taut nipple between his lips.

Her cry bounced off the walls of the room, echoed in her ears. Trembling escalated into full-out quakes as she tunneled her fingers through his hair, held his head close. Her back arched, offering more of herself to his mouth, his tongue. He sucked hard on her flesh, grazing his teeth over the beaded tip, then soothing the sting with greedy licks.

God, it was so good.
He
made her feel so damn good. No one else had ever made her body sing like this.

“Shane.” She whimpered, gripped his head harder. “Please,” she pleaded.

Mind reading must’ve been included in his repertoire, because he murmured something low and unintelligible against her breast and trailed his hand down her belly, under the edge of her panties. Just as he lifted his head and treated her neglected breast to the same sweet attention, he drove a finger into her pussy.

Her heels dug into the bed, her hips rising to his touch. Jesus, that blunt, long finger stretched tissue that hadn’t seen action in months. She squeezed her thighs together around his hand, trapping him inside her.

“Relax for me, baby,” he whispered, kneading her breast and pinching her nipple with his free hand. “Let me in.” In spite of her tight clasp, he withdrew and thrust back in with two fingers. With another strangled cry, her legs fell apart. “Damn, you’re tight, but so wet.” He groaned, and she savored the hungry, dark sound—a sound and need
she
incited within him.

He set up a quick, breath-stealing pace, his knuckles bumping against her swollen folds with each plunge. He was relentless, propelling her toward a cataclysmic release. She could do nothing but twist and writhe under him, a willing prisoner to his mouth and hands who received the pleasure he doled out.

She strained toward him, clutching him close and riding his fingers with a fervor reserved only for the desperate search for orgasm.

“Come hard for me,” he softly ordered against her skin. “I want to feel every bit of it. Understand, Fallon?”

Jerking her head, she gasped, unable to voice her acquiescence. Latching on to her breast, he drew hard, pressing the bud against the roof of his mouth with his tongue. And below. Oh Jesus Christ, below he curled his fingertips against a magic button deep and high in her core. God, she was…

She exploded. Soared over the edge into ecstasy so hot she wouldn’t have been surprised to find out she’d pulled a Wicked Witch of the West. Low murmurs filled her ear and broad palms stroked down her spine, her side as tremors rippled through her.

Drifting back down, a warm satisfaction weighed down her limbs. Lethargy crept in, but so did the return of that awful silence.

The awful, awkward silence.

This time when she eased off the bed, he didn’t stop her. And without a word, she turned and escaped the room, closing the door behind her. Once she reached the guestroom, she climbed back into bed, jerking the sheets over her shoulders. Her soft pants seemed like cannon blasts in the room as her mind replayed what had occurred in his bedroom.

Shit.

If Shane had avoided her for years because of a kiss, he might leave the country over a blow and hand job.

Chapter Nine

Somewhere a village was missing its idiot.

And he stood six three, wore a size fourteen boot, and carried around guilt like a man purse.

Seven years of steering clear of temptation. Seven years of maintaining a stranglehold on his control. Seven years of keeping his hands off.

Then one night with her in his house, and Shane had blown that accomplishment six ways to Sunday.

Dick. One. Sanity. Zero.

The woman could drive a saint to a night of hitting the bourbon. And last time he checked, his halo had been placed on permanent layaway.

Swearing, he jerked a black, long-sleeved T-shirt over his head, then dropped to the bed to pull on his boots. Giving his shoelace a vicious yank, he swore he could still smell her vanilla scent on the sheets. Could still feel the powerful almost bruising clamp of her sex on his fingers. Could still hear the soft suction of her mouth on his cock, feel the vibration up and down his length from the little hum she made in her throat. A hum of pleasure. Of hunger.

What the hell had he been thinking?

That’s just it—he hadn’t been thinking. At least not with the correct head.

Being in Fallon’s company the past two days had been like a sensory overload after years of deprivation. She’d stoked a hunger in him so bright a cold shower hadn’t been able to quench the flames. So he’d taken matters into his own hand—literally. He’d lain in bed long after the light under her door had dimmed, and imagined his fist was her tight core squeezing him, milking him. Behind his eyelids, he’d envisioned her naked, golden body, glistening with sweat, rising and falling over him. Her toned, strong thighs caging his hips, her beautiful breasts with their stiff tips grazing his chest. Her head thrown back, her hair, dark brown and damp with moisture, sticking to her shoulders and neck.

The fantasy had him barreling toward orgasm. And as he lay there, fucking his palm, he heard it—a hushed rustle. A soft whisper like clothes brushing against skin. He’d opened his eyes, and his fantasy had come to vivid life. Fallon. Watching him. Hearing him groan her name.

As she’d stood at the foot of his bed, he should’ve stopped her. Should’ve ordered her to turn around and leave. Should’ve exercised the damn discipline he prided himself on.

Instead he’d remained quiet and received a blow job that had damn near placed him on the endangered species list. And nearly drowned in the pleasure of her uninhibited response as he brought her to orgasm. The vision of Fallon caught in the middle of release wavered in front of his eyes. Sexy. Beautiful. Unforgettable.

He wasn’t a monk; he enjoyed sex. Loved the musk of it, the groans, sighs, and erotic suction of flesh penetrating flesh. The liquid heat and muscled clasp of a woman’s pussy as he burrowed deep inside her. Yeah, he enjoyed sex. But still…since the first time he fucked at fifteen to the last time months ago, none of the encounters—none of the women—compared to Fallon and the need and ecstasy he’d found in having her lips wrapped around his cock or feeling her squeeze him like a vise as she came.

Afterward, as sweat had dried on both of them, and her body ceased to shudder next to him, he’d glimpsed the uncertainty in her eyes. Noted it in the way she’d quietly exited the room. A kinder, more sensitive man would’ve called her back, held her…something. But he was a weak son of a bitch, and he’d allowed her to go.

Weak because he’d wanted to ask her to stay, to not leave the bed until it was on trembling legs, achy thighs, and a tender pussy. But he couldn’t. Touching her, allowing her to touch him, had been a mistake. One he couldn’t repeat. Yet, how they could pretend last night hadn’t happened—how he could burn the memory from his brain—he had no clue. If he escaped this ordeal with his control intact and his cock firmly tucked in his pants, it would be a minor miracle.

He rose, glanced at the digital clock on his nightstand, and scrubbed rough palms down his face before dragging them over his head. Christ, six a.m. Six hours after she’d left his room, and she still wouldn’t leave him alone. Not physically. Mentally, emotionally. Fallon had been a fixture in his mind for so long he should charge her rent.

But between the time he’d looked up to find her in his bedroom and now, the facts hadn’t changed. Fallon was his little sister’s best friend. She wasn’t for him.

Frowning, he swiped his wallet and phone off the bedside table and left the bedroom. A moment later, he descended the steps to the first floor and entered the kitchen.

He jerked to an abrupt stop.

So much for the pep talk
.

His cock lurched behind his zipper, stretching and throbbing. He held still, certain if he made one movement, he’d explode like a pimply-faced teenager copping his first illicit glimpse of breasts. Shutting his eyes, he silently swore. But seconds later, he fixed his gaze on the ball-squeezing sight that greeted him.

Fallon, cooking breakfast in a sleeveless white shirt, her breasts thrusting against the thin material, and a pair of jeans that had probably required grease and a prayer to squeeze into. Damn, the way the denim molded to the curves of her ass… And God Almighty, what an ass. His scrutiny dropped to her bare feet with their pink-painted toes. Simple and somehow as sexy as a December centerfold.

If he stayed there in the kitchen with her, he would have her laid out on the table, his face buried between her thighs, her screams and thighs caressing his ears. And he wouldn’t stop there. He wouldn’t stop until he was lodged so deep inside her, he might not ever find his way out again.

And he might not want to.

Christ, a primitive, possessive part of him
knew
he wouldn’t want to. She was the exact antithesis of him. Yet she was the only woman his body raged for.

What a monumental clusterfuck. One he’d placed himself square in the middle of.

“Cooking?” he asked, cursing the gravel-roughened tone. It could be mistaken for early morning hoarseness, but the erection in his pants called out that lie.

She started, not having noticed him in the doorway. Lifting her head, she met his intent scrutiny, the spatula in her hand suspended over the pan. The memory of the previous night lit her gray gaze, and he clenched his jaw.

Hands off. You’re here to protect her, that’s it
.

The admonition looped in his head like a subliminal tape trying to convince him smoking was bad. At this moment, she presented more of a danger than becoming hooked on nicotine. With a patch and willpower he could kick that habit. Her? There hadn’t been a rehab established that could make him forget the addicting feel of her mouth on his dick. Or keep him from craving more.

“I’ve been out of my mother’s house and on my own for years now. It was either learn to cook or live off of Hot Pockets and ramen noodles. Do you want an omelet?”

He shifted out of the doorway and into the kitchen. “Sure, thank you.” He scanned her body once more. Gritted his teeth against the further tightening of his body “Where did you get the clothes?”

“I found some of Addy’s things in the other spare bedroom. I hope you don’t mind. We’re about the same size, and I know she wouldn’t care.”

About the same size. He silently snorted. Yes, she and his sister were both petite but where Addy was slender, Fallon possessed curves that women paid good money to a surgeon to obtain.

“We’re leaving here in about an hour. Once we are out of town, I’ll stop so you can pick up some clothes and other items.” So stilted, so stiff. And it didn’t help he couldn’t keep his attention from dropping to her mouth. See if it was swollen from the not so gentle way he’d used it.

“I’ll be ready, let me just finish up here.” She flipped the egg in the pan with a neat, efficient twist of her wrist he couldn’t help but admire. He’d learned to cook for Addisyn, his mother, and himself at an early age—he’d had to. But he’d never mastered the omelet flip. “So,” she said, her dense tangle of curls obscuring the side of her face, “are we not going to talk about last night?”

Desire and trepidation knotted his gut. “Fallon—”

Glass exploded.

Shane dove for Fallon, grabbing her around the waist and twisting midair so he received the brunt of the impact to the floor. Immediately, he rolled, covering her with his body, shielding her head with his arms. Shards crashed and splintered against the marble island, the only barrier between them and the lethal glass slivers.

For a moment, the air thickened, shifted, then wavered, transforming into a giant heat wave. The kitchen floor mutated into hard-packed dirt that smeared his face and coated his tongue. The acrid stench of cordite stung his nostrils as chunks of concrete and grit pelted him. Fire and agony ripped through his lower back…

“Shane?” The tremor in Fallon’s whisper boomeranged him to the present and out of the hellish past.

“Are you okay?” he barked, lifting his arms and head, already scanning her face and upper body for himself.

“Y-yes,” she stammered, eyes wide with terror. “I’m—”

Dull, loud thumps resounded against the walls and cabinets, accompanied by the shattering of more glass and the staccato blasts of gunfire.

“Fuck!” he barked. Bullets ripped apart the curtains over the sink, destroying the decorative window and more glass rained down. He had to get her out of there.

Crouching over her, he tugged her up, but was careful to remain below the relative safety of the island. Relative because whoever was shooting up the front of his house wouldn’t be satisfied with waiting them out.

He darted a glance at her bare feet and the splinters covering the floor. Bending low, he hiked her into his arms and shot across the kitchen and into the bordering hall. A bullet buried into the wall next to his hip as he cleared the doorway. A few more steps and he stopped in front of a hall closet, opened the door, and shoved her inside. For once she didn’t object, didn’t give him a hard time. And as he shut the door, he carried the image of her pale skin, dark eyes, and trembling mouth with him.

Icy rage filled him. They’d shot up his home. Endangered innocent people. Tried to kill the woman under his protection—the woman he cared for. Of all their crimes, the last one was the most heinous. The one he wanted blood for.

Edging along the wall, he reached the mouth of the corridor and dropped to a crab walk. Gunfire continued to erupt and burst into the living room from the obliterated bay windows, cleaving chunks of wood off the coffee table and ripping apart the couch.

His boots crunched on glass as he scurried to an end table, jerked the drawer open, and removed one of the SIG Sauers he’d stashed around the house. Ducking behind the couch, he checked the clip, paused, waited. Listened.

From the volume of bullets and the rate at which they were shot, he guessed two, possibly three, shooters. Front of the house. With most of the damage inflicted on the living room and some in the kitchen, the sons of bitches were either on the sidewalk right outside his house, or maybe in his yard. But that could change at any moment.

Their job was to kill. Sooner or later they would infiltrate the house to make sure the mission was accomplished.

No way in hell would he allow that to happen.

Snatching an afghan off the arm of the couch, he gave the blanket a violent shake, scattering most of the shards. Satisfied, he balled it up, pressed it against his chest and belly, and laid on the floor. Scooting around the sofa, he swiftly made his way to the window. He shoved the larger pieces of glass aside with his forearms, ignoring the minute pricks to his skin. Hoping his hands would remain dry, free of blood, and steady.

Moments later, he neared the decimated bay window—
bitches
—and jumped to his feet, shoulder pressed to the wall bordering the pane. A quick, furtive glance outside confirmed his suspicions. Two shooters, both in his yard and slowly creeping closer. A dark blue sedan idled in the street, most likely with a driver behind the wheel.

Pulling back the slide, he loaded a round, then raised the SIG, wrapped both hands around the grip, index finger resting along the barrel. Inhaling, he shifted forward, peered down the rear sight…and fired.

The asshole closest to the house dropped his gun, clutched his shoulder with a sharp cry. For a second, the firing ceased, his partner probably stunned by his boy going down. Absorbing the echo of the recoil vibrating up his arm, Shane grasped immediate advantage and shot again.

“Shit!” The roar boomed in the sudden silence as the other thug grabbed his firing arm, the automatic weapon in his hand tumbling to the ground. The door to the sedan flew open and another man leaped out, running to his friends.

Flattening his mouth into a grim line, Shane balked at shooting an unarmed man even though he’d driven his “brothers” to Shane’s house to kill Fallon. Still… Taking aim again, he shot out a rear tire and a front tire.
Try driving away on rims, motherfuckers.

In the distance, sirens wailed, the shooting probably called in by his neighbors.

Damn it
. He glared out the window, gun raised as the three men hobbled down the street and away from the cops closing in. Lowering his SIG, he charged across the living room and into the hall.

Priority number one: get Fallon out and away from the house before the police arrived. The cops would insist on obtaining a statement, which translated into a trip to the station and detainment for God knew how long. It was time they couldn’t afford. Time he could use to put distance between her, Jonah Michaels, and the Lords of War. Time that meant life or death. Hers.

He jerked the closet door open. Fallon flew out as if discharged from a cannon.

“Oomph.” The impact of her barreling into him drove the air from his lungs. Automatically, his arms rose to lock around her. Relief blasted through him. She was safe. For the moment. “They’re gone, baby,” he assured her, pressing a brief, hard kiss to her wild curls. “But we have to go before the police arrive. Hurry.” Thank God he’d had the foresight to pack a duffel bag the night before and store it in his SUV. “Hold on.” Hiking her into his arms, he dashed to the foyer, grabbed his keys, punched in the security code, and rushed out of the house.