Maybe he sensed the impulse within her, because he shifted, cupped her. Pressed the heel of his palm against her clit. Hard.
She broke. Cracked wide open and everything poured out of her-ecstasy, cries, whimpers, words, doubts, fears. Everything. The orgasm crashed over her, through her, leaving her shuddering, weak, and craving more.
And as Raphael levered his hips up, jerked his wallet from his back pocket, and snatched out a small foil square, the yearning sharpened. He tossed both to the seat and reached for his belt.
And she reached for him.
Chapter Three
"I, um." Greer cleared her throat. Twisted the strap of her purse. Studied the empty street in front of her brownstone. Everything but meet the incisive, dark-blue gaze of the man she'd spent the last three hours having sex with in the backseat of his truck. "I- Thank you."
Oh, Jesus. Had she really just thanked him for … for … Images of all he'd done for her and to her flashed across her mind's eye in vivid detail.
A dark eyebrow arched high, joining the slight quirk at the corner of his mouth. "You're more than welcome, princess."
She closed her eyes, heat pouring into her face. Which was ridiculous in itself. After all they'd done, all he'd seen of her body, all the places he'd touched, kissed-oh, God, licked-embarrassment should be the last emotion bombarding her. But there it was. And damn it, why couldn't she be more mature about this? Say good-bye like an adult? Play this off as if fucking him on a public street wasn't a big deal?
Because it had been. To her, at least. And as silly and schoolgirl-crushing-on-the-quarterback as it seemed, she didn't want to say good-bye. Not to tonight. Not to Raphael Marcel.
A big palm cradled her cheek, the warmth of his skin against hers like a shield against the cold night air.
"Hey," Raphael murmured. She lifted her lashes as the pad of his thumb swept over her cheekbone. "I thought you said no regrets."
"I don't." How would he react if she confessed the only regret she harbored was letting him walk away tonight and never seeing him again? No one had ever made her feel more cherished, more desirable … more beautiful. "I don't," she repeated softly.
"Then kiss me good night like you mean it before I have any more shrinkage."
His last words took a moment to sink in. But when it did, she laughed, amusement warring with mortification.
"I really think you say certain things just to make me blush."
He grinned. "Would I do that?"
"Definitely," she said, voice wry. Maybe she'd only known him less than a few hours, but that wicked sense of humor? He seemed to get a kick out of needling her.
He lifted his other hand to her face, tipped her head back. Brushed the back of his fingers down her temple, over her jaw. "You have it wrong, princess," he whispered. "I'm the one who needs to be thanking you. For staying with me. For trusting me with your body and pleasure. For trumping every kinky, fucked-up fantasy I've played in my mind over and over since the second I saw you in my office."
She laughed once more, but this chuckle was softer, more breathless. God, he had a habit of stealing her breath.
"Now"-he swept his mouth across hers-"give me a kiss."
Without hesitation she parted her lips, allowed him in. Even though he'd asked her for the kiss, he snatched control of it, dragging her further into the erotic world he commanded and ruled. His tongue curled around hers, sucking on it, coaxing her to get hot with him even as they stood on her doorstep. She fisted his long, dark hair, rose on the toes of her boots to delve deeper, demand more. She moaned. Almost begged him to follow her upstairs and pick up what they started and finished in his truck.
But she pulled away and released her grip on his hair, panting hard.
His hooded gaze seared her, tempted her. Urged her to invite him upstairs and indulge in an encore performance of the last few hours. She wanted to. Shivering, she almost buried her hands back in his hair, dragged his head down, and recaptured his mouth. Damn, did she want to. But at the last moment, she inched backward a step.
"Good night, Raphael," she whispered.
The corner of his lips quirked before he gently rubbed the back of his fingers down her cheek. "Don't forget to call your brother so he doesn't send out SWAT after me," he ordered, and she soaked up the satisfaction of hearing the slight rasp in his voice.
She smiled even as her mind silently screamed, Grab him. Tell him not to leave, that you don't want him to go. Something-what she couldn't identify-urged her to convince him to come up to her apartment, spend the night in her bed like true lovers. To not leave her alone. But she remained quiet. With a small nod, she turned, unlocked the door, and closed it behind her before she did something stupid.
Like beg.
Forcing her feet forward, she climbed the steps to her apartment, her mind still on the doorstep with the sexiest man she'd ever met. It's for the best I walked away. She twisted the key in the front door lock. I mean, what kind of couple would we have made, anyway? She snorted to herself, knowing she was probably far more inexperienced than the women someone like Raphael usually dated. Hell, can't I even have a one-night stand right? Only I can mentally turn a hot few hours into a potential relationship.
She turned the knob and pushed the door open.
And skidded to a halt.
What the hell?
Gavin? She took a faltering step forward. The blond hair. The sharp line of his jaw.
She squinted, unwilling to believe what her eyes were telling her. Gavin. On her floor. Red splattered his body like a Rorschach test. His back. The floor. Oh, dear God. Who-?
The blue-and-white pin-striped shirt she'd given him last year for his birthday. A shirt now stained with blood. His blood.
A whisper of sound crept through the room like a lethal intruder. She jerked her head up. Fear slammed into her, swallowing her …
…
Light. Blinding. Hot.
It tried to pierce her closed eyelids and stab into her brain.
Greer gasped, turned her head to the side to avoid the relentless assault, but it followed her. Please …
"Ms. Addison." A cool hand touched her forehead, accompanying the gentle, patient voice. "Ms. Addison. Can you open your eyes?"
Yes, but it was going to hurt like hell with that light piercing them like an ice pick. Still, she fought past the glue that seemed to have sealed her lids shut, prying them open. Instantly, pain punched into her head. Loosing a whimper, she slid back into the welcoming blackness.
Minutes, hours, days later, the same feminine voice called her name again. She moaned, cracked her eyes open, and waited, breath suspended in her lungs for the sharp, cutting pain. But it didn't come this time. A dull, insistent ache throbbed at the back of her skull, but compared to the previous agony … Well, it just didn't compare.
A young, pretty woman in a white physician's coat smiled down at her.
"Ms. Addison," she said. "I don't want you to panic. You're in the hospital."
Terror coursed through her in spite of the doctor's calm assurance. The hospital. Why? How? Her heart thudded in her chest like a wild beast. Fear clawed at her throat, and she dimly realized the keen, high-pitched whines she heard were coming from her.
"Shh." The doctor patted her hand before clasping it, offering her a raft to grasp in the turmoil her announcement and the resulting confusion had cast her into. "Ms. Addison, calm. You're okay. I promise. But I need to ask you a couple of questions. Okay?"
Unable to squeeze the word past her constricted throat, Greer nodded.
"Can you tell me your full name?"
Of course. What a silly question. Her name was … It was … Panic spiked as she scrambled for the information she should've easily known. Her name, damn it! Why couldn't she … ? Wait, wait. "Greer." Relief poured through her like a river breaking through a dam. "Greer Caroline Addison."
"What city do you live in?" The doctor-she glanced at the badge clipped to the other woman's coat-Dr. Davidson asked, clicking on a penlight and lifting one of Greer's eyelids, then the other. Her smile didn't falter as she waited for Greer's response.
Yes. Greer clenched the sheet beneath her. The answer came quicker than the first. "B-Boston. Back Bay."
"Good. Can you tell me who is the president of the United States?"
"Barack Obama." This information even faster.
"Very good." Dr. Davidson tucked her hands in the pockets of her coat. "Greer, you suffered a pretty significant head injury. You've been unconscious the last twenty-four hours. We've run several tests, including a CAT scan, but didn't find brain trauma or bleeding. Now that you're awake, we'll run some more. You have a concussion, and we'll want to keep you for observation just a little longer. How's your head? Does it hurt? Do you feel nauseous?"