The Obsession(75)

He didn’t smile, just kept his gazepatience, confidencelocked on hers. “No, it’s not. You know that, too. But I’m more than happy to start with that. Tell me what you want.”

“Tonight, I want you, and if that doesn’t”

She broke off when he gave her a yank so her body met his. “I’m going to give you what you want.”

She let herself take. If this was a mistake, she’d regret it later. Now she’d take, she’d consume, she’d let herself gorge on what was offered.

Needy, she dragged at his jacket, fighting it off as the smell of leather surrounded her. As it fell to the floor, he backed her toward the steps, pulled her sweater over her head so fast and smooth it might have been air.

Tag’s tail batted against her legs.

“He thinks it’s a game,” she managed.

“He’ll get used to it.” Xander pressed her back against the wall on the stairs, turned her blood to lavamolten. “This is mine,” he said to the dog. “Settle down.”

Reaching back, Xander flicked open her bra, flicked the straps off her shoulders. “You really need to be naked.”

“Halfway there.”

Hands, big and rough, took her breasts, callused thumbs running over her nipples, stealing her breath while his mouth enslaved her.

He wanted her just like that, desperate, quivering, against the wall. Too quick, done too quick, he warned himself, and pulled her up the rest of the stairs.

The world spun, bursts of light through the darkheat lightningshocked sounds she barely realized came from her. She tore at his shirtwhere was flesh, she needed his flesh. And when she found it she all but sank her teeth in.

They fell on the bed with streams of moonlight slanting like bars, with the unearthly whisper of wind over the water.

He smelled of leather and sweatand of the wind over the water. He felt of hard muscle, roughened hands, and bore her down with his weight.

The panic wanted to come but couldn’t carve its way through the needs. Desperate to meet those needs, she found his belt, fought the buckle. And his mouth, rough as his hands, closed over her breast.

She arched up, shocked by the bolt of pleasure, the sheer strength of it. Before she could draw the next breath, his hand pressed between her legs.

When she came it was like falling into a hot pool. She couldn’t surface, couldn’t reach the cool and the air. He only took her deeper, yanking her jeans down her hips, using his hands on her.

Hot and wet, slick and smooth. Everything about her drove him mad. Her nails bit into him as she bowed up. In the dark her eyes were blind and dazed. Her heart, his heart, hammer blows as he fought to free himself.

He couldn’t have stopped if the world ended.

When at last he thrust into her, he thought it had.

For an instant it stoppedsound, breath, movement.

Then it all rushed back, a tidal wave that battered and swept and pounded beyond reason.

He lost himself in it, in her, gave himself to it, to her.

When it broke in him, she broke with him.

She lay limp, still, with her heart still raging. Her body felt bruised and used, and so utterly relaxed. Since no coherent thought would form, she let the attempt go.

If she just stayed like this, eyes closed, she wouldn’t have to think of what to do next.

Then he moved, rolling off her. She felt the bed dip with his weight. She sensed movement, more shifting.

“Back off, pal,” he muttered.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting my boots off. Nobody looks good with his pants around his ankles and his boots on. The dog has your bra if you want it.”

“What?”

She blinked her eyes open. In those slants of moonlight, she could see Xander sitting on the side of the bed, see the dog standing there, tail wagging, something hanging out of his mouth.

“That’s my bra?”

“Yeah. You want it back?”

“Yes, I want it back.” Now she rolled over, reached. Tag did his down-in-front, tail-up move. Wagged.

“He thinks you want to play.” To settle it, Xander rosetall, built, nakedand plucked the stuffed cat out of the dog bed. “Trade you.”

Tag dropped the bra. Xander picked it up, tossed it on the bed.

“Is that a naked mermaid?”

Naomi glanced at the floor lamp. “Yes. It doesn’t go in here.”

“Why not?” And he did what any man would and stroked a hand over a bronze breast.

“It’s going in the room I’m doing for my uncles. They’ll love it.”

All so casual, Naomi thought. That was good. No intense pillow talk.

Then he turned, looked at her. Ridiculous to feel exposed now, she thought, after what they’d just done to each other. But she had to suppress the urge to cover herself.