Extreme Danger (McClouds & Friends #5)(44)

“OK,” he murmured. “I’m not getting a straight answer out of you, so I’m going to interpret that cryptic silence to my own advantage. If I’m wrong, tell me quick.”

She bit her lip. Two tears flashed out of the outside corners and coursed down her face.

His lips moved against her cheekbone. The hot, wet cat rasp of his tongue as he licked them greedily away made a wrenching shiver of pleasure shake her whole body. She felt a tug, a ripping sound, and the soggy peasant blouse was pulled off and flung away. She stood before him, bare naked.

A state of being that was starting to feel alarmingly normal.

She touched his face. “Wait. You’ve got, um, blood on you. I don’t want to look at it anymore. Could we, ah…”

He wrenched his sweatshirt off. His boots followed. He took off socks, jeans, and in no time, a naked man was dragging her into her own bathroom and setting the shower running like he owned the place.

“We could both use a wash,” he said. “It’ll relax you.”

Hah. Not freaking likely. She almost laughed as he muscled her into the hot spray. Relax, her ass. Like she could, with a demanding sexually charged guy crowding her into a steamy corner in her own tiny shower stall. He was all around her, a solid wall of wet, gleaming man flesh, his hairy chest brushing against her nipples, his erection prodding her everywhere she turned. His hands slid all over her body. The shower was ridiculously small for even one normal-sized person, let alone two. She bumped her elbows in it when she was by herself.

And Mr. Big—Nick—was huge.

Chapter

12

B ad idea. Worst one he’d had in a long time. He should leave, run far and fast, forget this chick ever existed. He’d blown the op to keep her safe, and here he was compromising her again.

But he didn’t want to go to his empty condo and sit there on his couch, staring openmouthed into the dark. Deafened by the silence, the flatness, of having failed again. He didn’t want to crawl into the oblivion of a bottle, either. His father’s time-honored solution to all problems.

He wanted to stay right here. With her. This place smelled good, Like her. Fragrant, soft, female. Problematic and complicated, too.

He was going to flood her dinky bathroom, but he couldn’t be bothered worrying about it while resisting the impulse to lift her up, brace her against the wet wall and thrust his prong deep and hard. If they emptied the tank and the shower went cold, he would never notice.

Back off. Go slow. He shouldn’t be making moves on her at all, after what she’d been through. He knew that, but it was just a thought that rattled around his brain, with no executive power, no influence on his behavior, no moral clout. Just a random, free-floating observation.

His, his, his, was the primeval refrain from the deepest part of his brain. He wanted to lose himself in her body, warm himself with her heat. It made him feel alive. And he actually wanted to feel alive.

It startled him. He hadn’t wanted that for longer than he could remember. It was so much safer to be numb.

He knew exactly how a guy sweet-talked women into sex, how to be suave and seductive, blah blah, but he was a slavering wolf thing tonight, lunging at the chain. No games, no charm.

She was motionless, eyes shut, head flung back as he washed her, but he felt her body respond with shivers and sighs, subtle vibrations, a soft yielding to the stroke of his soapy hands. He sudsed up the scented shampoo, working it through her long hair. Frothy clots of foam slid seductively over her curves. The hot water had brought a blush of pink to her translucent white skin. About time. He ran his hands over curves and hollows, soaping and rinsing.

He kneeled to wash her bruised, scratched feet. She hissed with pain, though he was as gentle as he could be. Then legs, knees, thighs. He saved her * for last, and treated it like a freshly opened flower, barely touching it. He just caressed it with his fingertips and then rinsed the soap away with the spray from the detachable shower head.

There wasn’t any way to keep his erection from poking and prodding her, so he didn’t try. He put the shower head back, pulled her closer and hoisted up his dick so that it poked upright, sandwiched between their bellies, the heart-shaped head nestled hopefully below her tits. He pressed against her, wondering how to break the passive statue spell. He cupped her ass in his hands.

He nuzzled her earlobe, and took a chance. “Your turn,” he said.

Her eyes fluttered open, as if she’d been in a trance. He put the shampoo in her hand. She gazed at it like she’d never seen shampoo before. He had to prompt her, opening the bottle, pouring it out.

He was mesmerized by the way her tits bounced and swayed as she reached up to soap up his hair. “You’re too tall,” she complained.

He sank to his knees, which put his mouth right at the level of the mound of her soft belly. He nuzzled her, eyes shut as her gentle fingers scraped and scrubbed at his scalp, stroking in fragrant foam.

Oh, God. Huge turn-on. Hot suds sliding voluptuously down his face, stinging his eyes, gliding over his shoulders, plopping around his knees. The view from below of the underside of her tits, the skin of her wet belly against his lips. When the last shampoo was rinsed away, he got to his feet, offered her the shower gel. She looked at him blankly.

“Do exactly what you do when you wash yourself,” he suggested. “The same principles apply. You know, lather, rinse, repeat?”