Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(52)

“I don’t have any condoms,” he blurted.

She just stared at him, blinking. Like she’d forgotten such an issue even existed. Who could blame her, what she’d been through.

“I came to bust you out of jail, Lara,” he said. “Not to get laid.”

“Oh. Well. I, um . . . I don’t have any diseases, if that’s what you’re wondering. I haven’t had a boyfriend in a while, so I—”

“That’s not the issue.” He had to struggle not to stare at her naked body. “Neither do I. They tested me up the wazoo when I was in the hospital a few months ago. I’m clean. That’s not the point.”

She shrugged her hair forward, as if afflicted by a spasm of shyness. “I wouldn’t get pregnant.”

“How do you figure? Been keeping your calender up to date in your prison? You’re totally on top of it?” He was almost yelling, which was stupid and wrong, but she was the one herding him toward a cliff.

She shook her head. “My cycle stopped months ago.”

He cut off the rant he’d been winding up to, mouth open, and tried in vain to process that. “Come again?”

“You have to eat a certain amount of food to make that happen,” she said. “And the stress, the drugs, the dark, whatever it was, it pretty much killed my appetite. So, ah, I’m not fertile right now.”

“They starved you?” His voice was getting louder. He was whipping himself into a frenzy.

“Not exactly,” she said, gently. “There was food. But it sucked. And I was tense, and miserable. So not much of it would go in.”

Miles clapped his hands over his ears. “Jesus, Lara. This is messing with my head.”

“Forget about your head.” She snagged the waistband of his jeans with her forefinger, dragging him in a drunken stumble, right up next to the bed. “I’m not asking you to use your head.”

Her scent intensified into a humid cloud. He wanted to wallow in it. The shampoo, which would have made him nauseous only half a day ago, mixed with the scent of her skin, her hair, transforming into something intoxicating, verdant, full of hot yearning. He dragged in greedy lungfuls of it. Dick throbbing with each thud of his heart.

He didn’t even remember reaching out, before he was touching her. First her face, as she tilted it back with the abandon of a kitten being petted. His fingers slid into that thick fall of damp, silken hair. She shivered as he lifted it, stroking pale, soft skin, the fine muscles over her ribs, the curve of her spine. Delicate, feminine. Fragile.

Fragile. She was fragile, damn it, and he was big and thick and helpless, jacked up with raw animal hunger. He’d f*ck it up, be clumsy with her, and she’d regret it. And he’d have to throw himself under a bus out of sheer embarrassment.

He pulled his hands away, but she snagged them, pulled them toward her and placed them on her breasts.

He shook, but his hands went on without him, already exploring, stroking, cupping, hefting the velvet soft weight of her tits, the pert, puckered dark nipples. Tickling his palms, filling his hands.

Her head dropped back, eyes closed. He was so lost in the perfect sensation of her tits, he didn’t even register the tugging on the buttons of his jeans until they were sliding down his hips.

His cock sprang free. Thwang, in her face.

She stared at it, and then reached out with a soft sigh, gripping and petting him with her soft hands. A sound came out of him like‘ air wheezing from a pricked balloon. “Lara.”

He was embarrassed by his cock, which was engorged and beet red. Blatantly willing and ready to serve, belying his protests. Locked into full-out battering ram mode. “You, ah, don’t have to deal with that.”

“Mmm.” She gripped him, stroking. “You’re beautiful. And so big. Like the dreams. I thought it was just my extravagant imagination.”

“I told you this was a bad idea,” he said, his voice strangled.

“Shhh.” She leaned forward, as if she were about to kiss his cock.

His muscles tightened in protest, and he grabbed her, held her still. Not that the idea didn’t make him practically explode, but Jesus, not tonight. “No,” he said.

She covered his hands, stroking them. “Don’t you like it?”

“Fuck, yes, but not now. It’s not the right vibe. I have to treat you like blown glass.”

“I’m not fragile!”

“I don’t care,” he said. “It’s that way, or we stop.”

Her radiant smile dazzled him, until what he had said sank in. What a chump he was. Committing himself like that. So snookered.

He breathed down his jagged nerves, stroking her arms, and a multitude of bruises came into focus. He bent to take a closer look. She shivered, her body going rigid.

“Those are finger marks,” he said.

“I got jerked around a lot,” she said. “They’ll fade soon.”

His jeans were snarled around his knees, so he kicked them off, and knelt on the bed. Held up her arm, cataloging every bruise.

He started kissing the ones at her wrist. She let out a jerky sigh as he lifted it higher, pressing his lips against every mark he found.

He was not going to give in to the urgency. He was taking it easy, slow. Steely self-control. Padlocks and chains.

He kept the kisses gentle, dragging, dreamy. The more bruises he kissed, the more he found. This was going to take a while, which was fine. He didn’t have the least concern about his dick going south. In fact, it might not soften again in this lifetime. Certainly not while her skin was pressed against his lips. The glow of contact made his whole body thrum, like a pulsing drumbeat.