Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(55)

She abandoned herself to the sway, the surge, the rocking blissful perfection. After some time, the pace quickened, but she could not tell who was driving it, whether it was her urgency or his that swept them helplessly along.

He made a rough sound, and pressed his face against her shoulder. “Shit,” he ground out. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” She nuzzled his hair, inhaling his scent hungrily.

“For this.” He drove inside her, deep and hard, jarring against her hips. “I’m sorry. I’m not going to be able to control . . . oh, f*ck . . .

His voice broke, gave way to pants. Her own gasps were a rhythmic counterpoint. The pace grew frenzied, his strokes deeper. Such sweet relief, to have her mind razed clear, steamrolled by giddy excitement, mounting tension, by each hot lick of pleasure, by each heavy jolt of his body against hers.

She was opening, like a flower. Amazed that there was so much still inside. It had been locked down, hidden away, but now it was sprawling open, air and light flooding in. She lifted herself to meet every stroke, clawing to get closer. Pleasure swelled, crested . . . tipping her over and into the deep, throbbing darkness.

She floated back to consciousness, pinned beneath him. His chest still heaved. He’d hidden his face against the pillow. His damp shoulders shook. She hugged him. Tears leaked out of her eyes. Feeling all of it, so keenly. The helplessness, the hugeness.

He lifted himself out and off her body, and spun around to sit on the edge of the bed. Facing away from her.

“Miles?” she whispered, sitting up.

His hand jerked up, an imperative gesture that choked off the question she’d been trying to frame.

She touched his shoulder. He flinched. “Don’t.”

She curled in on herself, startled. “Sorry,” she whispered.

“No,” he said. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”

“Are you okay?”

“No.” He got up, strode over to the dresser, displaying the amazing muscles of his back, ass, hips. He grabbed the knife and fork, and attacked the steak, carving it into chunks. “I can’t believe myself. I pull you out of a stinking hole where they’ve been starving you to death, and end up f*cking you before I even feed you. What a prince.”

That made her smile. “It’s not your fault.”

“The hell it isn’t.” His eyes snagged on her naked body, and his penis swelled. He gestured at it, bobbing before him. “See? My priorities are perfectly straight, even now.” He walked over to the bed, brandishing the plate and fork. “Eat, Lara.”

She held up her hand. “I’m not sure how much I can—”

“Eat.” The bed rocked and swayed as he knelt.

She stared into his narrowed eyes, and sighed. He’d throw a fit if she defied him. She took the fork, which held an overlarge chunk of steak, nibbled off a bit. The grilled meat was delicious, but too rich to endure. “I’m only going to be able to eat a few bites,” she warned him. “I’m not doing this to bug you, I promise. I’ve just got to take it slow.”

“Two more,” he said, his voice steely.

She accepted another bite. Managed a third, a small one. He scooped up some rice. “Carbs.” His tone dared her to argue with him.

A few bites of rice, a few rounds of sautéed zuccini, and she was done. He slapped the nearly untouched plate down onto the bedside table, disgusted. “Jesus, Lara. You hardly touched it. You need food.”

“Leave it. I’ll try again later, I promise,” she assured him. “Have you eaten anything yourself?”

He looked shocked at the idea. “Fuck, no! I brought the first steak Davy cooked up here to you.” He frowned at the plate. “And then forgot all about it while nailing you to the bed.”

“Stop scolding yourself,” she told him. “You must be ravenous. Go downstairs, for God’s sake. Get something to eat!”

“Need a shower,” he muttered, and stalked into the bathroom.

Lara pressed her hand against the inert lump of food that sat there in her bewildered stomach as the shower began to hiss.

She’d messed it up. Come on too strong. She was going to freak him out. Scare him off. He was so tense and twitchy. Too bad he hadn’t invited her into the shower, but enough, already. She’d been more forward with him than she’d ever been in her life. Granted, they had their red hot dream history, but dreams were not something one could build expectations upon. She had to give him space.

Hard to do, when she wanted to cling to him like a kudzu vine.

He came out a minute later in a cloud of steam, and jerked on his jeans without looking at her. He found his shirt hidden beneath a fold of the comforter. He shrugged it on, buttoned it.

“You’re angry?” she asked.

“At myself, not you. Get some rest.” The door swung shut behind him with a decisive click.

She tried, she really did, but the meltdown happened anyway. At least she was alone with it this time, under the covers. Hidden.

Seducing him had seemed like such a good idea. So perfect, to latch onto something exciting and beautiful. Something to cling to while the rest of the world went to shit.

But she was laying too much on him. He’d given her protection with his mind. He’d risked his life to save her miserable ass. Now she expected him to lift the darkness in her soul, too? Already? With sex?