Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(64)

He kissed her hungrily, tangling tongues before he lifted his head. “That sounds arrogant and hateful and entitled. Am I that bad?”

“God, no,” she said. “Not bad. Amazing, rather. I want you. If I didn’t want you, we’d have a big problem, but as it is, go ahead, feel as entitled and arrogant as you want. Oh, my God . . .”

She arched, head flung back, softly sobbing as another throbbing wave enveloped her. The most awesome sensation, the clenching pulses squeezing, petting him. He almost came with her, but teetered back from the brink. No way. Not yet.

Long and slow. Orgasms for hours. He had a point to make, a precedent to set. “The vibe seems to work for you,” he said. “As long as my arrogant entitlement makes you come, I can work with that.”

“I shouldn’t encourage you,” she whispered. “It’s dangerous.”

“Too late,” he told her.

And it was. Their hands twined, locked on either side of her head into clasped fists. His hips drove against hers. So hot, so tight, so wet. Her mouth open to him, her tongue, so sweet, darting, twining. She was strong, for being so narrow and slender. Lithe and flexible. Meeting him, holding him. The rhythm got wilder, pounding desperately.

Their mutual explosion blasted them to oblivion.

So much for the orgasms for hours. The point he had wanted to make. His arrogant entitlement, too. When he got the use of his brain back, he was as humble as they came. Wrecked. A pile of steaming, smoking parts. He rolled off her, flopped onto his back so she could breathe. Stared at the ceiling until he got the strength and courage to turn and gaze at her face. Nervously. Hopefully.

She looked dewy and soft. Her eyes were endlessly deep and lovely. A mystery he would never plumb, but he could die happy trying.

“You okay?” he asked. “Did I, uh . . .”

She shook her head, with that secret smile. She formed the word no, with her mouth, shook her head. Blew him a little kiss.

That radiant, luminous smile scared him to death. All that “mine” bullshit. No longer an issue. Probably never had been.

He was hers. After all his arrogant posturing. All hers.

He stared at her, the fear setting in. Like a drumroll rising, now that the urgent thrum of sex no longer overlaid it. And he thought he’d had problems before, walking the tightrope of all his tedious problems. Brain damage, mortal danger, pissed-off friends, psycho monsters.

Now he got to field it all while holding his naked beating heart out in front of him, in his hand. Uh, excuse me . . . I think this is yours.

Yeah. Sweet.





Better than food, better than air. It felt so good, pressed to his hot skin, his arms wrapped around her.

She wanted to bathe in his life energy. Taste his salt flavor, lick him, stroke him. Eat him up. She was high on him. Craving more.

So wrong. So poorly timed. She had no business inflicting her shipwrecked self upon him now. He deserved someone whole and functional, not a broken, gasping, grasping thing. Clinging like a shred of seaweed. Feeding off his strength.

He propped himself up onto his elbow, stretching out his other arm, making his back ripple and flex in the most breathtaking way, but he was unselfconscious about it. He grabbed the cake from the bedside table. He gave her a menacing look. “Food.”

“What is it with you and food?” she complained. “I promise, I’ll eat everything in good time! Lighten up!”

“No.” He forked up an intimidating bite of chocolate cake with an oozing glob of coconut caramel goop draped on top, and waved it in her face with a threatening air.

She took the fork, carefully cut the bite into two pieces, and ate one of them. Sugar shock almost made her dizzy. “Sweet,” she gasped.

He held out another forkful.

“Wait a minute.” She took the fork from him, and pointed it sternly in his direction. “We take turns. It’s a huge piece.”

He narrowed his eyes, but she waited stubbornly, fork in hand.

He finally accepted the bite. “Wow,” he said. “Sugar orgasm.”

He gave her the next bite. She gave him one, and so it went until the chunk of pastry was reduced to crumbs and smears of caramel.

And by then, the hunger on his face made a yearning open inside her, hot and wanton. She set down the plate on the bedside table, and held out her arms. A disorienting spin, and oof, she was flat on her back, with Miles all over her, his deep kisses faintly flavored with caramel. But he pulled himself off, turning away.

She sat up, bereft. “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head. “You need rest.”

“But I like it.”

He held up his hand, a warding gesture. “Saying no, being sensible, cooling it down, all that is up to me, evidently. I get that you’re not going to do it. But don’t mess with me when I try.”

“But it’s fun to mess with you. And I haven’t had fun in months.”

“No.” He ran an assessing eye over her body. “We’ll discuss more fun after you’ve finished that meal, slept ten hours, and then eaten another meal.”

“That’s harsh,” she commented.

“Yeah, brutal.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed, groping for his jeans. “Gotta get this thing into my pants and put a padlock on it.” He buttoned the fly, and groped in his pocket for a smartphone. “Mind if I make a quick call?”