Crystal Cove (Friday Harbor #4)(53)

“Yes?” she asked, approaching him warily.

“What did you put in the vodka?” His voice was deceptively mild.

“Maybe a little drop of something herbal. Sort of a … um, health tonic. How do you feel?”

He was breathing and swallowing, his skin infused with a darkening flush. “Like a racehorse on steroids.”

Justine shook her head in consternation. That didn’t sound good. Something had gone wrong.

Jason looked at her then, his eyes dilated into pools of molten black. “Justine,” he muttered, “what the hell have you done to me?”

Sixteen

“You should sit down,” Justine said anxiously. “I’ll get you some water. You’re—” She broke off in surprise. One glance along his body revealed that he was aroused. Really aroused. Definitely not the side effect of a discouragement potion. Astonished, she reached for the second shot of vodka and took an experimental sip, barely wetting her lips.

A flash of heat covered her from head to toe all at once, taking her breath away. She felt fire racing through her veins. And between her thighs, a hard intimate throb. She could hardly think through the haze of lust and confusion. All from a single taste of the vodka.

And Jason had taken an entire shot.

“This is the opposite of what I wanted,” she exclaimed in frustration. “What could have gone wrong?”

Jason took a fistful of ice chips from the tray and held them against the back of his neck. The ice melted as if it had been dropped into a hot skillet. Glittering rivulets snaked around his throat and into the fabric of his T-shirt. He was breathing through his teeth, gasping, shivering.

“I’m so sorry,” Justine told him miserably, reaching out to touch him, then snatching her hands back as he gave her a baleful sideways glance. “I never meant to … I shouldn’t have … What would help? More ice? Should I start a cold shower?”

Jason didn’t seem to have heard. He rubbed his chilled wet hands over his face and lower jaw. The crests of his high cheekbones were bright with color, his long black lashes water-spiked. Stripping off his polo shirt, he wadded it up and blotted his damp neck and shoulders. For a moment Justine could only stare at him.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I keep making everything worse.”

The long muscles of his back flinched as she touched him, as if even the lightest touch were torture. She pressed her cheek remorsefully to his blazing skin.

Jason turned slowly, as if a sudden move would break the tenuous thread of his self-control. He took her against him. She felt the hard, hungry tension of a leopard ready to spring.

“I followed the formula exactly,” she managed to say. “It should be working.”

Jason dragged his mouth down to the joint of her neck and shoulder, nuzzling roughly. “Paradoxical reaction,” he said.

“You mean like when an antidepressant causes suicidal thoughts in some people, or—” She started as she felt his hands go to the fastenings of her jeans, the top button popping free, the zipper hissing. “Or when pain medication gives someone a headache—” A gasp was torn from her throat as his hand slid into the back of her jeans, beneath her underwear.

“I want you,” he muttered against her skin. “And I hope the feeling’s mutual…”

“Yes, but I—”

“… because there’s no chance in hell that you’re leaving this room without getting laid.”

Justine’s eyes widened. She couldn’t think straight with the way he was rubbing her against him, his mouth and hands navigating her body with urgent demand. She was shocked by the things he was saying between each ragged breath … he wanted to kiss and touch and own every part of her, make her beg, make her come so hard she would think she’d been turned inside out. “And I wanted all that, damn you,” he muttered, “even before you slipped me a roofie.”

“It wasn’t a roofie,” she protested. “I mixed up a discouragement potion to … to make you not want me.”

He crushed his lips to her throat, the kiss strong and gnawing. “Does this feel discouraged to you?” he demanded, shoving her jeans down her hips, gripping her bottom with both hands.

Her eyes half closed and her head tipped back as he brought her against the thick, enticing pressure of his erection. “No,” she managed to say weakly. “If you want, I could go look up an antidote.”

“I already have one in mind.” He tugged her shirt over her head and reached for the back fastenings of her bra. She felt her jeans slip to the floor, and she stepped out of them clumsily. After her underwear was flung aside, Jason shed his own jeans, his gaze locked on her as if he half expected her to bolt and run. They were not going to talk first, turn down the lamp, close the window, lay their discarded clothes on a chair. There was a strong possibility that they weren’t even going to make it to the bed.

He pulled her against him, front to front, kissing her endlessly, his mouth gentle and savage by turns. The heat of him was unbearable, the skin of his stomach and chest and groin blistering. Justine pulled her lips from his, panting. The air was sauna-hot, scorching the insides of her lungs. Jason reached to the table behind her, fumbling with the crushed ice. He cupped some of it against her br**sts, drew an icy handful along her torso. Justine shivered and gasped in relief. The water trickled over her skin, raising gooseflesh. His mouth caught at a budded nipple, sucked the moisture from it. He reached behind her for more ice, spread it over his own chest and down the front of his body, and cupped some to his mouth.