Heroes Are My Weakness(52)

Him? A terrible kisser? No way was he letting that pass. He brushed the inside of his arm against her hair as he braced one hand on the wall behind her head. “Sorry. I got a cramp in my leg and lost my balance.”

“You lost your chance, that’s what.”

Big talk from somebody who hadn’t moved a step away from him. He’d never admit defeat this early in the game. Not with Annie. Feisty, softhearted Annie Hewitt, who’d never think of demanding a man’s last drop of blood. “Deepest apologies.” He tilted his head and blew gently on the tender skin behind her ear.

Her hair ruffled. “That’s better.”

He moved closer, exploring the soft place with his lips. The closeness was agonizing, but he wasn’t going to let a hard-on get the best of him.

Her hands slipped around his waist and slid under his sweater, violating her own rule, something he had no intention of pointing out. She turned her head, bringing her mouth closer to his, but he’d always been a competitor, and the game was on, so he moved his kisses to the line of her jaw.

She arched her neck. He accepted the invitation and kissed her there. Her palms slid higher beneath his sweater. The touch of a decent woman felt so good. So unfamiliar. He fought against raising the stakes. Eventually she was the one who pressed her body hard against him, met his mouth with open lips.

He wasn’t sure how they ended up on the floor. Had he pulled her there? Had she pulled him? He only knew that she was on her back, and he was on top of her. Just as it had been during those sweet, hot cave days.

He wanted her naked, legs splayed, wet and open. The quickness of her breathing, the way her hands gripped his bare back, told him she wanted it, too. Holding on to the last measure of his self-control, he returned to their kisses. Temples, cheeks, mouth. Deep, soulful penetrations. On and on.

She was moaning now, sounds of entreaty as she wrapped one of her legs around his. His hands tangled in the silky hullabaloo of her hair. He settled deeper into the narrow saddle of her hips. Their jeans abraded, and her moans moved deeper in her throat. He was losing control. He couldn’t hold back a moment longer.

He jerked at her zipper, at his. She arched her back. He shoved at her jeans awkwardly, pushing them off one ankle. Her fist clutched a handful of his sweater. He settled between her thighs, freed himself, drove into her.

She cried out and collapsed, her low, guttural moan fierce and defenseless. He went deeper. Pulled back. Deep again. And that was all.

The universe cracked open around him.


THE NEXT THING HE KNEW, she was cursing like crazy.

“You bastard! Son of a bitch!” She shoved him off her, yanking up her jeans and coming to her feet at the same time. “Oh, God, I hate myself. I hate you!” She was doing some kind of weird demon dance as she jerked on her zipper. Flapping her elbows. Stomping the floor. He got up, zipped his own jeans as her tirade continued. “I’m an idiot! Somebody should put me down. I swear to God! Just like a dumb, sick animal. The stupidest, dumbest . . .”

He ordered himself not to say a word.

She turned on him—red-faced and furious. “I’m not this easy! I’m not!”

“Kind of easy,” he said before he could stop himself.

She grabbed a pillow from the couch and swung it at him. He was used to a woman’s rages, and this was so small-time, he didn’t bother to duck.

She stomped the floor again. Beyond pissed, her arms waving, curls hopping. “I know exactly what’s going to happen next! The second I turn my back, I’ll be facedown in the marsh. Or locked inside the dumbwaiter. Or drowning in that cave!” She gasped for air. “I don’t trust you! I don’t like you. And now you— You—”

“Had the best time I’ve had in longer than I can remember?” He’d never been a wiseass, but there was something about Annie that drew out his worst. Or maybe it was his best.

She glared at him. “You came inside me!”

His amusement vanished. He’d never been careless, and now he was the one who felt stupid. It put him on the defensive. “I wasn’t exactly planning on this happening.”

“You should have! Even now, one of your little swimmers could be doing a backstroke right to my—egg!”

The way she said it was funnier than hell, but he had no desire to laugh. He rubbed the back of his fist over his jaw. “You’re . . . on the pill, right?”

“It’s a little late to ask!” She turned and stomped away. “And, no, I’m not!”

An icy vise clamped around his rib cage. He could barely move. He heard her in the bedroom, and then in the bathroom. He needed to clean up himself, but all he could think about was what he’d done and the terrible price he might pay for what he could only think of as the most unsatisfying sexual encounter of his life.

When she finally emerged, she was wearing her navy robe, Santa pajamas, and a pair of sweat socks. Her face was scrubbed clean, her hair pulled up with a tie that left damp tendrils corkscrewing here and there. Mercifully, she seemed calmer. “I had pneumonia,” she said. “My pill schedule got screwed up.”

A cold trickle slid down his spine. “When did you have your last period?”

She sneered at him. “What are you? My gynecologist? Go to hell.”

“Annie . . .”

She spun on him. “Look. I know this is as much my fault as yours, but right now I’m too furious to take my share of the responsibility.”