Hell Breaks Loose (Devil's Rock #2)(43)

“Oh, that’s right.” He advanced a step, his lips moving, spitting out words like arrows. Doubtlessly trying to use his size to intimidate her. She wouldn’t let him. She stood her ground. “I’m just a dirty felon.”

“That’s right. An escaped convict that belongs behind bars.”

“Yeah, well sorry, sweetheart, but this dirty con isn’t buying into your little pity party—”

“Stop it!”

“If Daddy doesn’t love you enough, maybe you need to take a hard look in the mirror and figure some things out about yourself.”

Her fist rocketed out and struck him in the jaw. Hard. Hard enough to hurt her hand. Hard enough to force him back a step.

She stared, shocked at herself. She had struck him. No measly girly slap either. She full-fledged hit him with her fist, and her knuckles throbbed for it. She’d never done that before.

Her chest lifted with savage breaths. His words echoed through her, accusing her of the very thing that had hidden in her heart ever since childhood. There was something inherently unlovable about her.

She couldn’t blink, couldn’t look away from his face. That muscle was alive and kicking in his jaw again. He looked fierce—like some Viking walking into battle . . . or emerging from battle. All that was missing was his battle-axe.

Too late she realized her mistake.

She’d forgotten herself. She forgot who she was. Simply a captive. And more importantly, she forgot who he was. A merciless criminal who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. So what if he wounded her with some ugly words? He could hurt her in far worse ways.

There was no sound save the crash of their breaths filling the space between them. She started sliding back a step, but his hand shot out. She squeaked and lifted her fists, prepared to fight him, however hopeless it would be against his greater strength.

His hand closed around the back of her neck, hauling her closer until all of her pushed against the lean length of him. It was like being pressed up against a living, breathing wall. A wall that radiated heat. Their angry breaths collided, mingled. Their gazes devoured each other. His cheek burned an angry red from her fist.

She realized his intent the moment before his head swooped down. His mouth crashed over her own.

Her hands were lost, crushed between their bodies. She couldn’t move. His other arm stole around her, pulling her in tight, wrapping her up in him. It was impossible to break his iron hold.

Of course, there was the question of whether she wanted to.

His kiss was firm and demanding, punishing and yet seductive. Her head swam as his mouth softened slightly against her lips. His fingers curled into her hair, fisting the heavy mass and pulling her head back, forcing her chin up.

Her lips parted on a gasp, and his tongue slid along her bottom lip in a sinuous move. Her blood sang, everything in her melting. She opened her mouth wider, inviting him in. Their tongues touched and it felt like a bolt of electricity shot through her.

The sparks they talked about in movies and books, but she never felt? What she hoped to find with Charles? This was it. She’d found it at last, and it was with a criminal. Her mother would be outraged.

That single thought gave her the final push. The idea of her mother’s disapproval, her horror, broke any fleeting resistance.

All tentativeness fled. She leaned forward, diving into the kiss, into him like she was dehydrated and he her last chance for water.

He growled, deepening the kiss, gripping her hair harder, angling her head so that her mouth was in a position to his liking. He took. He claimed, and that only made the need pulse harder inside her.

She struggled to free her hands, but it wasn’t because she wanted to push him away or fight him. No, not anymore. She wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and climb inside him. There was no such thing as too close. No such thing as too much or too far.

He growled as if sensing her surrender. It was the longest kiss of her life. She didn’t know that a kiss could last until her lips went numb and bolts of sensation flooded to every nerve in her body.

Her entire being ended and began where his mouth fused with hers. The heady taste of him, rich and deep and faintly meady from the beer—or maybe she was tasting herself on him. She didn’t know. She only knew that minutes ago she had been hurting and now there was this. Desire and want and sex. Sex with mouths alone. She never wanted it to end. She could climax through this alone. She knew it. This kiss could keep going and it would happen. She already felt the twisting ache starting at her core.

He broke away, still holding onto her with that fist in her hair and his arm locked around her waist. He looked down at her with blazing eyes. “What the f*ck was that?”

She moistened her tingling lips. His eyes tracked the movement of her tongue, the flecks of gold standing out within the green of his eyes. And glowing. Glowing like candlelight. “You kissed me,” she returned, her voice a whispered hush.

“You needed kissing.”

She thought about that for a second, recognizing the truth, terrible or not, of that statement. She needed kissing. Yes. Yes, I did.

And I needed more.

“So what’s the problem, then?” she asked.

He frowned. “You weren’t supposed to like it. You weren’t supposed to kiss me back like . . .” Words failed him.

Like what? She searched his face.

Her body burned. She felt dizzy, drugged, words elusive as she struggled for speech. Stringing words together felt like too much of a challenge when all she wanted to do was kiss him again. And again. And maybe they could follow that with more kissing. “Maybe you should do it again, then. This time, I’ll try not to like it so much.”