Sinclair Justice (Texas Rangers #2)(46)

“No. I’ll do it.” She slipped to his side so she could unzip his pants. While she worked at that taut front, he more skillfully unzipped her skirt, running both hands around the soft curve of her stomach to her back, which arched at his touch, bringing her breasts tight against the side of his chest. Only then did she realize his shirt was unbuttoned. She didn’t recall doing that . . . and when did he lose his boots?

The next thing she knew, her skirt was gone, leaving her in a skimpy pair of black lace panties, which she’d selected quite deliberately this morning. In fact, she’d planned this entire encounter, but not for the first time Ross had turned her assumptions and her world upside down. While she was still fumbling at his zipper, he lifted his hips, easing the strain at his crotch, unzipped his pants and kicked them down and off, simultaneously shrugging out of his shirt.

Then, both attired only in underwear, they paused, thoroughly appraising with their eyes the territory their hands itched to conquer. Emm was so busy reveling in the look of him that she barely noticed how thoroughly he absorbed her with his eyes, as if he’d been on the verge of starvation and only she was sustenance.

He was, quite simply, beautiful. His arms were lithe and muscled, his shoulders were as wide as they’d felt, and his chest was centered with a scattering of dark hair. His torso angled down to a lean waist and long, powerful legs that had been made, she saw now, to stride into her life and sweep her away to this moment.

She put one hand flat on his chest, feeling him flinch at her touch, but she knew it wasn’t because he didn’t want her to, but because he wanted so badly for her to touch him now, often, in any way she liked. She saw the need in his flared nostrils and midnight sky eyes. She accepted the wordless invitation. She scooted in front of him on her knees to put both hands on his shoulders and let them drift downward.

He was hers. She’d enjoy him.

This would be a long, slow, luxurious building up of memories for the alone time to come. “Be still,” she commanded, her voice hoarse. And she was woman enough to want to tease him back, a little. She saw sweat break out on his upper lip, but he kept his hands limp at his sides and let her palms skim over him.

He felt so good. Smooth skin sprinkled with a light dusting of hair, but everywhere she touched he was hard. She couldn’t resist teasing him by tickling his hard ribs. He spasmed, his nipples hardening. Laughing her own version of female triumph, she lowered her mouth and laved his nipples, one side, then the other. He tasted so good; she was so involved in her exploration, it took her a second to realize he was tugging at her underwear.

She lifted up and let him pull them off, lying back to let him look. It was his turn to learn her like a blind man, except he had the double pleasure of sight. His hand drifted over her, barely touching. When she squirmed to get closer, to deepen the contact, his lips quirked, but he only transferred the light caress to her other side, arm to waist to hip to ankle. A delicate caress that was more torment than pleasure.

She reached for the cock straining at his underwear, but to her shock he caught her hands, held them above her head and lay on top of her. He buried his face in the nook of her shoulder, breathing heavily, but his hips began to move of their own accord, thrusting against her. “You can’t touch me there, not yet,” he finally whispered.

She was moved, realizing he was trying to stop himself from going so fast. “How long has it been for you?” she asked.

“Months. Years since anyone I cared about. How long has it been for you?”

“Years since anyone I cared about.”

He lifted his head to delve into her eyes. Blue on blue, limitless horizon to boundless possibility. In that moment, in that mutual offering, she knew. She didn’t just want this highly complex, highly moral and totally unsuitable man. She loved him . . . Emm choked back a sob and pulled her hands away.

He let go as if scalded, and she realized he thought she’d changed her mind.

No, far too late for that.

She’d take this once and only as if it were forever and often.

When he released her, she thrust her fingers through his hair, pulling hard enough to sting, but he obediently lowered his head to hers to seal their bond with a kiss. And she tried, with all her overflowing heart, to tell him with the touch of her mouth the words she didn’t dare express. She sipped and nibbled and explored with an unfettered passion that was as much an invitation as an overture.

And he read it, and responded with the world’s most enthusiastic RSVP. He kicked off his underwear, grabbed a condom, and ripped the package open. But she caught his hand and shook her head. “I’m fine, and I know you are. I want to . . . feel all of you.” She tentatively but eagerly gloved him with her hand, or tried to. But she had small hands . . . and he was not.

He arched, perfect, hot, and heavy in her hand. He leaped to her touch, groaning, and then there was no time for tenderness or finesse. Only the passion that had almost come too late.

He parted her legs with one hand, adjusting his angle with the other, and in one slow, long stroke, he ended the separation between them forever. Her head fell back against the pillow, her mouth opening in wonder at the amazing feel of him reaching deep, and deeper still, until he reached the tip of her womb. Then he pushed deeper, as if he, too, couldn’t get close enough. Hard but soft, steel but silk, a perfect fit. They both stayed still, luxuriating in the warmth and closeness. Their eyes locked again.