Hard Night (11th Hour #3)

by Jackie Ashenden

  “Fuck you,” she spat in a voice that sounded completely unlike hers, then shoved her elbow at his face.

  He moved his head to the side, avoiding the elbow easily enough, fascinated by the fury that burned hot in her eyes.

  Was that Faith? Or was that Joanna? And what exactly was she so angry about? Was it directed at him and the way he was holding her down? Or was it something else? Something more?

  She tried the elbow move again, but he dodged it. Persistent, wasn’t she?

  “Who are you?” he demanded, studying the burning spark in her gaze, utterly mesmerized by it.

  She panted, twisting yet again. “Get off me!”

  “Tell me who you are.”

  A hand came up this time, the heel of her palm driving toward his face in another lightning fast and savage move. At the same time he felt her muscles tighten, her body gathering itself for yet another break for freedom.

  He avoided her palm, letting the full weight of his lower body rest on her hips. She made a sound of frustration, arching her spine and trying to buck him off.

  But he didn’t move and eventually she stilled, panting beneath him, her face turned away so all he could see was the flushed curve of one cheek and the strands of inky black hair sticking to her forehead.

  Then she turned back, looking up at him. The spark of fury that had been burning there before was gone, leaving nothing but blue shadows and darkness.

  Unexpectedly, his chest tightened.

  Her throat, pale and vulnerable, moved as she swallowed. And then she said, “I’m scared, Jacob.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Admitting to Jacob Night that she was afraid was the very last thing in the world Faith wanted, but now that the words were out, there was nothing she could do to take them back.

  But she meant it. She was scared.

  Something had happened to her. He’d held her hands behind her back and told her to fight him. He’d called her Joanna and something had simply . . . taken over.

  She’d moved without conscious thought, obeying an instinct she hadn’t known was inside her. An instinct that had her shifting and twisting out of his grip, then going for the vulnerable places on his body without hesitation.

  God, she’d kicked him in the leg, where the gunshot wound was, not thinking twice about how it would hurt. Knowing only that it was a good area to target to bring him down.

  And she had brought him down. Onto his knees for the second time that day.

  How the hell had she managed to do that?

  This time he hadn’t been content to sit there, jerking away before coming at her and forcing her to defend herself. She’d let that instinct take over then too, feeling the part of her that was Faith retreat to the back of her mind.

  She hadn’t paid attention to that part, too busy fighting him instead, giving herself over to the instinct that had her struggling and trying to get away even when he’d brought her down onto the mat on her back.

  For some reason she’d been furious about that and she didn’t understand why. Whether it was because she’d been beaten or what she didn’t know, but everything had gone out of her head the moment he’d demanded she tell him who she was, lost under the fear that had taken hold.

  Because she didn’t know who she was either.

  He was braced above her now, studying her with such intensity that she wanted to roll over and hide from him. But he was stretched out over her, his long, powerful body pinning hers to the mat, and she couldn’t move.

  “What are you scared of, Ms. Beasley?” His voice was low and deep, his eyes glittering like jet. “Is it of me? Because you don’t need to be. You acquitted yourself very well.”

  She was very conscious of the way he’d pinned her down, of her thighs spread on either side of his lean hips, of his intense heat. Lying beneath him was like lying beneath a furnace.

  He’d braced himself on his hands, holding his upper body away so his full weight wasn’t resting on her. But even so, her chest felt tight, like she couldn’t take a proper breath.

  “You asked me who I was.” Her voice sounded weird, thick and unlike herself. “Why did you ask me that?”

  “Why?” He studied her. “Is that what made you afraid?”

  She shifted under him, trying to find some breathing space and failing. “Jacob . . . please move.”

  “Answer the question, Ms. Beasley. You told me you were afraid. I want to know why.”

  God, he was so hot. The heat of his body was making it difficult to concentrate on anything at all let alone answering his question. And there was so much of him. When he’d pulled her close and put her hands behind her back, her brain had shorted out at the feel of him against her. Actually, come to think of it, maybe that was why she’d let that instinct take over. Because it was easier than the reality of him right up close to her.

  And now that reality was right up close again, his muscular shoulders blocking out the rest of the room, the black fabric of his T-shirt stretched across the hard expanse of his chest.

  Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. She was conscious of his hips resting on hers, of a subtle, insistent pressure between her thighs. It made her face feel hot.

  “You asked me who I was,” she forced out, trying to keep it together, bringing her attention from the intoxicating heat of his body to the harsh lines of his compelling face. Not that that was any easier. “And yes, that frightened me. Because I didn’t know the answer.”

  “Bullshit.” The rough edge in his voice made her shiver inexplicably. “You know who you are, Ms. Beasley. I think you know exactly.”

  “No, I don’t.” She tried yet again to take a breath, but his smoky scent invaded her senses, making her feel dizzy. “And don’t ask me how I managed to get free,” she went on, dropping her gaze to his throat and the strong pulse that beat there, “or how I was able to get you in that armlock because I don’t know. I just . . .”

  “You let your instinct take over,” he finished, the deep rumble of his voice vibrating in her chest and farther down, in her sex. “Your body remembers even if your mind refuses.”

  She swallowed, her mouth dry. It was getting difficult to focus on what he was saying and she couldn’t seem to drag her gaze away from the smooth olive skin of his throat and the steady beat of his pulse.

  “That doesn’t make me feel any better,” she murmured.

  Oh God, he had to get off her. If he stayed there any longer, he was going to know what he was doing to her and she really didn’t want him to know.

  Yet the heat of him was insidious and she couldn’t seem to ignore that or the aching pressure of his hips between her thighs. He wasn’t pressing on anything too sensitive but all he’d have to do was shift a little and . . .

  Her cheeks flamed, a burst of panic cutting through the heat. “Can you move, please?” She tried to keep her voice sounding normal. “I can’t breathe.”

  He remained exactly where he was. “You can breathe. You’ve got plenty of room.”

  Goddamn man.

  She wanted to shove at him, but that would mean putting her hands on his hard chest and something inside of her was telling her that would be a mistake.

  So she kept her hands to herself, concentrated instead on his throat and that maddening pulse. “I know, but still. You’ve made your point.”

  “If you don’t have your memory back then no, I haven’t.”

  “Well, lying on me like this isn’t going to help,” she snapped, a spark of anger and frustration making her risk a glance up at him.

  The expression on his face was intent, his gaze searing.

  He knew what he was doing to her. God, he knew.

  Sensation flashed the length of her spine as the pressure of his body changed and he shifted his hips, pressing down directly on her clit, making a gasp rise in her throat.

  Faith choked it back, not wanting to give him any sign that what he was doing was having an effect. But that didn’t stop the heat from scalding her cheeks or slo
w her rocketing heartbeat. Or prevent the restless movement of her own hips against his.

  And he must have felt it, because a dark flame leapt in his eyes, burning hot. “You can get away from me easily enough. That is, if you want to.”

  Do you want to?

  Stupid question. Of course she did. Yet the heat and the musky, smoky masculine scent of him were all around her and it was becoming difficult to think of why. Especially when it would be so easy to simply lie there and lift her hips, increase that maddening pressure on her clit. Find some release, some satisfaction.

  How long had it been since she’d had an orgasm? She couldn’t remember. Not since she’d gotten out of the hospital, that was for sure. Sex hadn’t exactly been top of her list of things to do after all.

  But now . . . It felt as if every second of those six months without physical pleasure was weighing on her like lead.

  She struggled to get some air in her lungs, conscious of the way he was staring at her, so intently, like he could read every thought she had. The darkness of his eyes seemed to swallow all the light in the room.

  “You appear to be having some problems, Ms. Beasley.” The low, rough sound of his voice rolled over her like a stroking hand. “Anything I can do to help?” His hips shifted again, pressing more firmly against the sensitive place between her thighs, and she broke out into a sweat, a shudder coursing the length of her spine.

  “What . . . what are you doing?” She couldn’t hide the raw note in her voice.

  “What do you think? I’m giving you some incentive to follow your instinct.” He shifted once more, his biceps flexing as he lowered his upper body an inch or two, his chest almost brushing the increasingly sensitive tips of her breasts. “You can feel it, Ms. Beasley, I know you can. So stop thinking and take it.”

  Take it . . .

  Did she want to take it? Was that the instinct he was talking about? She didn’t know. She couldn’t think.

  It felt like she was coming down with a fever, the heat building inside her, making her pant. Making her conscious of nothing else but how hot she was and how badly she ached. How badly she wanted to touch that massive, muscular body stretched out above hers and rub herself against the hard ridge pressing between her thighs.

  Was that . . . his cock?

  She was looking up at him even though she’d told herself she shouldn’t, staring straight into the hot darkness of his eyes. And he made no attempt to hide the hunger that burned there, letting her see it.

  Yes, he wanted her and she could feel evidence of it in the exquisite pressure against her clit.

  Perhaps it had been the fight. Perhaps that had excited him.

  No “perhaps.” And it excited you, too.

  The thought blazed across her consciousness, bringing with it an echo of familiarity, as if somewhere, at some time, she’d fought another man and enjoyed it. A man who was as big and muscular as Jacob and maybe . . . but her mind shied away from the echo before she could nail it down, as if sensing something painful.

  “What is it?” The question was sharp, his focus becoming even more intent. As if he knew she’d remembered something.

  But she didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t even want to think it, so she lifted her hands and pressed her fingers to his chest, though whether to push him off or simply to distract him she didn’t know.

  Until she made contact and then everything became clear.

  He felt hard, his skin hot beneath the cotton of his T-shirt, and she didn’t want to take her hands away. So she didn’t, spreading her fingers out and pressing her palms against his chest. The feel of him was intoxicating, making her breath catch and her heartbeat thunder in her ears.

  “Ms. Beasley.”

  She curled her fingers, pulling at the fabric and watching it stretch across the sharply defined muscle beneath it. Then she let it go, pressing her palms against him once more, relishing the raw heat soaking through the cotton.

  “Ms. Beasley,” he said again, his voice sounding far away.

  “What?” She curled her fingers once more, digging her nails into the cotton, testing his hardness.

  “What are you doing?”

  Yes, what are you doing?

  Touching him. Oh God, she was touching him.

  “I . . .” She was panting, barely able to speak, and she couldn’t seem to drag her hands away from him.

  “Don’t stop.” The words were a rough whisper, winding around her like a caress, inciting her. “Follow your instinct.”

  “I shouldn’t,” she said hoarsely, not even sure why she was saying it, not when touching him felt so good.

  “Yes, you should.” His impressive biceps flexed again as he lowered his upper body another half an inch, his chest now brushing against her hardened nipples, the look on his harsh, scarred face stealing all her breath. “Don’t be afraid. Nothing will hurt you while I’m here.”

  Don’t be afraid. . . .

  She didn’t know why the words echoed in her head or why it felt like he’d opened a door inside her. She only knew that she couldn’t fight the desire that had her in its grip, a hunger she’d been denying for a long time now. A hunger that maybe didn’t need to be denied anymore.

  A sound escaped her, half a whimper, half a groan, and her hands were pulling at the fabric of his T-shirt, clawing it up so she could touch him. She felt starved, desperate. Like she’d been wanting to do this since the moment she’d seen him.

  She shoved the fabric up under his arms, staring hungrily at the chiseled expanse of olive skin dusted with curling black hair. He had tattoos, military from the looks of it. An eagle and trident over his right pec—obviously, he’d been a SEAL at one point—and a snarling wolf with the Stars and Stripes behind it over his left. Curving black lines licked around the military designs, indicating the presence of some kind of intricate tat on his back, too.

  Her hands shook as she touched him. His skin felt like oiled silk stretched over iron-hard muscle, and he was so hot.

  A helpless groan escaped her as she spread her fingers and pressed her palms flat against his chest. He felt good, so impossibly good. She couldn’t get enough.

  There was a deep, hollow ache between her thighs and she shifted beneath him, responding automatically to it, angling her hips against the hardness of his cock, wanting more pressure, more friction.

  He remained motionless above her, the expression on his face taut, his eyes hot coals, burning her alive.

  “Move,” she ordered hoarsely. “Move, please.”

  “No.” He stayed maddeningly still. “You want it, you take it.”

  Frustrating bastard.

  She didn’t want to have to do this herself. She didn’t want to have to make the choice. Yet it looked like he was going to give her no other option. She either took what she wanted or—

  But no. There was no choice, not for her. The hunger inside her was too strong to be denied.

  Faith slid her hands up his chest, scratching him with her nails before lifting her head and pressing her mouth to the base of his strong throat.

  His flavor burst on her tongue, salt and male musk, and the steady beat of his pulse. God, he tasted delicious, rich and decadent, like the very best chocolate or the very finest wine. It went straight to her head and she couldn’t get enough, licking him, tracing his collarbones with her tongue before moving higher, brushing his hard jaw with her mouth, his beard a sensual roughness against her lips.

  Desperation was starting to take hold, her hunger deepening.

  She clamped her thighs around his waist, lifting her hips, the pressure of his cock against her clit a jolt of pleasure that set alight every nerve ending she had.

  Another groan escaped her and she arched her spine, unable to stop herself from rubbing her aching nipples against his chest, frustrated at the fabric that separated them.

  “That’s it.” His voice was soft and impossibly deep, dark heat threaded through it, making her ache, making her burn. “Take what
you need, sweet girl. Use me. Rub yourself all over me.”

  She barely heard, feverish and impatient and so desperate it was difficult to breathe. Clawing at the T-shirt she wore, she pulled it up, then shoved her bra up with it, baring her breasts, needing his skin on hers without any fabric between them.

  The raw heat of his skin made her gasp, crisp hair brushing over her sensitive nipples. She turned her head into the side of his neck, licking and biting, wanting his taste in her mouth.

  She gave no thought to control. There was nothing but heat and need, the burning desire to touch, to breathe him in, inhale everything about him.

  “Jacob.” His name was a frantic whisper as she put her arms around him, her hands on his back, sliding down his spine to the waistband of his pants. “Please . . . oh, please . . . ”

  But he wasn’t moving, he just wasn’t moving. So she shoved her hands beneath the fabric, finding the muscled curve of his ass, digging her nails in as she lifted her hips, rocking herself against the hard ridge of his cock, wanting more.

  He made a sound, a rumble in his chest like a growl, and finally—thank God —he shifted, flexing his hips in a small movement that sent pleasure cascading through her, making her groan yet again.

  She panted, her eyes drifting shut, moving against him, faster, harder. Aware of nothing but the pressure that was building inside her, the exquisite pleasure and frustration of it making her want to scream.

  Her nipples ached, wanting to be touched, but all she could do was rub them against his bare chest, the heat of his skin scorching her.

  He changed the angle of his movements, his hard cock grinding against her clit, and suddenly she was gasping and trembling all over.

  She said his name again, wanting this to be over, wanting the delicious agony of it to end and yet not wanting it to, not ever. Because right here, right now, there was no black hole of memory, no chaos. And more importantly, no fear. There was only him, his big, rock-hard body anchoring her to the earth, a shield between her and the rest of the world, a place of safety.

  That and the intense, blinding pleasure that scrubbed everything else from her mind.

  She buried her hot face in his neck as the pressure released, raw ecstasy flooding through her, making her cry out in relief, tears prickling behind her eyes.