by Keri Arthur
"I can hardly look when it's ink black and you're so close your belt buckle is digging into my belly."
He kept pressing her backward until her back hit something solid. One of the counters, she realized, as the chill of the metal pressed into her spine.
His grin was decidedly wicked as he released her hand then placed his on either side of her, neatly corralling her. “You sure it's a belt buckle?"
She was sure it wasn't. “You need that leg tended to."
"I have lots of needs that require tending. Some more urgent than others."
As if to emphasize his point, his mouth claimed hers. It wasn't the urgency-filled kiss she'd expected, but rather a slow and tender exploration that left breathless. Dizzy.
Or maybe that was a side effect caused by the spicy mix of his scent filling every ragged breath as he pulled away. She couldn't say for sure, and she didn't really care. Not when sweat formed where they touched, and the air was so thick with the heat of their desire that it seemed to burn like flames across her skin.
He kissed her chin, her neck, the caress of his breath against her skin almost cool compared to the heat melting her insides.
"I want you,” he said softly, his gaze somehow capturing hers in the darkness. Or maybe it was just the gleam of need, a need that was as fierce as the flames burning inside her. “Here, now."
It wasn't safe, she wanted to say. Wasn't sound. Her dad could walk in at any moment, and that would be nothing short of awkward. But the words not here wouldn't form on her lips. How could they, when every nerve ending was trembling for his touch, and the recklessness she'd buried so long had risen with a vengeance and would not be quieted? She wanted him, regardless of the situation or the consequences.
And it wasn't the moon or the fever. It was simply the man, and what he did to her. What he'd always done to her.
"Yes,” she said, her voice little more than a pant of air.
"Thank God."
"He had nothing to do with my decision."
He laughed softly and skimmed his hands down her sides. “Then thank you, Ms. Grant. I shall endeavor to make the experience a worthwhile one."
She kissed his nose as he tugged her shirt free of her pants. But as he moved to undo her buttons, she placed her hands on top of his, stopping him. “It occurs to me that since you're injured, I should be doing all the hard work."
He shook off her grip and continued undoing her shirt. “I don't believe in letting a woman do all the work."
She ran her hand down the muscular planes of his chest and stomach, enjoying the contrast of the silky material under her fingertips and the hardness just behind it. The contrasting coldness of his belt buckle as she leisurely undid it. “What if I promise to make it worthwhile?"
His fingers slipped under her bra and he cupped her breasts in his big hands. A tremor ran through her and for a moment, she arched against him, pressing into his touch, savoring it.
"I just might be tempted."
She placed a hand against his cheek, ran a thumb across his warm lips. “So why don't you step back and take off those jeans?"
Though she couldn't see his smile, she felt it, deep inside. “You have something in mind?"
She kissed him, softly, sweetly, and then said, “I certainly have. You take off those jeans and I'll go lock the door and find us a chair."
"Now, that sounds like something I might enjoy.” His fingers touched her cheek, ran fleetingly over her lips. “Don't be long."
She wasn't. Once she'd found him in the gloom again, she put the chair behind him and lightly pressed a hand against his chest.
"Now park that sexy butt.” When he had, she straddled him, her thighs pressing against the outsides of his. “And undo my pants."
"I'm tempted to say ‘yes ma'am’ at this moment,” he said, his voice a heated mix of amusement and desire.
"I don't care what you say as long as you do as you're told."
"A woman after my own heart.” He kissed her belly, sending a ripple of longing lapping across her skin, then undid her zipper. “Just remember, I control events next time."
"Maybe."
"Definitely."
Smiling at the hunger so evident in his husky tone, she stepped back, kicked off her pants, but not her panties, and straddled him again, this time sitting. As the hard length of him rested against her, she sighed. Lord, he felt so good, even like this. She rocked her hips back and forth, gently rubbing the silk of her panties across the hard length him, teasing them both. He jerked, then groaned.
"Oh God, that feels good.” His hands were on her hips, pressing her down, but not restricting her movements. “But it would feel a whole lot better if you were completely naked."
She leaned forward, wrapping her arms loosely around his neck and taking a nip of his ear lobe. “So you're not enjoying the sensation of silk against skin?"
"Oh, I'm enjoying it.” His breath was hot and quick against her neck, his fingers warm as he slid one hand from her hip to her stomach. “But skin to skin is better."
"But leaving panties on means I can get dressed faster if the need arises."
"Sensible, one supposes."
"I'm nothing if not sensible these—"
The rest of her words were lost to a gasp as his fingers slid past elastic and into warm wetness.
She shuddered, arching her back, momentarily losing herself to the pleasure of that firm stroke. Combined with the heat of him throbbing beneath her—a heat she so desperately needed to feel deep inside—and she was just about in heaven.
But she didn't want to get there so fast. She wanted to play a bit longer.
She shifted, pulling away from his touch. “Did I give you permission to do that?"
"No. And I don't care."
She smiled. “Do I have to tie you up?"
"It's an option that has interesting possibilities."
"Then maybe it's something we should explore when we have more time."
"Only if you remember that what you do to me I will do to you."
"Another idea that has interesting possibilities."
She settled on top of him again and began rocking, this time a little harder. He quivered beneath her, the heat of him seeming to sear her flesh.
"I am not going to last long if you keep doing that,” he groaned.
"You'll last as long as I want you to."
"No amount of words is going to stem the tide if you push too far, woman."
Grinning, she stopped rocking and a dropped a kiss on his neck, then worked her way down his chest. She circled his nipples several times with her tongue, and then she captured one with her teeth, biting it lightly.
He shuddered, and she felt perspiration break out across his skin. She tasted the tiny droplets, savoring them as she ran her tongue over his flesh again. He tasted of salt, of desire, and of everything she'd ever longed for in her life, everything she'd thought she'd lost.
"Vannah,” he warned softly.
She trailed kisses up his neck then captured his mouth, kissing him with growing urgency. Both of them were trembling by the time she pulled away, their bodies hot and slick where flesh met flesh, and even wetter where flesh met silk.
But she didn't give him what he wanted—what she wanted—just continued to rock.
He groaned again, and this time it was a sound of deep frustration.
"I want be inside you,” he ground out. “I want to feel your hot, wet heat wrapped around me."
"Not yet,” she murmured. “But soon."
She ached for him—ached so fiercely it hurt. He pulsed against her, a promise of satisfaction that was so close and yet so far away. Yet his hard flesh touched all the right places as she rocked back and forth, back and forth.
Then the deep-down quivering began, spreading like wildfire across her skin. She rocked harder, and he gasped—a short sharp sound of desperation. Desire. The trembling in his body grew stronger and she knew he was battling for control.
But the a
che in hers was growing, flooding across her senses, until it became a kaleidoscope of sensations that washed through every fiber of her being. Then the shuddering took hold and she gasped, grabbing his shoulders, trying to hold on until he was inside. She reached between them and thrust her panties to one side. Then she captured him, driving him deep, until it felt as if her very soul was being invading by the thick heat of his body. His groan was a sound of ecstatic relief. It was a sound she echoed as she held still, despite the demands of her body, wanting to enjoy this simple moment of oneness. Then he moved, and she could do nothing more than move with him, gently at first and then with growing urgency, until she was almost consumed by the sensations and need flowing through her. Then they did consume her, and she came, even as his body went rigid against hers and the hot rush of his seed spilled into her.
Almost immediately she collapsed against him, resting her cheek against his sweaty chest as she battled to catch her breath. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as he pressed his cheek against the top of her head.
"That beats coffee and breakfast any day."
She chuckled softly, but she didn't move, enjoying the moment of closeness while she could. “You wouldn't be thinking that if my dad chose this moment to walk in."
"Your dad doesn't scare me."
"You haven't met him yet."
He tucked a finger under her chin and raised it. He kissed her, and it was a kiss unlike anything she'd ever felt from him. Sweet but possessive, heated and yet oddly filled with intent.
"You're mine, Savannah, and I won't share you with anyone. Not even your father."
Annoyance flickered through her. So they were back to that. “Don't be ridiculous. Besides, the moon magic doesn't make me yours. It just holds me to a promise."
She rose from him and shuffled around in the darkness until she found their clothes. She tossed his to him and got dressed herself.
"I meant what I said.” His voice was little more than a rumble of annoyance coming out of the darkness to her left.
"So did I.” She zipped her pants and buttoned her shirt. “And you had better be aware that my sister is very much a part of my life, and that will never change. Not for anyone."
"I didn't mean that."
"I don't care what you meant. Truth is I won't ever be yours until I freely make that choice.” And the fact that she had made that choice wasn't something he needed to know right now. Not when he was still choosing to hide behind the safety of the moon magic and his work.
She strode across the room, guided by the glimmer of light seeping through the edges of the swinging doors, and brushed a hand across the wall, feeling for the light switch. She flicked all of them on, but nothing happened.
"Damn."
"What?” he said, instantly alert.
"Nothing. Just a blown fuse."
"The kitchen has more than one light. Try the others."
"Gee, why didn't I think of that,” she said sarcastically.
Footsteps echoed, coming towards her. “You mean they're not working, either?"
"Nope."
"Where is the circuit board?"
"Near the store room at the back—” She hesitated as she caught the flash of a light under one of the benches. Red light, like something had been left on.
Nothing unusual in that, as her dad had a habit of not turning off the appliances he used regularly—like the toaster. But why hadn't she noticed it before?
"What?” Cade said, his hand touching hers briefly.
"Something's been left on, I think.” She took a few steps closer and bent to get a clearer look.
Something inside her froze. It wasn't a warning that an appliance had been left on, but rather numbers, counting down.
Fifteen...
Fourteen...
Thirteen...
Realization clicked in. It was a bomb, primed and ready to go off.
"Oh, fuck,” Cade said. He grabbed her hand, pulling her out the kitchen door and towards the front door. The locked front door.
She thrust a hand into her packet, fumbling for her keys and dragging them out. But she wasn't fast enough. They weren't fast enough.
Even as she reached for the door, there was a rumble of sound that became a blinding flash and suddenly there was nothing but heat, terrible, terrible heat, as the world went red around her.
Chapter Ten
Cade grabbed Savannah and thrust her under one of the booths, knowing the three-sided protection provided by the table and the seats might be their only chance of survival. He dove in on top of her, covering her body with his as the roar and the heat and the sheer wind force of the explosion hit. It was accompanied by debris and thick, unbreathable dust that was jettisoned through the air by the power of the blast. Bricks, glass, and God only knew what else, become deadly missiles. The table above them shuddered and cracked as it was hit time and time again with debris and metal and remnants of furniture. He cocooned Vannah against him, her body shuddering against his, her heart racing as fiercely as his own. Yet she didn't make a sound, keeping the fear he could almost taste tightly leashed. Several large chunks of glass speared into their small space, one so close to his arm it sliced his shirt and skin. Another cut past her cheek, drawing blood before embedding itself into the cushioned vinyl seat.
Then silence fell. Only it wasn't really silence, because it was filled with the crackle of fire. For a long moment, he didn't move, wanting to be certain the main explosion was over, that it was safe.
Savannah was struggling and coughing beneath him. “It's okay,” he said, smoothing her dust-covered hair. “We're okay."
She shook her head, her body wracked by coughs. “The gas,” she said hoarsely, twisting around. Her eyes were filled with fear as she pushed bloodied hair from her face. “The explosion might have ruptured the lines. We have to get to the cutoff valve."
Fuck. He hadn't even thought of that. Kneeling, he scrambled out from under the table and held out a hand to help her. “Where is the valve?"
The fingers she placed in his were bloody and trembling. Yet there was nothing resembling fear in her voice as she said, “Out the back, near the generator."
He looked that way. Half of the inner wall had come down in the explosion. They'd be scrambling over it to get to the valve. He rose and helped her to her feet. “Lead the way, before that fire gets any worse."
She nodded, her green eyes shocked as her gaze skated around the restaurant. “Oh God—"
"Savannah.” he prompted softly.
She glanced at him, nodded and half ran, half scrambled, over the bricks and rubbish, through the twisted remains of tables and chairs.
Yet despite all the damage, they'd been lucky. This section of the diner remained relatively untouched, even if all the windows had blown out. Most of the booths, while covered in debris, still stood, and even several tables near them were relatively unscathed. It was the booths, tables, and the counter on the kitchen side that had taken the force of the blast and, therefore, had the most damage.
He turned his gaze to the devastation that had once been the kitchen. The bomb had been powerful enough to destroy the immediate area and blow off that section of the roof, revealing the rooms above. Yet it wasn't strong enough to bring down the main walls and totally demolish the dining area.
But if they'd been in the kitchen, or had turned on the lights earlier, when he was more interested in making love to Vannah than eating breakfast, they would be dead.
That bomb had been aimed at her father, not her. Not them.
The back door still hung on its hinges, but only barely. Vannah grabbed his arm, balancing herself as she kicked at the door. It gave way on her third blow.
"Over here,” she said, and then started coughing so violently she was almost bending over with the force of them. He touched her back, wanting to comfort her, yet knowing there had to be priorities. And right now, no matter what instinct might be saying, she wasn't it.
He found the gas
valve and turned it off. Then he got out his cell phone and checked to make sure it was still working. It was, thankfully. He dialed Anton's number and grabbed Savannah's hand, pulling her away from the smoke and the dust into fresh air.
"Anton,” he said, the minute the phone was answered. “I need you to get over to the diner near the corner of First and Main. Someone just tried to blow us up."
"Hell—everyone okay?"
"Yeah. Just get here fast."
"Will do."
He hung up. The wail of sirens split the air, approaching fast. He and Vannah should head around to the front and clear the curious that always gathered after a major drama, like gulls drawn to a tasty morsel. But right now, he didn't give a damn about the curious or any remaining danger. Not when Savannah was still coughing her heart out.
He glanced around until he found a tap. Luckily, it had a hose attached. “You want a drink?"
She nodded and leaned against the rickety back fence, scrubbing a hand across her face and smearing blood everywhere. “That bomb wasn't aimed at us."
He turned on the tap and bought the hose over to her. “No."
She washed her hands under the dribbling water, then grabbed the hose and took a long drink. “Thanks,” she said, handing it back.
"Your face is cut.” He reached up with a free hand and thumbed the blood away. Not that it helped much. The cut was relatively deep and bleeding fairly heavily. “I think you'll need to shift shape to stop the flow."
"It's only blood,” she said, repeating his earlier words with a smile teasing her lips.
"Cheeky wench.” With his hand still cupping her cheek, he leaned forward and kissed her. And while passion was evident, there was none of the urgency that had so filled their kisses only a few minutes ago, just a vibrant mix of tenderness and relief. She was okay; he was okay. Everything else really didn't matter.
When the approaching sirens stopped, he pulled back and dropped his hand. “We'd better get around to the front."
She half nodded, took several steps forward, then stopped and groaned. “Dad's around the front."
