by Lora Leigh
Tall and well muscled, he exuded testosterone. A perfect male in his prime, his muscular body shown off to perfection in the snug jeans he wore, and the gray striped, cotton dress shirt. A wide leather belt circled his slim hips and hard stomach. Propped against one of the wide, wooden posts that separated the dance floor and the table area, his casual position shouted confidence. The position he assumed was mouth-wateringly sexy. All that hard muscle lounging comfortably, arms crossed over a wide muscular chest, long, masculine legs crossed at the ankle, leading to muscled thighs that framed a more than impressive male bulge. She swallowed tightly. She knew exactly how impressive that bulge actually was.
Turning her gaze from him, Sarah remembered years ago, a stolen night, hard, hot kisses in the silence of his room, and the thick, hard erection beneath those well-worn jeans. It made her body heat alarmingly, remembering his touch. His hands, work roughened on her sensitive young breasts, between her thighs. His fingers sliding through thick moisture, his voice humming with approval as his fingers penetrated, then stopped at the evidence of her innocence.
Then his mouth. Her eyes closed as she remembered that hot, seductive mouth and the fear that washed over her as he threw her into her first and only orgasm. He had lapped at the rush of moisture, holding her hips still as his tongue dipped into her vagina, penetrating her, eating her decadently. His mouth had been hot, his tongue voracious, the sounds of his pleasure vibrating against her clit in a manner that had her crying out in bliss over and over again.
She had opened her eyes then and behind him she had seen the identical version of the man whose tongue had lapped so desperately at her flesh. Brock’s twin, Sam. He had been turning away, but Sarah had seen a look, an assurance in his eyes that terrified her.
You’ll be back, Sarah. I won’t let you go! The memory of his last words to her six years before whispered through her mind.
She shook her head, fighting the betraying weakness that she had assailed her then as well. She took a long drink of the beer, grimacing at the warm taste. What the hell was she doing here? What made her think she was any braver now than she had been then? That she was any more accepting. What made her think he would even want to touch her now, an older version of that scared little girl, helpless in the face of her own passions and the fears that made her run? She had been eighteen, Brock had just celebrated his twenty-fifth birthday. Six years. She sighed. He was more handsome at thirty-one than he had been when he was younger. More handsome and decidedly more dangerous.
“Hello, Sarah.” She froze at the sound of that dark, male voice. There was no mistaking the rough timber of it, the dark intoxication of hearing it roughen with lust.
The breath stilled in her chest, birds wings, not butterflies, beat at her stomach. She felt the wet evidence of her desire for this man pulse from between her thighs. Sarah swallowed past her nerves and allowed her eyes to rove over his masculine form. Up. Up. Past the thickened bulge, noticeably larger now, over the flat abdomen and wide chest, up to the dark, blue-gray eyes that watched her with arousal.
The muscles in her stomach bunched, tightened. Fingers of arousal danced over her breasts, teased her inner thighs. She felt her breathing deepen as lust lanced through her body. It was like a mild electrical shock being sent through her entire system.
It had been years since she had allowed herself to be anywhere near him. She had avoided any place he could be, went the other way if she saw him coming. She had avoided him for so long that it became a habit. A need. She knew if she was in his company for longer than a second, then she would be begging him to fuck her. It amazed her that he had approached her now. Amazed and terrified her.
“Hi, Brock. It’s been a while.” She tilted her beer in a small, courageous gesture before tipping it to her lips and taking a long drink. False courage. She needed it badly.
She wasn’t normally a bold person, or a forward one. She had always been the one hugging the corners at parties, reluctant to step out. How she managed to get up enough nerve to come to the bar in the first place, she wasn’t certain. It had been an impulsive move to take this one night for herself. Just one night. A night to remember, to hug close to her during the long, lonely nights to come.
“Have a cold one.” He set a chilled bottle in front her, then swinging a leg over the back of the chair, sat down across from her.
The graceful male movement had her breath catching in her throat. The loose limbed straddle, the shrug of his shoulder, the wry tilt of his lips. Not quite a smile, but the hint that it could be if he could get past the shadows that lurked in his eyes.
Sarah slid the empty bottle over and picked up the cold one. She lifted it to her lips and sipped. The bitter bite wasn’t pleasant, but she knew the much-needed salve to her nerves would be welcome when it hit. When breaking out of one’s shell, one needed to do it right.
“Thanks.” Her eyes flickered to his, then back to the bottle. He had only grown more handsome in the past six years. Where she had just grown older. His face, strong-boned and cut into firm, determined lines, showed a man who knew a little too much and had seen more than his share of pain. His dark hair was overly long, brushing the collar of his white shirt. It was black, glistening like midnight silk and tempted her hands to run through it.
“I haven’t seen you in a while.” Six years. The thought strained at her nerves.
The secluded corner gained them a measure of quiet from the band at the front of the room, keeping him from having to yell at her. His voice was still raised though, the husky timber stroking over her.
She looked into his eyes; saw the measuring, considering look there. He would push her. But he still wanted her. God, so much had changed in six years. Why hadn’t the desire that pulsed between them dissipated as well?
She shook her head, glancing quickly at him, then back to the bottle as she shrugged, biting her lower lip enough to make it smart.
“I’ve been busy.” Stupid was more like it.
She squelched the flare of anger. Mark, her ex-husband, had kept her home, convincing her that was where a good wife stayed. The truth was, his cheating was so extensive he had been terrified someone would finally tell her. No one had to tell her what a fool she was. She knew the first week they were married. A completely blind, misguided, stupid fool. Strangely enough, she wasn’t hurt in the least, just embarrassed. Embarrassed, humiliated and totally ashamed. Three progressions that left a taste more bitter than the beer in her mouth.
“So, you aren’t busy anymore?” There was a thread of amusement in his voice, a question that went beyond the words.
Her gaze met his. She read the speculation, the sexual intent they contained. She held the look for long seconds before her gaze lowered. Her fingers picked at the paper on the front of the bottle for a minute before she shook her head.
“No.” She tipped the beer up for another drink, swiped at the fringe of long bangs that drifted over her forehead. “I’m not busy anymore, Brock.”
What was she doing? Was she insane? The cautious, frightened part of her screamed the question. Jump up. Run away. She wasn’t about to. She had deliberately come to this bar, sat here for nearly an hour, waiting. For six years the memory of one night had tormented her, the incompleteness of the act driving her mad with the need to finish it.
She licked her lips, fighting her nervousness, then tipped the beer up for another long drink. At the same moment, her eyes met his once again. She swallowed the beer hard, then took another for added courage. His eyes were hot, heavy lidded, his firm, finely molded lips just a bit full, the expression on his face intense as he concentrated on her lips. He looked sensual, hungry. She knew his sexual appetite was said to be voracious. She shivered in yearning.
She ran her tongue over her lips and wanted to whimper as she set the bottle down. His eyes followed each movement she made. When it disappeared into her mouth once again, his eyes rose slowly to meet hers. She was caught. Trapped like a deer by a bright light, helpless
, bound by the sheer sexuality he exuded. It vibrated through her system, soaking into the pores of her skin until she felt sensitive, overheated.
She wanted him and he knew it. Sarah could see that knowledge in the heavy lidded, dark look he gave her. He could feel it, just as she could. Like a physical wave of energy coming off them both.
“Still scared, Sarah?” He mouthed the words more than he spoke them.
He had no idea just how scared. She trembled beneath his look, remembered the lava-hot sensations that poured through her body so many years ago. The loss of control, the desire, the need to give this man whatever he wanted, any way he wanted it.
“Terrified,” she answered in the same manner.
His gaze held hers. She watched shadows shift in his eyes, emotions so fleeting she couldn’t decipher them flashed through his gaze. Then resignation, acceptance settled into his expression. As though he too knew that the memories of that hot summer would never just go away. Sarah was afraid giving in would only make it worse as well.
“Dance with me.” He rose to his feet, holding his hand out to her.
Sarah looked at it, so hard and broad, then into his eyes as she reached out slowly. He pulled her from her chair as a haunting ballad filled the air. The words of Gary Allen, whispering how he would prove he was the one, began. Her breath caught in her throat as Brock took her into his arms at the edge of the dance floor, pulling her tight against him.
Heat and the scent of masculine arousal enfolded her. His arms were strong, protective, causing her heart to clench painfully with the realization that one of her greatest needs over the years was being fulfilled. She was in his arms again. The remembered feeling of security, of peace and longing rushed over her in a fiery wave of sensation so intense she wanted to cry. His chest was broad, hard, but he cushioned her against it with tender hands. The remembered feel of his bare flesh caressing her breasts made her nipples harden. He had danced with her in his room that night, slowly removing her clothes as his lips possessed hers, his body weaving in hypnotic circles to the slow, sultry beat of the music outside.
His erection was like a brand on her lower stomach. His arms wrapped around her waist, leaving her to place hers at his shoulders. One big hand lifted to hold her head to his chest. His heartbeat was hard and imperative beneath her ear, his chest rising and falling with swift motions as his hands rubbed over her back, slow and easy. If he kept this up, she would be a boneless pleading idiot in minutes.
“Are you playing with me, Brock?” she whispered as he gripped her hips, moving to the music in a way that pressed his hips more firmly against her, making her breath catch in her throat, her vagina to clench, weep in urgent demand. Please God, she prayed, don’t let him be playing with her, she didn’t think she could stand the tormenting demand of her body much longer.
“Maybe I should be asking you that question.” They turned around the dance floor, ignoring the other couples, drifting in a haze of warmth and arousal.
He bent his head, nuzzling her neck, his lips smoothing over the skin beneath her ear. She shivered, her nails biting into his shoulders as fiery sensations wracked her body. She breathed in harshly, a strangled whimper startling her when it came from her throat.
His lips were warm and rough, the moist rasp of his tongue nearly sent her into climax then and there. He licked seductively with each movement of his lips against her skin, driving her insane with the heat that spread through her veins. Her womb contracted, her heart beat hard and loud.
“Are you finished running from me, Sarah?” He nipped the lobe of her ear as though in retaliation for the lost time.
“Was I running?” she gasped. “I thought I was married.”
He tensed. The corded muscles in his body tightened instantly.
“Don’t remind me of that, Sarah,” he warned her cautiously. “I’m trying real hard to forget it.”
His fingers clenched at her hips, not painful, but forceful, grinding her body against his as the song came to its last, pulsating note. Sarah lifted her head as Brock paused, staring down at her. She was breathing hard and she knew her expression was filled with the pleading desperation raging through her body. So long. It had been so long since he had touched her, held her. She needed him, and God help her, she needed him now.
“Let’s finish that beer.” His hand settled on her back as he led her back to the table.
CHAPTER TWO
Sarah was surprised. She had expected him to want to leave. She didn’t expect him to walk her back to the table and help her back into her chair. Then he sat in his and surprised her once again.
Brock moved, chair and all until he was crowding her into the corner. One arm went behind her back, the other to the table as he leaned forward, blocking her from view of the other bar patrons. She felt enclosed, sheltered and warm as he surrounded her. At the same time she could feel excitement gathering, pooling, making her cunt slick and hot.
“How terrified are you, Sarah?” He whispered the words at her cheek now, staring into her eyes as an involuntary whimper issued from her throat.
Her nipples hardened beneath her new dress, her breasts swelling, straining the fragile buttons that held the bodice together. His gaze dropped to the rapid rise and fall, then returned slowly to her eyes. That single, hungry look electrified her. She wanted to beg him to kiss her, stroke her, fuck her until she couldn’t move.
“You should be outlawed,” she told him desperately as the hand that rested on the table moved to encase hers.
His long fingers caressed the sensitive skin of her wrist as the hand at her back began to rub several inches of her spine slowly. She wanted to arch against him, like a cat begging to be rubbed.
“How scared are you, Sarah?” He repeated his question, his expression intent as he watched her. “And be very certain that you tell the truth this time.”
Her chest tightened at his warning. He still wanted her. She could see it in his darkening eyes, feel it in the heat radiating off his body. Just like before. He enclosed them in his sexual need, his determination to have her. His hunger for her.
“Not scared enough,” she admitted desperately. “But scared, Brock. Real scared.”
She wouldn’t lie to him this time. Not now, not while she needed him like this. Like a hunger, an obsession that stole her breath. His hand rose to her neck, beneath the soft fall of her hair, cupping the back of her head as he urged her to look into his eyes once again.
“I won’t stop this time, Sarah,” he told her gently, but the expression on his face was savage. “Do you understand me? If I get your panties off again, I’ll fuck you, no matter how hard you cry. I won’t have the control to let you go.”
She had cried before. As he rose over her, his erection nudging the slick heat between her thighs, she had begged him to let her go as she pushed against his chest, fighting to be free. She remembered how hard he fought for control. The head of his cock had buried inside her before he jerked away, cursing her, raging at her as she scrambled to her feet, jerked her dress on and stumbled from his room.
“I won’t beg you to stop.” That was all she could promise.
His jaw clenched, satisfaction flaring in his eyes. His hand went from the table to her thigh. She jerked in startled awareness as it moved slowly beneath her dress. A test? She swallowed hard, her chest suddenly tight, her breathing harsh as his fingers inched up her thigh. She looked into the crowd nervously, wondering who could see.
“No one can see what I’m doing, Sarah,” he promised her, his voice husky, throbbing with passion.
A test? A passionate form of torture to see how serious she actually was? With Brock, anything was possible. She knew his sexual excesses were whispered of, much as the demons of old once were. Hushed whispers, as though speaking them clearly would bring them to life. He, like his two brothers, was Madison’s favorite topic of gossip.
“Would you care if they did?” She blinked, her lips parting to fight for breath as those diaboli
cal fingers inched forward.
They were hot on her skin, the slight friction making her muscles clench with the need for more. She would never get enough of his touch and she knew it.
“I would only care if another man actually saw what is mine now, Sarah,” he told her ruthlessly. “Make no mistake. You run into the arms of another man to escape me again, even that ineffectual husband of yours, and blood will be shed.”
She shivered. She swallowed tightly. Blinking up at him she tried to make sense of the possessive light filling his suddenly darkened gaze. This wasn’t right, she thought. One night. That was all she wanted. She needed closure to the memory that haunted her day and night. She couldn’t handle more. She wouldn’t allow it to become more. She would have protested his statement, but as her mouth opened and she felt his fingers moving closer to the throbbing center of her body, her eyes widened.
They were a bit calloused, warm. They drew intriguing designs above her knee, then upward to her thigh. His thumb rubbed in silky circles, causing her breath to catch on a low moan as his fingers reached the edge of her panties. Her blood thundered with excitement, with the forbidden.
“Easy now.” He gripped her thigh, tugging at it as he urged her to scoot down on the seat marginally.
“Brock.” Her small protest was one of feminine fear.
She was riding an edge, close to the barrier of common sense and insanity where her lust for this man was concerned. It terrified her to think of the lengths she would go to, this one night, to fulfill the fantasy of him possessing her body.
“I just want to touch you, Sarah,” he whispered at her ear. “That’s all, just touch. I promise not to embarrass you.”
She moved forward, his hand stopping her as her buttocks neared the edge. Satisfaction glittered in his gaze as the hand behind her urged her to settle against the back of the chair. Sarah looked up at him wanting to beg him not to do this. Not here, where everyone could see.