CLOSE TO YOU: Enhanced (Lost Hearts) (25 page)

             
It wasn't enough, could never be enough, and she thrust herself against his hand, trying to extend the sensation.

             
He laughed, low and exhilarated, and withdrew his hand. "Are you satisfied already, darling? Can you go away now and know you've had all the satisfaction you can find with me?"

             
"No." Was he threatening to leave her like this? "God, no."

             
"Or is that just the hors d'oeuvre that leaves you hungry for the full meal?" His dark eyes sparked with gold. He was taunting her, making her want more, making her admit all.

             
"Please." She sucked air into lungs. "I want everything. I want
you
."

             
He nodded, that pained smile tilting his lips, and shoved her jeans down to her ankles.

             
The cool sluice of air-conditioning against her skin brought a semblance of sense, and as he swung her into his arms, she opened her eyes.

             
The flip-flops, the jeans dropped off her feet, leaving her in a T-shirt and her tiniest panties -- she'd been wearing mouth-watering underwear every day for no reason except that she prayed she might,
might
find herself almost naked in Teague's arms.

             
She hoped he didn't realize what had been going on in her mind. She certainly hadn't fooled herself.

             
He opened the blinds, placed her on the mattress, then stepped back and gazed at her sprawled on his bed. Oh, when he looked at her like that, as if she were a jewel he would possess and keep forever, she could scarcely breathe for hope and . . . love.

             
Love.

             
What madness had possessed her to fall in love with a man so dangerous that he dealt death with his bare hands and handled weapons with frightening proficiency? He'd said the words when he sent her away that last night—they had nothing in common.

             
Except for similar humor and lively curiosity. And they could live together; that was important. She could tease him into trying new foods, and strive ineffectually to work out at his pace . . . and bask in his gaze as he watched her. He made her feel safe, and she made him feel at home. They weren't alike, yet . . . they were. Their minds worked in similar ways, and she loved him with a sharp, hot passion she'd never imagined.

             
He pulled his shirt off and she saw again the rippling muscles of his stomach, the toned shoulders, the broad chest, and the smooth, bronze skin. At the gym, he'd been posing. Now he had no thought of letting her admire him. He was concerned with nothing more than undressing, and as rapidly as possible. He dropped his pants and underwear into a heap at his feet, and her breath locked desperately in her chest.

             
His narrow hips were made to fit between her legs, his muscled thighs would move him in an endless rhythm . . . but his cock would never fit inside her. Either the two other guys she'd slept with were puny, or Teague was overendowed and just plain scary.

             
"It's all right." He must have had to soothe other women at other times, for he put one knee on the bed beside her and with his palm he petted her arm. Catching her hand, he lifted it to his lips and kissed the back of her fingers, then turned it and kissed her wrist. His lips lingered over her pulse. "You were meant for me, and I will make this so good for you you'll"—he smiled a buccaneer's smile, as if he knew he was politically incorrect but was unable to resist—"you'll beg me to take you."

             
Yes. Politically incorrect . . . and probably true.

             
Her gaze skimmed him as he rose above her on the bed.

             
Definitely true. Her body prepared itself for another one of those bone-wracking orgasms, and he had done nothing except undress and smile.

             
"Do you know why I haven't taken off your shirt and panties?" With his thumb, he circled one nipple, but he looked into her eyes.

             
No
. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.

             
"I want to draw this out as long as possible. I want this to be as hot and sweet as your coffee. I want to steal your mind away"—bending down, he spoke against her lips— "for so long that when you think of love, you think of me."

             
"Of love?" Had he read her mind?

             
"No two people will ever make love like we do."

             
Making love. Oh. Of course.

             
She closed her eyes against his heated gaze, not wanting him to read her thoughts or the reckless longing in her soul. A man like him bestowed boundless pleasure. He did not love. She would do well to remember that.

             
He cupped her breasts, holding them as if he relished their weight. Now his lips encircled one T-shirted nipple, and he suckled strongly, bringing her into his mouth with a skill that made her heels dig into the mattress and her back arch. When he relented, he blew on the damp cotton, and the cool breeze felt like sin personified. When he stripped off the shirt, he inhaled long and slow, and she found herself peeking beneath her lids.

             
As he gazed at her breasts, his stony expression revealed nothing. Then his gaze shifted to hers, and she saw it—a fierce exultation that made her feel proud and threatened at the same time. If he gave in to that savagery, she would be ravaged like a pirate's captive.

             
Worse, she would like it.

             
Outside the storm clamored, wanting to sweep everything from its path.

             
Inside, he caught her breasts in his hands and tasted them, one after the other, his wet mouth against her              bare skin, until the storm within her gathered strength and she cried out and tried to get away.

             
He didn't let her. He held her trapped in his arms, doing with her as he wished, sucking, nibbling, kissing, and when he had finished he pushed his knee between her legs and settled himself there. Catching her thighs in his hands, he opened her widely. His weight pressed her into the mattress, holding her down, keeping her helpless . . . except for her hands, which selfishly roamed his torso.

             
Selfish, because she touched him not to please him, but to please herself.

             
She didn't know whether to struggle or to submit, but she knew one thing for sure. "For this to work, I have to be naked, too." Her thong still formed a barrier between them.

             
The head of his penis probed at her, finding the right place, pressing against the nest between her thighs.

             
"Not yet." His voice was a husky taunt. "I want you insane with need. That way when I push my way into you, you'll be damp and open, and each time I pull out, your body will cling to me, reluctant to give me up. . . ."

             
Not yet? His every word made the knifepoint of need twist tighter within her.

             
He knew it, too. Every move he made, every word he spoke was deliberate, chosen to fan her desire. His domination made her want to submit to him; he wanted more than submission. He wanted mad impatience, desperate fever.

             
He probed her again, a firm imprint that stretched the cloth over her clitoris and made her squirm against him, trying to get as close as possible. Trying to lure him inside.

             
She no longer cared that he was too big for her. She would put up with any amount of discomfort to mate with Teague . . . but in the dim recesses of her mind she realized there would be no discomfort, because Teague would do just as he promised. As he threatened.  He wouldn't take her until she was so crazed with passion she would be soft and pliant to his touch . . . until the moment when climax made her spasm around him.

             
This wasn't the sex with Teague she had imagined. She'd thought it would be fast and hot. Instead, he lingered and probed until frustrated tears trickled down her cheeks. She couldn't squirm away; his grip on her legs held her in place, and his weight controlled her every movement.

             
He kissed her, lingering kisses of such pleasure she wandered through sensual passages of dark delight. He kissed the hollow of her throat, the swell of her breasts, the soft delicacy of her inner elbow. His penis touched her again and again, and when her body reached and stretched toward climax, he pulled away.

             
She groaned in an agony of frustration. Time submerged beneath the tide of passion. She lost all awareness of the minutes passing, becoming quarter hours, half hours. . . .

             
"Please," she chanted without even realizing she spoke. She stroked his shoulders, his arms, his chest, his back, loving the sleek stretch of skin over each well-defined muscle. "Please, Teague. You're
hurting
me."

             
"How am I hurting you, my darling?" He released her legs, slid his palms up her thighs, and caressed between her legs with his thumb. He brought her to the brink again, so close that she trembled and lost the power of speech. Then he pulled back, a beast who specialized in sexual torment.

             
"Come into me." She wrapped him in her embrace and tugged at his hips. "How can you wait so long? Don't you really want me?"

             
"Really want you?" He laughed, short and bitter. "I've been up nights wanting you. I've walked the floors. I've imagined how each moment was going to be." He drew back. Hooking his fingers in the waistband of her panties, he pulled them down and tossed them aside. "You're not going to rush me now. I'm going to make this last forever."

             
It sounded like a vow that a woman in love could relish. Sighing, she stroked his face. "Forever."

             
He didn't flinch from the word. Instead his lips curled in a smile—not a pleasant smile, an almost cynical smile—but before she could question him, he reached up and turned off the lamp.

             
At once the storm, subdued by light, possessed the room. Lightning ripped the darkness, stripping his face of softness, illuminating his dark soul. The thunder roared triumphantly, and it seemed that Teague commanded the elements as he commanded her. Certainly he gloried in the violence; as he donned a condom, his teeth gleamed and his amber eyes sparked with lightning.

             
Yet the ferocity of the storm did not possess him; he touched her softly, repeatedly, finding the place where he would enter. His finger slid just inside and rimmed her, and through the anticipation that possessed her, she realized he had prepared her with lubricant.

             
So he had anticipated the difference in their sizes. As he promised with words and smiles and glances, he would make this good for her.

             
Then he pressed inside.

             
The tug against her flesh confirmed her suspicions. He was . . . so big. He stretched her. She whimpered on the verge of discomfort. But as he had vowed, she wanted him too much to draw back. First the lubricant eased his way, then the wonder of at last being united with Teague Ramos swept her. Her body softened, grew damper.

             
When he slid back, she moved her hips, trying to capture him inside.

             
Yet he left her . . . left her bereft and empty.

             
When he slid back inside, the fullness soothed her desperation . . . and incited every brash instinct.

             
She tightened her legs, nipped at his chest. . . .

             
The small pain made him groan and thrust.

             
Then he caught himself, stopped himself.

             
She groaned, too.

             
He looked down at her. She looked up at him.

             
The lightning beat at them like a strobe. The thunder growled and roared like a living beast.

             
And finally, Teague thrust all the way inside her.

             
The sense of being
taken
swept all rational thought aside. He set a rhythm that made her arch and twist beneath him, seeking the primal pleasure this magnificent creature had promised in the way he walked, in every glance and every touch. She was full; she had no room for loneliness or pain or memories. He commanded her body, her mind, her emotions . . . her soul.

             
He held her down, controlling her motions, whispering husky encouragement in her ear, and all the time he filled her, and filled her again until she was aching with a desire made more frantic as it was denied.

             
She clutched at his shoulders, moaning softly, almost insensate with need.

             
"Don't be frightened." He nuzzled her lips with his.

             
His breath fanned her skin.

             
"I'm not frightened," she managed to gasp. She wasn't. She was part of the lightning and the thunder, part of the glory of the storm . . . part of him.

             
Burying her nose in his chest, she took a long breath of the heat and the scent of Teague, and as she exhaled her body, deprived for too long, found its release.

             
Outside, nature battered the world with noise and light.

             
Inside, Kate screamed with ecstasy and climax. Sex with Teague was erotic and sensual, so filled with power it overwhelmed her five senses and gave her something more. She held him with her arms and her legs, arched beneath him, demanded with action and sound and yearning.

             
He gave her everything she required, and at the height of her orgasm, he gave up all restraint and with a shout, he joined her. His hips thrust in the rhythm of life, providing everything he had promised her—every morsel of pleasure, every long moment of rapture, and an intimacy that fused them into one—one being, one spirit.

             
While outside the storm faded to a whimper . . . and gathered strength to strike again.

             
Teague looked down at Kate, her eyes closed as the last remnants of climax swept her. Perspiration beaded her forehead. Her chest heaved, and her body trembled.

             
And he realized he had been right. He had taken her. He had controlled her. He'd spilled his seed in her.

             
It wasn't enough
. It would never be enough. Not with Kate.

             
This was why he hadn't had sex with her before, because this act wasn't sex, it was something more, something beyond his ken.

             
Then she opened her eyes and looked at him, and that slow, warm, sensual smile stretched her lips. "Tell me, why didn't we do that before?"

             
Every sensible thought disappeared from his brain, and he forgot fear, forgot trepidation, forgot everything in the need to conquer her again.

             
He kissed her, savoring the freshness of her breath, the warm twist of her tongue against his.

             
My God, he would almost be satisfied just to kiss her.

             
Almost.

             
He stroked her breasts, marveling at the pink blush that rose beneath her pale skin, and the way her nipples turned from a relaxed peach to a puckered raspberry. She watched him from beneath lids that drooped, and a satisfied smile played across her lips.

             
He'd satisfied her.

             
Why was he not completely satisfied? Why did he need to take her again so soon? When had he become a glutton for this one woman?

             
What did it mean?

             
He was sure she was in trouble. Really big trouble with George Oberlin.

             
Usually Teague could smell menace, sense it in his bones. He had an intuition about the bad guys, and what he sensed was a dangerous man's disquiet with his own deeds.

             
So why hadn't he been aware of the threat caused by Oberlin?

             
There could be only one explanation. Oberlin had no conscience, no thought of right and wrong, no thought of anything beyond his own wishes. He had murdered before, murdered more than once, and he had never been caught. Somehow, he had covered up the evidence.

             
If he wanted Kate, he would use every weapon in his considerable arsenal—respectability, money, influence— to remove Teague and take her as his own. And if she refused . . . would he kill her, too?

             
"What are you thinking?" Kate smoothed the hair across Teague's forehead. "You're frowning."

             
"I'm wondering if I can borrow a friend's jet."

             
"Why?" She smiled as if she read his mind.

             
"I have a place in Mexico with a private beach. There's a hut. It's not big and it's not pretty, and the cockroaches are as big as mice, but—"

             
"What are we waiting for?" She sat up—bare, unselfconscious, and beautiful. "I have the weekend off. Let's go."

             
Damn. She
could
read his mind. "Not so fast." He tumbled her onto her back. He'd dreamed of her dark hair spread across his pillow and her blue eyes sparkling up at him. Now he held her between his hands and discovered just having her here wasn't enough. He required more.

             
Fate. She was his fate. He'd tried to avoid her, and it, and Fate had laughed at him. Now he was bound to Kate by sexual desire and by . . . no. Not by love. He'd seen love at its worst—at home when another son of a bitch battered his mother, in the service when a Dear John letter arrived and destroyed a man from the inside out.

             
He himself had suffered for love. Suffered . . . but not enough. His torment could never be enough.

             
If Teague knew how to love, if he'd ever learned, he would love Kate. But he was too scarred by the events of that fateful day to learn now.

             
For if by some chance he did learn, he knew how love must end.

             
With death and pain and wounds that never healed.

             
So he pretended to himself that he'd never thought the word. Outside, the storm stirred again. The lightning and thunder began anew, and he grinned down at her. "Before we do anything else, I need to kiss you . . all over."

             
Her eyes grew large and, for a moment, uncertain. Then she took a long breath. That ever-present spark of desire sprang to life between them. She stretched, a long, slow, sensuous provocation. "If you do that, it could take all night long."

             
"It's too stormy to fly anyway." He bent to her again. "We'll go in the morning."