Night Resurrected (47 page)

the

pain

and

indecision that had been in his

expression.

A little flicker of darkness stopped

her from a flippant reply, but Wyatt’s

sensitivity to that made her even more

certain. “Yes. But . . .”

“I’ll take it slow.” And now she saw

a lick of heat and promise in his eyes. It

sent a delicious shiver through her belly.

“
Very
slow.” She smiled back, relief

and promise of her own blazing there,

and his eyes flared in response. Then he

sobered again. “But stop me . . . tell me

. . . if you’re not okay.”

She nodded. “Now can we stop

talking? I think I liked you better when

you were grumpy and didn’t want to

talk.”

“I was never grumpy,” he said, and

slid his hands beneath her tank top again.

This time they curved around to the front

of her, covering her breasts, pressing

gently into the tight points of her nipples.

He gave a soft
whuff
of breath and slid

his arms around to bring her back to him,

covering her mouth with his. She closed

her eyes and sank in.

“Your shirt,” she murmured when he

moved to her neck again, his mouth hot

and demanding against her sensitive

skin. She gave a shiver as he found that

most delicate of places. One hand slid

down beneath the waistband of her

jeans, pulling her up against his hips . . .

and then she was off the ground . . . then

the bed appeared beneath her.

He settled her there gently, then

yanked off his shirt as he walked over to

the dresser and dropped it in a wad on

top. Opening a drawer, he fumbled

around in it. When he turned back, he

wore an odd, almost bashful expression.

He was holding something small and flat

in his hand, but Remy hardly noticed.

She was openly admiring the rest of him:

the tight, sleek muscles of his pecs,

covered with dark hair that narrowed

down over a flat belly, the squared-off

edges of broad shoulders, the delicious

golden color of his skin, the swell of

biceps. The loose shorts rode low on his

hips, his arousal ruining their shape but

making

her

heart

skip

a

beat

nevertheless; and long, muscular legs

extended below, morphing into the

elegant feet she remembered from the

truck.

She swore she stopped breathing for

a minute—he was just so
gorgeous
—

and then, biting her lip to keep from

gawking openmouthed, she kicked off

her shoes and lay back on the bed,

watching him. He put the small packet on

the table next to them and eased down

next to her.

“Did you know when you walked

back to camp without your shirt on, I

was pretty much drooling?” Remy said,

feeling a little self-conscious. “I didn’t

dare look at you for fear you’d notice.”

His lips moved in something like a

smile, and even the corners of his eyes

crinkled a little. “Did you know I hated

that white tank top, for the same reason?

But I kind of like this one,” he said,

helping her out of it, and then her

loosened bra as well. He made a soft

sound of appreciation that pinged

deliciously in her belly and made her

throb down low.

She flushed as he looked down at

her, his tanned hand moving over her

lighter skin, cupping one of her breasts.

He was gentle, lifting it, using a thumb to

trace over its sensitive point . . . sending

a shiver of heat licking through her. She

watched his elegant fingers, dark against

light, hard against soft . . . There was a

moment, a brief flash, when one of those

ugly images—brutal hands, rough and

invasive—tried to usurp the moment.

“Remy?” he stilled, looking up and

into her eyes.

She allowed herself to be caught by

his gaze, and her tension eased . . . the

dark memory fading. She smiled,

reaching up to curve her fingers around

his warm neck. “I’m okay.” And then she

did something she’d been wanting to do

for more than a week: smoothed her

hand down over his chest.

She loved it: the heat of his skin, the

crisp roughness of the hair, the firm

muscle beneath . . . the delicate goose

bumps that rose on him in the wake of

her touch. He gave a little shiver of his

own then bent to kiss her: her lips, her

chin, her breast. When his hot mouth

closed over her tight, ready nipple, she

arched up, giving a soft gasp, her fingers

curling into his shoulder. His eyes

flickered toward her, but his lips and

tongue were busy: swirling, sucking,

teasing.

Pleasure rolled through her, hot and

liquid leaving little throbbing teases in

its wake. They settled prone onto the

bed, warm skin sliding against warm

skin, legs entwined, his mouth doing

crazy things to her, his hand finding its

way between her legs. The pressure

through her jeans was just enough to

have her rolling her hips, pushing back,

wanting more.

“Let’s see,” he murmured, sliding her

somehow unfastened jeans down from

her hips, “which of your new things

you’re wearing.”

If the low, growling sound he made

was any indication, the black lace

panties had been a good choice. She

reached for him, groping for the ties to

his loose shorts, but he stopped her,

pressing her hand to his warm, flat belly.

“Not a good idea,” he said, his mouth

quirking oddly. “Not yet.”

Before she had the chance to protest,

he moved again, shifting alongside her,

sliding his hand down beneath the black

lace. Remy stilled, drawing in a

surprised breath when he touched her

. . . gently at first, lightly . . . and all the

time she felt him watching her. Watching

for any sign that she might slip away.

She didn’t. He was next to her, she

could see and breathe and was free. And

there was too much heat and pleasure,

too much need pounding gently between

her legs. His fingers were deft and

delicate but very sure, and his breath

became rougher as she vibrated and

shivered and sighed. He kissed her,

covering her mouth, taking in the low,

husky gasp of pleasure as she grew

tighter and readier.

Everything dissolved but him: the

smell and taste, the unsteady pitch of his

breathing, the slow, insistent tease of his

hand between her legs. He murmured

something soft and throaty in her ear, but

she felt only the heat of his words,

smelled the delicious scent of this man

. . . then she forgot everything but the

sharp, spiral of pleasure.

It exploded, trammeling through her

in undulating waves of heat and

brightness . . . and she smiled in relief

and triumph. A moment later, still hot

and rolling with pleasure, she opened

her eyes to find Wyatt watching her.

“Now,” he said, his eyes burning, his

face tight, his breath rough.

“Yes,”

she

said,

a

pang

of

anticipation shocking her so close on the

heels of complete bliss. She reached for

his shorts, pulling at the tie; and when it

wouldn’t loosen, he pushed her hands

away with characteristic impatience.

Moments later he was there, long and

lean and naked, more beautiful than

she’d imagined, sliding alongside her.

She could tell, in the back of her

pleasure-fogged brain, that he was taking

care, still, not to be rough or demanding,

not to do anything that would tip her into

those dark memories.

But she saw the hunger in his face—

pure and good rather than malevolent—

and she recognized the price of his

restraint . . . and so she set him free. And

herself.

Chapter 22

O
ne moment Remy was sprawled in a

sensual bundle next to Wyatt, her dark

blue eyes heavy-lidded with pleasure, an

arm thrown up over her head, lifting her

breast into a perfect orb . . . and the next,

she was all over him.

Her mouth, her hands, were suddenly

everywhere, her soft, insanely sexy body

pressing against him, rubbing, sliding.

She had his cock in her hands before he

realized it, and that alone nearly sent him

spinning . . . but Wyatt caught himself in

time. Just in time. And impossible as it

was, he slid from her grasp, twisting

away just enough to keep his brain clear.

But he couldn’t keep his hands off

her, nor from licking and sucking on her

glorious breasts and raspberry nipples,

his face from burying into her long,

sweet-smelling hair. His fingers carried

her essence, musky and rich from

pleasure, and the scent filled his nostrils

as the rest of him raged and wanted. His

belly trembled when she kissed along

his chest, down, down to where his cock

throbbed, ready to explode.

He had to close his eyes, count, think

of the furiously cold shower he’d taken

today, remind himself he had to be easy,

slow, tender . . . but it was damned hard

when she was sliding all over him,

nipping at his shoulder and making all

sorts of sexy noises.

It was when she began to straddle

him, sliding her damp, slick, musky self

over his thigh and hip that he lost his

mind and flipped her over smartly onto

her back. The air whooshed from her

and her eyes went wide and shocked,

and Wyatt froze, cursing himself for

stupidity, bracing himself for whatever

was to follow.

But instead of fear in her eyes, he

saw desire and heat, temptation and

welcome, and at that point he let go and

dove in. He devoured soft lips, tasted

salty skin, slid his tongue long and

slowly around a hard, nubbly nipple . . .

then drew it into his mouth, dancing his

tongue around the tight pink areola,

catching his breath when she sighed and

trembled with pleasure. His fingers

found her sleek, swollen heat, making

her twitch with tantalizing little shivers

and deep, throaty moans that made him

crazy. He made her come again—

watched her face go tight, then joyous,

and knew she’d won another small

battle. The surge of delight and pleasure

that gave him made his cock throb

sharply with impatience.

Now.

Somehow

he

remembered

the

condom on the table, somehow he

managed to use his unsteady fingers to

tear its packet open and slide it on,

praying in the back of his mind that it

was still good fifty-some years later. But

at that point it would have been too late

even if it wasn’t.

Her eager hands were in the way,

helping him roll the thing on, her fingers

unfamiliar

and

distracting

and

wonderful, and he finally had to push

them away so he could regain control of

himself.

She breathed a laugh, said something

about him being a dick—or maybe it

was something
about
his dick—and then

took him by the hips and began to

maneuver.

“Easy,” he told her, rolling her on top

of him, still taking care not to startle her,

but giving her control.
Just . . . oh. God.

His mind went blank as she rose over

him, breasts swaying just beyond his

face, her eyes soft and bedroomy, her

hair in tousled, inky waves against her

cheeks, the pale skin of her throat . . .

and he helped position her, fitting them

together.

She slid down, long and slow. A rush

of blinding pleasure had him groaning

aloud, his eyes, suddenly damp, closing

in relief and hope. “Please,” he heard

himself saying. “Please.”

She moved, and he moved, too,

working

rhythmically