Swept Away (33 page)

She almost didn’t care, didn’t want to stop, period. She wanted to take him to heaven. But he
was reaching for her shoulders, easing her back away from him, until she peered up,
wondering why. Wasn’t that a guy’s greatest fantasy, to come that way?

“I want to be inside you,” he said. “Make you feel good, too.”

Oh. How lovely. He wanted to give, as well. He would never love her, she knew that—not the
way she wanted a man to love her, and not even the way Ian loved her—for sadly, she knew
Ian really did and was simply going to be the victim in all this. But just knowing Brock was a
good enough man, and a kind enough lover, to want to give to her as much pleasure as she
gave to him mmm, the next couple of days were going to take her closer to heaven than she had ever expected to get.

There seemed only one logical response. “Then come inside.”

Chapter Twelve

“And if you’re good,” she said, a sexy sparkle in her eye as Brock helped her back to her feet, “maybe there’ll be more of that later.”

Damn, the woman’s sexiness turned him inside out and conjured every naughty instinct he
possessed. “Oh, don’t worry, kitten, I’ll be good. I’ll be very good.”

Brock had never thought of himself as a particularly considerate lover. Not rude, not totally selfish—but if a woman wanted to give more than take, he’d let her, and he’d like her for it.
And he adored Kat for it, yet he couldn’t let her do it. And he didn’t know why.

Maybe he felt he owed her somehow. From ten years ago. Hell, from what he’d unwittingly
put her through just today. Or maybe because he’d effectively ruined her wedding plans.

All good reasons. But he didn’t really think it was any of those things. The urge to please her
felt oddly purer than that.

Given that he wasn’t an especially pure guy, he barely knew how he recognized such an
emotion, but when he’d stopped her from taking him all the way with her beautiful mouth—
and “all the way” had been only a couple of tempting heartbeats from happening—it had come
from someplace other than guilt or obligation. He’d just wanted to make her body hum with
pleasure.

“Turn around,” he said and when she rotated that pretty, wet body away, he leaned in, nestling
his cock at her ass and reaching up to press her palms to the wall. She shivered beneath him
and he liked it. Feeling a little wicked, he leaned near her ear. “Such a hot little kitten.”

She wiggled her bottom against him, excited and impatient. “Don’t tease. Don’t make me wait.” He smiled inwardly. Just last night, he’d been begging.

Part of him still couldn’t believe what had happened out in the kitchen—at a time when he really hadn’t been trying to seduce her but had just truly needed her to help slake the pain of their day. And yet, another part of him knew this had been inevitable. Maybe from the first moment he’d seen her lying on the beach. Her, him, together—they’d always been a highly
combustible combination. And the time had finally come for them to ignite.

Gliding his palms down her outstretched arms, over the hourglass shape of her torso, then
bracing his hands at her round hips, he nudged at the warm slickness between her legs and
pushed deep. They both groaned at the hot entry—and damn, it felt new, like they hadn’t even
done it out on the table, like this was the first time he was sinking home in her soft, pliable
body. “God, kitten, you’re so wet for me.”

She let out a soft, high moan in reply and pushed her ass back against him, taking him deeper.

“Damn,” he groaned. Then began to move in her—steady, even thrusts. He loved how she met
each one, loved how she looked in front of him, accepting him, meeting him, loved the passion
he felt spilling from her even without being able to see her face.

Still using one hand to steady her hip, he let the other snake around, dip into her moisture. Oh
God, to finally touch her there. He knew he was inside her, but pressing his fingers into that
most intimate part of her ratcheted up his heat another few vital notches, whisking him swiftly toward oblivion.

Their shared passion drove him harder, harder, making them both sob their pleasure. And in an
old, cracked shower in a tiny house on an island in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico, Brock let
himself acknowledge—just for that one moment in time—that he’d never before felt as close or
connected to a woman as he felt to Katrina Spencer.

Kat lay beside him, naked and exhausted.

“I think we’ll both sleep good tonight, huh, kitten?” he asked, reaching to turn off the lamp next
to the bed. She bit her lip, just thinking how nice that was, to be sharing a bed with him—
without the tension of worrying about her engagement. Of course, technically, she remained
engaged, but in her heart and mind, it was over, and as soon as she could see Ian, it would be over officially.

“Hmm, let’s see,” she said playfully. “A day full of running from psychos with guns, one
shooting, one exploding boat—the second of those in three days, I might add—and two
energetic rounds of sex. Yeah, I might be able to sleep.”

She was surprised when he rolled on his pillow to face her, the security light illuminating the
room enough that she could see the serious look in his eyes. “You didn’t love the guy, did
you?”

Apparently, they were both thinking about the far-reaching implications of their sex. She tried to answer as honestly as possible. “I... thought I did. I truly...” She stopped, shook her head. “Maybe I just wanted to be in love. Because it made everything so perfect. But... I have to
admit I’m not too broken up about the idea of not marrying him. The truth is, the second I
realized what we’d done and that I couldn’t in good conscience marry him, I was kind of... relieved.”

“Good,” he said, shoving one hand under his pillow. With the other, he reached out for hers.
“And... how are you doing with the other stuff, everything that happened today? Are you okay, kitten?” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

“I’m... not thinking about it.” And that was the truth. She offered a slight grin. “I’m sure at
some point I’m probably going to need massive psychiatric care to overcome the trauma, but
for right now, I’m not thinking about that, I’m not thinking about the wedding I have to cancel
—I’m not thinking about anything but good, hot sex.”

The corners of his mouth quirked arrogantly. “Is it? Good and hot?”

She flashed her driest, get-serious look. “Like you don’t know it is. You just want to hear it, to keep your ego as big as your...” She glanced downward, although they’d pulled a sheet to their
waists.

He arched a brow. “That’s all I needed to know. And by the way, what you did in the shower, with your mouth, it was well worth the wait.”

She propped up on one elbow. “The wait?”

“You couldn’t have done that so well ten years ago.”

She let out a trill of laughter. “How do you know? Maybe I’d never done it before tonight.
Maybe it was my first time.”

He lowered his chin, casting a highly skeptical look. “Come on, kitten.”

She pursed her lips in concession. “Okay, yes, I’ve done that before. But I’ve never done it exactly like that before.”

“What do you mean?”

What the hell had she just said? She knew what she meant, of course. She’d never felt it like
that before—never truly made love to a man that way before, never truly given up her heart and soul to the act, wanting only to please him, thereby pleasing herself. She’d never felt it so profoundly stretching through her in a taut band of desire that had spurred her on, deeper and
deeper, until nothing else had existed. But she sure as hell couldn’t tell him any of that.

“Well?” he prodded.

“I just tried a couple of new moves on you, that’s all.”
He gave her a sexy grin. “They worked.”

She pushed down a bittersweet reaction to the compliment and said, “I’m glad.” Then
wondered “So how are you doing? I mean, about Carlos?”

He answered with a faraway look in his eye. “It’s my job, and I shouldn’t have let it affect me
that way. That’s shit I can work out later.”

“Work out later?”

“When something like this happens, I get counseling after the mission ends, but until then, I’m
trained to compartmentalize it, put it out of my mind so I can stay focused on the job.”

“So what happened? I mean, it obviously did affect you, at least for a little while.”

Just when she’d started to think he might not answer, he seemed to come back from where ever
he’d been, his eyes finding hers again. “Truth is, I’m not sure. But it’s over. And it’s fine. He
was a bad guy—he had to go—that simple.”

“It’s not really that simple.” His job had forced him to take another man’s life. That struck her
as being pretty darn complex.

“When you’re a federal agent, kitten, it is that simple. It has to be.” Then he got a familiar and
delightfully naughty look in his eye. “But enough about that. I’d rather get back to you telling
me how hot I am, and how big I am. And if you’ve got any more new moves to try out, you
can consider me your guinea pig.”

She smiled, even though grogginess was quickly setting in. “Afraid I’ll have to wait ’til
tomorrow to start conducting my experiments.”

He looked just as sleepy, but said, “Hey, come here,” then met her halfway for a warm, soft kiss. “Everything that happened on the table and in the shower, honey—it was all well worth
the wait.”

“For me, too,” she whispered. Then drifted quickly off to sleep, aware of only the sound of the
tide in the distance and the feel of Brock’ s warm hand curving over her bare hip beneath the
sheet.

On Tuesday morning, Clark Spencer sat behind the desk in his office, talking with a young
textile artist from Bradenton who’d been courting the gallery for months. After some
deliberation, he’d just offered her a showing the month after Kat’s, in July. She’d yipped and yelled into the phone like a banshee, which, although unprofessional, drew a smile from him, making him think of his daughter—who’d responded exactly the same way when he’d recently
offered her a show. He hung up, pleased to feel he’d done his part to set another artist on the
road to success in a very tough business.

He checked the gold clock on his desk—almost ten, time to unlock the front door. But he had
another phone call to make first. Picking back up the receiver, he hit the speed dial to Ian.

“Ian Zeller,” his future son-in-law answered on the first ring. Just one of the many things he
liked about the young man—a sterling work ethic like his own.

“Ian, it’s Clark.”

“Ah, good morning, Clark. I bet I know why you’re calling.” Ian’s usual confidence came
through in his voice.

“Mr. Klinger,” Clark said simply. A particularly stodgy and impatient old art collector.