He spoke as though he remembered it. As though it possibly meant something to him? She doubted very seriously he had a clue.
“How would you know? You passed out.”
“Right between the sweetest thighs I think I’ve ever had surrounding my face.” He grinned rakishly. “I remember that part, baby, just before passing out. Licking the sweetest, hottest little pu**y I think I’ve ever had my mouth on.”
So that was the last thing he remembered? Asshole. He didn’t even remember kneeling between her thighs, taking her, then passing out.
“So you think I’m just going to be your little plaything while I’m here?”
The idea actually had its merits. Of a limited variety anyway. She could feel her br**sts swelling, her thighs tightening, her pu**y flushing and dampening.
Her clit was so sensitive now she wondered if she could come as she stepped closer to the kitchen.
Being John’s plaything would introduce her to a world of supreme pleasure, unfortunately, it would also include a world of heartache unlike anything she wanted to deal with.
Her heart had already been broken, she preferred that the parts still intact, stayed that way.
“I could handle that,” he agreed as though the thought had never occurred to him.
“Oh, I bet you could.” Her arms crossed her br**sts despite the tenderness there. “Too bad it’s not going to happen.”
And to that, he laughed. The rich, dark male sound ricocheted up her spine and sent shivers of anticipated pleasure racing through her body. She knew that sound. Sexy, filled with intent. But she had never heard it turned on her before now.
“Sweet Sierra,” he sighed as though with relish. “You think you can sleep in my bed night after night, put up with me holding you, touching you, and still deny me?”
“I’m not sleeping in your bed.” The very thought of it was more dangerous than she wanted to contemplate.
“Sorry, but that’s exactly where you’re sleeping.” A pan slid on the stove, and as though they were discussing nothing more than the weather, he began making breakfast. Enough breakfast to feed an army.
Sierra could only stare back at him in shock. Unfortunately, she knew John too well, and she knew that tone of voice. Finding an argument against him wasn’t going to be easy.
“You think only weeks after that attack that I want any man in my bed?” The words popped out of her mouth before she could stop them.
For a second, she could feel the fear tearing through her, but only for a second, quite simply because she knew John was the last man in the world that would ever harm her.
It wouldn’t matter how angry he was with her, it wouldn’t matter what she had done. He would never harm her.
“No, I don’t think you want any man at all,” he agreed much too easily. “But I’m not just any man, lollipop, I’m the man you actually want.”
The sheer audacity, the supreme confidence, in his voice had her lips parting in momentary, complete surprise. The problem with that surprise was the fact that he was right. Of all the men in the world, John was the one she would never stop wanting, the one she would never stop aching for. The one she would never fear would hurt her physically.
She watched silently as he scrambled eggs and made toast, trying to come up with an effective argument. One that would ensure he would stay out of the bed with her, one that would aid her in keeping secret the sheer depth of hunger that arose in her where he was concerned.
God help her if he actually touched her while he was sober. If he didn’t pass out and forget all the important parts. She didn’t know if she could bear allowing him to possess her, to know what he was taking from her, only to send her on her way when this was finished.
“You overrate yourself.” And that had to be the lousiest comeback that she could have let slip past her lips.
It was met with a small, confident grin. “We’ll find out later,” he promised her. “Once I have you in my bed and I see how deep those bruises are, how much loving you can take. But be prepared, Sierra, you’re sharing my bed, and I’ll touch you when I want to, when I need to. You might have run before, but I think we both know your running days are over here.”
Her running days were over?
Did he even have a clue how hard it was to stay away from him? How she had cried each time she had ignored his messages, how she had grieved when he had left Boston.
Damn him. He had broken her heart that night and had no idea what he had done to her. Just as he had no idea that he had taken her innocence a second before he passed out on top of her.
The bastard!
But she couldn’t deny him, either.
She knew damned good and well that she wouldn’t make it an hour in the bed with him without giving in to the needs he aroused in her.
Oh, a perverse, angry part of her wanted to. She wanted to throw his offer back in his face and show him exactly how easily she could refuse him. The problem was, as angry as he made her, as much as he hurt her, she didn’t want to refuse him. Her body didn’t want to refuse him.
She remembered the pleasure just as vividly as she remembered the heartache, and she wanted more. More pleasure. More touch. More of those lethal kisses, and that would require more of the pain as well.
Could she hold on to what was left of her heart and still give in to him?
There wasn’t a chance. He would destroy her and she was going to let him do it.
“You didn’t do enough to me while you were in Boston, did you, John?” she asked him softly. “You didn’t hurt me enough, right?”
“What did I do to you, Sierra?” Confusion crossed his face, filled his eyes. “I kissed you, I touched you. We nearly had sex and then you ran off. You didn’t give me much of a chance after that to do anything.”
“And I don’t intend to give you a chance to do anything now,” she warned him, despite the fact that she could barely breathe for the erotic implications running through her mind. “I can sleep just fine on the couch.”
Damn him. Every nerve ending in her body was rioting at the thought of him touching her, finally finishing what he had begun that night a year ago.
But she had learned something that night, something about herself at least. She had learned that she wanted more from John than his kisses, his touches. Once, she had thought it would be enough, if that was all she could have. It wouldn’t be, though. He would rip her heart from her chest, leaving her lost and alone. As lost and alone as she had been when she learned he had left Boston.