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She didn't fight, didn't resist, just kissed him back with the same hunger, the same need. The same
abandon. She lay sprawled between his legs, one hand holding the side of his face as though to prevent
him from pulling away from her.
As if he could.
He'd tried. He'd tried so damn hard to do the right thing, to be noble, to keep his hands off her. To keep
cold logic intact, to keep his heart from getting involved. But some needs ran deeper than honor, drove
more relentlessly than integrity. Loving Miranda was a mistake. Wanting her was practically criminal.
But the thought of losing her shredded him to the bone.
Tearing his mouth from hers was impossible, not when she represented everything he'd ever wanted, but
knew he could never have. Not after that sunny, bloody morning in London. Not after he'd knelt before
Gus's grave and promised to exact vengeance.
He would, too, if it was the last thing he did.
And if it was the last thing he did, he would go to his death with the sweet taste of Miranda on his lips.
His soul.
* * *
She tasted his need, felt a like need pour through her. He kissed her hard, he kissed her deep. He kissed
her as if his very life depended on it.
She kissed him the same way.
Her right wrist remained cuffed to his left, the key hidden by darkness in the rocks somewhere beyond.
She didn't care. She liked being bound to him, didn't ever want to let him go. With their free hands they
explored each other's bodies restlessly, eagerly, fingers skimming flesh, grabbing at clothes.
No more denying. No more pretending. Miranda didn't come close to understanding how she could feel
so strongly, want so deeply, a man who worked for a criminal, who'd kidnapped her for God's sake, but
she knew feelings couldn't be analyzed. Nor could desire. It just & was.
Tomorrow offered no guarantees. She knew that. But she didn't care, didn't need guarantees. Only
Sandro. Holding her. Kissing her. Driving inside of her, making her his. Tonight might be all they had, and
more than anything, she wanted him to know that not everyone in his life was destined to forsake him.
She loved being sprawled on top of him. She loved being between his legs, feeling his body envelope
hers. She loved the strength she felt in his thighs, in the bulge pressing into her stomach, the arm he used
to hold her.
She loved the take-no-prisoners possession of his kiss.
Everywhere his hand skimmed, his fingertips teased, she burned. She wanted to touch him, too, to feel
flesh, not fabric. Fumbling with the buttons of his tiki shirt, she slid them free, until she could pull the
cotton back and feel the heat of his skin. She shivered as she pressed her shaking palm to his stomach,
slid up to his chest, tangled her fingers in the splattering of coarse hair there. With great effort she slid her
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mouth from his, cruised over the prickly whiskers on his jaw, down to the scar across his windpipe.
There she kissed, and licked, and loved.
Something terrible had happened to Sandro. Something that shattered the boy with the dog and
hardened him into the commando with the assault rifle. But that other part of him remained, buried below
the surface. The part that made him swim a swollen river to prevent Petros from touching her. Hurting
her. The part that enabled him to touch her with a mind-numbing combination of need and hunger and
reverence.
The night was dark, but the full moon provided all the light she needed. She went down to his chest,
opened her mouth over one flat, round nipple, and sucked gently.
A rough sound tore from his throat, sent everything inside her up in flames. Blindly, she reached for his
jeans, worked at the fly.
"Whoa," he rasped, using their joined hands to pull her up from his waistband. "Slow down." His
breathing was labored as his eyes met hers. They were unbearably hot. "I don't want you to do anything
you'll regret."
She lifted a hand to his face, skimming his lower lip with her thumb, the whiskers on his jaw with her
pinkie. "I'm not."
His eyes darkened, flickered. He clenched them shut, his body beneath hers going rigidly still. When he
opened them a moment later, the struggle between desire and restraint remained.
"This isn't going to have a happy ending," he rasped in a voice more hoarse than usual. "You know that,
don't you?"
Panic slashed in from somewhere unwanted. "I don't care about endings, Sandro. I care about now."
He let out a rough breath. "I don't want to hurt you."
"Then make love to me," she said, despite the tearing deep inside. She leaned down and pressed a
searing kiss to his mouth. "The only way you'll hurt me is by pretending you don't want me as badly as I
want you."
"Miranda "
He was a man of iron will, but she was a woman of the same. In abducting her, he'd taken her body
captive, but he'd freed her spirit. And her heart. No way would she let him take this fundamental freedom
from her. No way would she let him save her from herself. She didn't want to abandon his mouth, but she
did want him to see her eyes when she spoke. For him to see the truth and conviction burning in hers.
The irony was nearly unbearable, that this man who'd stolen her freedom had actually given her so much
more. She didn't know why he'd turned down the path he had, but suspected his choice had something to
do with the nightmare she'd awoken him from. The terrible dream that had brought those distorted,
primitive sounds from his throat, made him thrash. The dream that had made him cry. The dream that had
made him reach for her, hold her tight. And with absolute certainty she knew that beneath the bad-guy
label, he possessed a heart and a soul purer, more loyal and dedicated than the majority of people
commonly thought of as heroes.
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What mattered lay inside. The man, not the label.
And it was that man she burned for, wanted with all her heart.
And her body.
"For the first time in my life," she told him, squeezing the words through the tightness in her throat, "I feel
free. Free to be myself." She saw him wince, refused to let it deter her. "You make me feel alive," she
went on, fighting the emotion twisting inside her, the tears gathering deep. "You make me feel special.
Don't take that from me."
She waited for him to pull away, to push her from between his legs and put as much distance between
them as he could. Instead, with their wrists cuffed together, he threaded his fingers through hers and
squeezed. "Youare special."
She could tell the admission cost him, which made the words all the more valuable. "Then give me now, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]