Hidden Embers (9 page)

“We’ll get there eventually, but right now I want to see you clearly.” Before she could object, he reached behind her and switched on the lamp embedded in the dresser mirror.

Light flooded the small area and she knew she was displayed—scars and all—to his very discerning eye.

She shifted, tried to cover her nude torso with her hands, but he grabbed her wrists. Smacking her hands down on the table, one on either side of her hips, he held her pinned in place as he looked his fill.

She shuddered beneath his scrutiny, knowing what he was seeing. And while she normally wasn’t self-conscious about her body, for some reason it bothered her that this beautiful man with the perfect body was looking at her odd collection of scars.

She wanted to be perfect for him, wanted him to remember her for something more than the jagged, pink lines that crisscrossed her torso from where she’d had shrapnel removed—or the surgical incisions from where they’d gone in and saved her lung and set her ribs.

She closed her eyes, waited for him to ask what had happened to her. And waited. And waited.

Finally, when she could bear the tension no longer, she opened her eyes to see what was taking him so long. But he wasn’t looking at her scars. Instead he was waiting patiently for her to work up the nerve to look him in the eyes.

Hating her weakness—and the self-awareness that made her ashamed when she should be proud for surviving—Jasmine tossed her head and finally met his gaze, head-on. When she did, what she saw was nothing like what she expected.

There was no revulsion, no curiosity. Just an open, honest acceptance that humbled her even as it freed her to be herself.

Jasmine tugged at his large hands, which were still wrapped around her wrists. “I want to touch you,” she demanded breathlessly, her desire back in full force now that her fears about his reaction had proved groundless.

Deep inside, she still wondered what he thought, wondered what he was feeling, but she wasn’t stupid enough to let her insecurities ruin everything for them.

Quinn studied her for a second, as if trying to see inside her brain. She must not have looked like she was going to dive for cover, because he slowly freed her hands.

As soon as he let her go, she smoothed her hands over his chest, letting her thumbs linger on his nipples and flick back and forth against the sensitive buds. He groaned, low and deep, his head falling back a little as a shudder wracked his big frame.

She wondered for a moment if he was going to stop her, but in the end he didn’t seem to be threatened by her wanting to take control for a little while. In fact, if the grin on his face was anything to go by, he seemed to relish it.

Which was fine with her. She’d more than enjoyed the way he took her earlier—all dominant, possessive he-man—but she liked to give as good as she got, and it was definitely her turn to drive him a little crazy.

Leaning forward, she licked a long, teasing trail across his tattoo, lingering on each twist and curlicue of ink. “Mmm, salty,” she murmured.

“Sorry. I was…working out before I hit the bar.”

“It was an observation, not a complaint,” she answered, as she curled her tongue around his nipple, pausing to nibble at the hard bud. “It might even have been an endorsement. You taste delicious.”

His laugh was dark and smoky. “I don’t know about that.”

“I do.”

She reached for the bottle of tequila he’d bought at the bar and uncapped it. “Besides, I have it on the best authority that tequila tastes better after a little salt.”

“Does it?”

“So I’ve been told. I haven’t actually had a chance to test it out yet.”

“Oh, well in that case, test away.” He spread his arms wide, an offering if she’d ever seen one, and she wanted to devour him in a series of sharp, greedy bites.

At the same time, she didn’t want it to be over so quickly. She wanted to live on this memory for a long time, and she wanted it to last and last.

Leaning forward again, she swept her tongue from his belly button to his throat, pausing to nuzzle at his collar bone for a few long, sex-drenched seconds. He groaned, and his hands clutched at her shoulders, but she pushed him away. Then she lifted the bottle of Patrón to her lips and took one long, slow swallow.

“How was it?” he asked, and a shudder worked its way through her. She loved his voice, all flash and fantasy and low, smoldering flame.

“The best I’ve ever had.”

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, she swore there was something in there, watching her. Something dark and dangerous and not quite human. It excited her, as did the sharp scrape of his nails against her back as his fists clenched and unclenched against her.

She held out the bottle to him. “Here. You try.”

He took the bottle, his eyes darkening even more. Then he licked his lips with a slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue that had her pussy clenching and every nerve in her body quivering.

He looked her over from top to toe, as if he couldn’t quite decide where to taste first. His slow regard drove her crazy; she squirmed in an effort to relieve the pain and the pleasure building slowly within her.

“Come on, Quinn,” she whispered, reaching for him with unsteady hands.

“Come on what?” he answered, his lips a scant inch from her own.

She arched her back, let her head and neck fall back as she offered herself to him. “Taste me.”

And he did, his mouth lowering to her breasts so slowly that she wanted to beg him to hurry. She arched again, higher this time—needing his mouth on her with a desperation she had never felt before.

Then he was there, his tongue swirling in circles over the curve of her left breast and then her right—teasing, stroking, tasting her again and again, until it was all she could do to keep from ripping off her pants and begging him to fuck her.

“You taste so good.” It was a whisper, low and raspy, but she heard it over the wild, staccato beat of her heart, and her body reacted, her arousal ratcheting up another notch when she thought she couldn’t go any higher.

“So do you, Quinn. I love the way you taste.” She leaned forward, intending to lick her way back across his chest. But the second her mouth met his warm, resilient flesh she wanted nothing more than to mark him as hers—even if it was just temporarily.

She sank her teeth into his pec in a sharp little bite that made his hands clench in her hair, and he started to shake.

Quinn nearly lost it as Jasmine’s teeth nipped at his flesh. He fought for control when all he really wanted was to rip her pants off and bury his face in her sweet pussy until she was screaming his name.

To pull her off the dresser and onto her knees so she could suck his cock until he blew straight down her throat.

To throw her on the bed and fuck her until they were both too exhausted to move.

At the same time, he didn’t want it to end—not when the simple feel of her hands in his hair and her tongue on his skin brought him so much pleasure.

But when she fumbled the Patrón out of his hand, he almost lost the battle at the sight of her sweet, pink tongue licking at the rim of the bottle as she let the spicy liquor stream down her throat.

Her eyes met his, clinging for long seconds before she took one last sip of tequila. Pulling the bottle from her mouth, she leaned back until her shoulders were resting against the mirror. And then she poured a long, cool stream of tequila right onto his bare chest.

“Fuck,” he said, and groaned. It was a curse and a prayer, a complaint and a plea for more, and Jazz seemed to understand that.

Hopping off the dresser, she nuzzled her way from his neck to his chest and down to his abdomen, making sure to lick up every drop of tequila she could find. He felt himself grow harder with every touch of her tongue, felt himself leak just a little as she dipped her tongue below the waistband of his jeans for one fiery, hot lick.

“Do you want some more?” she asked, her eyes glinting a sexy violet as she tried to hand him the tequila.

“I’d rather have you.”

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive, you know.” She shimmied out of her yoga pants before settling herself on the bed and tipping the tequila bottle so that a few drops dribbled onto her breasts and down her stomach to pool in her navel and below.

The bold move shot straight through him, turning up the heat until there was a raging inferno inside of him. The chokehold he held on his beast slipped, and the dragon snapped and clawed in an effort to get out. It wanted her as badly as he did.

Jazz gasped as the cold liquid hit her, arching her back so that her nipples were only inches from his mouth. Because he was dying for another taste of her, he bent down, following the trail the alcohol had made with delicate flicks of his tongue that tormented both of them.

Then, because he couldn’t resist, he tilted the bottle so that the tequila coated his index finger. He swirled it first over one of her nipples and then the other before bending his head and circling the hard buds with his tongue. He sucked until all the alcohol was gone, savoring its rich burn.

Bringing his hands to Jazz’s shoulders, he pressed her back slowly until she was resting on her elbows, soft and relaxed, her beautiful body completely open to him. For a moment he couldn’t move, couldn’t think, could barely breathe as he was overwhelmed by the picture she made.

Her cheeks were hot and red, her eyes slumberous with desire, her lips slick from the journey she’d made down his body, a journey that had left him shaken and furiously aroused. Laid out on the hotel bed like a pagan fire goddess, her legs open and dangling over the edge, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“I may never drink tequila any other way.” He lifted the bottle, poured a steady stream of the liquor over her stomach.

She gasped as it ran down her sides and pooled in her navel, and he bent forward, sipping from her slowly. Savoring the spicy-sweet taste of her that mingled with the smooth heat of the aged tequila.

As he drank from her, he made a point of running his tongue over her scars. Some were shallow, some were deep, but all were recent. The doctor in him recognized the sharp, thin slice of a scalpel under her right breast and over her left hip, but the other scars were less precise, more random, as if pieces of glass and metal had sliced into her body.

A car accident, he wondered, as he kissed his way over a particularly large scar on her side. Or something more treacherous, less mundane? He murmured a few words, skimmed his hands over the injury and let warmth flow from his fingertips into her. He’d seen the way she’d gingerly moved after their first round of lovemaking, favoring this side, and he couldn’t stand the idea of causing her more pain than she’d already suffered.

He felt the heat spread through her, and the shadows he could sense under the wound slowly loosened up. He moved on to her hip, did the same thing. Then on to her rib cage and her elbow and the long, deep scar on her upper thigh, making sure to cover his healing with the seductive touch of sex.

As the shadows dispersed and the pain faded, Jazz moaned—a low, sweet sound that made him grateful for his gift for the first time in a long while. He might not be able to put a dent in the virus that was ravaging his people, but the fact that he could ease Jazz’s pain meant something to him.

“Quinn.” His name was a breathy plea on her lips and he glanced up, afraid that he had somehow given himself away.

But she only grinned, then whispered, “My turn,” before grabbing his hand and sucking his tequila-coated finger into her mouth.

His knees actually shook as she twirled her tongue around his long finger, stroking it up and down in the same rhythm he wanted desperately for her to use on his cock. His heart was pounding out of control; the need to fuck her was an all-consuming ache inside of him as he sank down onto the bed beside her.

“Jasmine.” He tried to retrieve his hand—along with his sanity—but she lifted her arms and curled her body around his arm, holding him like she never wanted to let him go.

The thought whipped through him, arrowing straight into the loneliness that had plagued him for too long. Even as he told himself he was being stupid, even as he listed all the reasons in his head that this could only be a one-night stand, he couldn’t resist playing the what-if game.

What if she were still there in the morning?

What if she were as moved by what was happening between them as he was?

What if she wanted something more than the hottest one-night stand on record?

His dragon roared in approval, shooting his lust-crazed body into overdrive, and he clutched at Jazz, determined to give her as much pleasure as she was giving him.

But she chose that moment—when his hands were trembling and his cock was aching—to swipe her tongue around and around his finger. And then, just when he didn’t think he could get any more turned on, just when his knees were locking and his cock throbbing, she bit down, hard, on the tip of his finger.

The dragon howled and Quinn lost any and all control he’d managed to hold on to.

Ripping his finger from her mouth, he took a deep breath and grabbed the tequila bottle with a hand that shook so badly it was all he could do to hold it steady as he drank his fill. When he was done, he started to hand the bottle to her, but she wouldn’t take it. Instead, she hooked her fingers in the front belt loops of his jeans and tugged until the denim was in a pile on the floor.

Then she smiled and repeated his words back to him. “I’d rather have you.”

The second she put her mouth on him, he knew he didn’t stand a chance. Her tongue was everywhere at once. Flicking over his shoulder, sliding down his chest to play with his rib cage. Moving higher again to lick at his jaw.

“Jazz, stop.” Quinn tangled his hands in her hair, tried to stop her before the beast took control. He wanted to make this good for her—needed to with an intensity that bordered on obsession—but if the dragon managed to slip through the cracks, he was desperately afraid that it would be beyond his control, that it would drive only for its own satisfaction.