The Makeover Mission (25 page)

Standing up, tugging her dress back into place, she felt the gun
she'd been holding slip to the floor.

"Careful." He snapped the words out.

"Sorry." She looked at it where it lay, an inert blob of
darkness in the dusky room. "I don't think anything broke."

He groaned as she glanced up, then went still.

"I really don't think I hurt it."

"Forget the gun, Jane. The fact you didn't blow off your foot
is a miracle, but I should get used to things like that happening around
you."

"Like what?"

"Forget it."

The man really was too tense. There had to be something he was
holding back. "Tell me the truth."

"What truth?"

She stepped toward him and saw him tense even more. "The
truth about what happened tonight. It was bad, wasn't it?"

"You mean the explosions?"

"Of course I'm talking about the explosions. That's why
you're so on edge isn't it?"

"Part of the reason." His voice must have dropped an
octave, or the room grew suddenly chilly. Something had to account for the
goose bumps trilling across her skin.

"What's the other part?" She stepped closer, wanting to
see his face clearly in the weak light. This time he definitely groaned.
"Are you hurt?"

She was at his side in a moment, stopped only by his palm, raised
as if warding her off.

"Don't come any closer."

He sounded in pain.

"What is it? Where are you hurting?"

"Lady, you're killing me here. I think it'd be better if you
stepped back."

What was the man babbling about? Could it be a head injury? She
stepped close enough to see the pulse point pounding alongside his temple,
heard the raggedness of his breathing, watched his features tighten even more.

She lifted her right hand to his forehead, brushing back a lock of
midnight hair, expecting to feel blood beneath her fingertips. "You're in
pain."

"Damn right I'm in pain."

She knew it. She'd been right all along. He'd been injured in the
line of duty, in protecting her, and now he was being noble about it.
"What can I do to help?"

He closed his eyes. If it'd been anybody else she'd have thought
he was praying. Or counting to ten.

"Tell me what to do to take away the pain. Do I need to get a
doctor?"

"No."

"Do you need to lie down?"

"Not yet."

"But you sound like you're hurting."

His fingers clamped around her wrist, drawing her hand away from
stroking his face, but not releasing it.

"I am hurting and you're making it worse. Sweet mercy, I'm
not made out of stone."

He could have fooled her, she'd never seen anyone so rigid. He
looked ready to explode.

"If you tell me where you're hurting maybe I can fix it. I
had to get my first aid certificate for the library, and I passed with flying
colors. Everything, that is, except the applying pressure part, but I'm sure I
could manage it if you needed me to."

"You're doing just fine with the pressure part."

She found herself smiling. How nice of him to give her a
compliment when it was obvious he was hurting.

"Don't look like that." The man practically growled the
words, his hand tightening about hers.

"Like what?"

"Like an innocent just ready to be gobbled."

"Gobbled…" His look stopped her. It dried her words to
dust and singed her down to her toes. Why hadn't she noticed it before? The
intensity, the power, the sensual hunger all but floored her. Reality dawned,
slowly, but crystal-clear. The room was no longer chilly, but hot, too hot and
growing warmer by the second.

"You're not really hurt, are you?" She whispered the
words through too-dry lips, unable to turn away.

"I'm not hurt." His words rasped against her. "But
I am hurting. Big-time."

He glanced down and her gaze followed his, stopping at the bulge
against his suit pants, a very large bulge.

"Oh."

"If you don't want to finish what we started at the lake
yesterday I suggest you retreat to your room."

"I didn't start it, you did."

"So I did." His free hand reached up to brush her hair
from her shoulder. Why such a gentle gesture should make her want to tremble
made no sense. But then nothing else did either. "The point's the same.
Leave now or deal with the consequences."

"And if I don't?"

"I'll give you ten seconds to get to the door, Jane. After
that—"

"What?"

She didn't know if he was more surprised, or she was, at the dare
in her voice. The old Jane would have been running for the door. The new Jane
held her ground.

"I don't want any regrets. We're talking sex here, that's
all. No promises, no commitments."

No lies,
she wanted to add, but didn't. Even
here, she knew he was being noble, giving her an out, making what was happening
between them as black and white as possible.

But he was wrong. Everything was in Technicolor-shades red-hot and
vibrant, and for once she was going to forget caution and grab on to life with
both fists.

"All right, we're talking sex." She watched wariness
seep into his gaze, until she added, "Is that all we're going to do—talk?
Because if it is, it'd better be a darn good conversation."

He hesitated, questioning her or himself, she didn't know. All she
knew was she forgot to breathe until the hand that had played with her hair
slipped around her waist, tugging her close enough that she felt scorched by
the heat in his gaze.

"Fine. No more talking."

The words barely registered before his lips captured hers.
Devoured, more like it. Holding nothing back, demanding, coaxing, claiming, all
before she could think. Not that she wanted to think, not when her system sang
with its own response, as outrageous and unrestrained as his.

His hand flattened against her back, its heat outlined against her
cool skin, pulling her closer, until she felt the long hard length of him
melded against her. And she wanted more.

They moved. A silent two-step, until the bulk of the bed pressed
against the back of her knees. He deepened the kiss. She responded. Her hand
slid beneath his jacket, tangled with the leather of a holster strap and
stilled.

"Damn it." He muttered another pithy oath as he pulled
back enough to strip his jacket and harness off with a fluid movement. The
jacket slid to the floor, the gun was strategically placed on the bedside
table. Even now, he remembered his duty first. Not that she expected less.

She thought he should have looked less lethal without his weapon,
but he didn't. Not with that heat in his smoke-silvered eyes, that growl in his
voice. "Come back here."

He didn't have to ask twice.

Jane didn't have a lot of experience behind her, but there wasn't
time to worry about it. In the space between one heartbeat and the next she was
in his arms, straining beneath his kisses, tearing at his shirt like a woman
crazed.

Crazed with lust. Her—quiet, unprepossessing, plain Jane was
making noises in her throat that sounded feral, her fingers were desperate to
touch his skin, her mouth opened beneath kisses that all but consumed her, and
still she wanted more.

The room tilted and she thought she'd buckled until she felt the
give of the mattress beneath her, the weight of Lucius atop her.

"More." It was her voice pleading.

"My pleasure." She heard the grin behind his words, felt
the give of her dress as it slid from her neck to her waist, shivered beneath
the wave of air across her sensitive skin, her aching nipples.

"Lucius?" She didn't know what she wanted, but knew
where she'd find it.

"Is this what you want?"

His wet tongue abraded her right nipple, rough against rough. She
almost shot across the bed.

"Yes. Yes."

"And this?" He suckled his lips around her areola until
she wanted to scream.

"Yes. Oh, yes, I—"

He moved to her left breast. She shifted beneath him, arching to
grant him greater access, squirming when he took full advantage of it.

"Lucius…"

"Yes, love." The endearment arrowed to her heart even as
she accepted that it meant nothing. Not like what he was doing to her body,
tensing it, teasing it, taunting it.

"Damn it, Lucius—"

She felt another grin against her stomach. Right before his tongue
swirled against the dip of her belly button, his hands pressed against the
mound lower.

Her clothes were in the way. Why didn't he pull them off? Why
didn't he end the torment? Why didn't he hurry?

But leave it to Lucius McConneghy to bring her to a quivering mass
of aches and needs and leave her poised while he dawdled. The man was going to
kill her. Exquisitely, one nerve ending at a time, but sweet death was still
death.

His hands stroked. Heel of his palm to fingertips, using the silk
of her dress, the nylon of her panty hose as a barrier, or a torture device,
she didn't know. All she knew was, it was driving her insane. The slow,
deliberate rasp, pressure applied, then receded. Again and again.

Her hands clawed at him. Wanting his shirt gone. Wanting his skin
against hers. Just wanting.

"Lucius, please—"

"More?"

"Yes, darn you."

"Such unladylike talk." His laughter floated across her
senses. "What would the other librarians say if they heard you now?"

"They'd say you're a dead man unless you hurry up."

He stilled, then raised himself until he dominated her line of
sight. She was afraid he was going to pull back, as he'd done at the lake, and
then she'd have to kill him for sure.

But instead he smiled, a smile so sinful it should have been
illegal.

"You saying I'm going too slow for you?"

She wasn't sure if it was tease or taunt. "Well, not
exactly."

"You want fast now?"

Her body wanted blessed relief. Her soul wanted him to continue
what he was doing forever. Her response straddled both.

"I want you inside of me." The old Jane would never have
dared to make such a demand.

His only response was a grin. That and the sound of her dress
tearing. Or maybe it was her pantyhose, but that didn't matter right then. Not
when she felt the gentle strength of his hands slide between her thighs,
stroking, stroking, again and again.

"Lucius—"

Somehow he'd managed to shuck his pants, though his bloody shirt,
minus a few buttons, was still stubbornly in place. She felt the pressure of
his knee wedge against hers, the quest of his fingers tangle in her curls, the
deepening of his kisses.

She'd died and gone to heaven. She knew it. This was not what
she'd experienced before, given that her experience bordered on the lean side.
But even in her wildest imaginings, she'd never have thought sex could be
wanting and aching and straining and needing. The man was killing her.

"If you don't—"

He shifted, moving away from her for a scant moment, long enough
to make her wonder if she'd pushed him away with her neediness, until she heard
the crackle of a package being ripped open. Always the protector, she smiled,
sure that now was not the time to point it out to him.

"Ready?"

She had meant to answer, but he swallowed her words with his mouth
even as he positioned himself between her thighs. Then paused.

She'd waited long enough. With a guttural cry, part defiance, part
triumph, she arched upwards, taking before he could change his mind and do the
noble thing. It didn't take him long to follow her lead. Thrust followed
thrust: long slow glides of pleasure that had her delirious with sensation.
In—deep, deep, deeply in before he'd pull almost all the way out, then begin
again.

An explosion was building within her. There, but almost not. She
urged him on with her hands, her hips, her lips to his skin, but he held to his
own agenda. In and out, pressure applied then released. Then he'd shift, going
deeper, rubbing harder. The pleasure built. Or was it pain?

She wanted to sob. Or swear. But before she could do either, the
pressure shattered, splintered into a thousand pinpricks of sensation washing
through her system. Her cry echoed through the room, muffled by his lips
against hers until his own shout of release joined with hers.

"Wow." It might have been seconds, or hours later when
she heard her voice speak her thoughts. Warm, fuzzy thoughts dwelling on the
sensation of Lucius's body warm against hers, his hands wrapped around her, his
breathing gradually slowing.

"Wow?" She felt his smile against her hair, his hands
stroking against her torso. "Is that a fancy librarian term?"