Wild Revenge. Sandra Marton
CHAPTER EIGHT
JAKE KICKED the door shut behind him.
The interior of the house was dark and cool; the silence of the empty rooms was all around them. There was a scent in the air—her scent. The scent of flowers he hadn’t been able to define.
“Addison,” he said softly.
She turned her face up to his. Her eyes filled with him, and a rush of something primitive and possessive swept through him.
“Be sure,” he said in a rough whisper as he tunneled his fingers into the silken darkness of her hair. “Because once we start—”
She rose to him and pressed her lips to his.
“Make love to me, Jacob,” she said.
Jake groaned, drew her hard against him and claimed her mouth with a deep, possessive kiss.
Just that quickly, last night’s hunger blazed inside him again. His big body shuddered; his blood beat hot and heavy in his ears. The driving need to make Addison his was all that mattered….
No.
She was all that mattered.
He wanted more than her body.
He wanted her.
In bed. Naked. Her dark hair spread over the pillows.
He wanted her needing his touch, pleading for it, as desperate for him as he was for her.
Teeth gritted, fighting hard for control, he caught her up in his arms.
“Hold on to me,” he whispered.
She wrapped her arms around his neck. Buried her face against his throat. He could feel her heart thundering against his, her breath on his skin.
The stairs were just ahead. Another couple of minutes, he told himself as he climbed them.
He could last that long.
Only one door was open on the second floor. Jake shouldered his way past it. He knew this old house, its gray rooms and dark walls, but this room—Addison’s room, without question—had been transformed.
Polished wood floor. Shiny brass bed. Brick fireplace, neatly stacked with wood. White walls, white curtains, white bed linens and duvet—and the faintly mingled scent of flowers and fresh paint.
The room was a reflection of her.
Honest. Elegant. Beautiful.
He lowered her to her feet beside the bed, did it slowly so she could feel how hard and ready he was, so he could feel all her lovely, soft curves.
She was trembling.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said in a gruff whisper. “This will be different, I swear it.”
Her eyes, pools of liquid silver, lifted to his.
“I’m not afraid. Not of you, Jacob, never of—”
He kissed her. Parted her lips with his. Feasted on the exquisite taste of her.
She caught his collar in her hands, lifted herself to him, sucked the tip of his tongue into the heat of her mouth.
He groaned with pleasure.
His hands cupped her breasts. He could feel her nipples tightening, lifting even through the heavy cotton of her shirt. Groaning, he slipped his hands under it.
Ah, God!
She was naked. No bra. Nothing between his calloused fingers and the silk and satin of her skin.
“Jacob,” she whispered. “Jacob, please …”
The one word, so filled with need, almost took him to his knees. He pushed up the sweatshirt, bent to her, sucked at her nipples, pressed them against the roof of his mouth with his tongue.
She tasted of cream and honey.
“You are so beautiful,” he said thickly. “So very beautiful …”
His thumbs rolled over her nipples. She moaned; he watched her face as he caressed her, saw her eyes go dark with pleasure.
Sweat beaded his forehead as he tugged her sweatshirt over her head and tossed it aside.
He could see her breasts more clearly now. They were high, rounded, just right for his mouth and his hands.
He kissed them. The curves, the slopes, the apricot nipples. He couldn’t get enough of their silky feel, their delicate flavor; he couldn’t get enough of watching her face as he brought her closer and closer to orgasm from this, just from this.
She began undoing the buttons of his shirt. He helped her. Then he swore softly and the remaining buttons went flying.
His shirt landed on the floor, and she went into his arms.
Skin against skin. Heat against heat.
He knew he couldn’t last much longer.
He drew back. Hooked his thumbs into the sides of her sweatpants, pushed them down …
And went still.
She was wearing panties.
White cotton this time, not lace. They were simple, innocent, dotted with tiny blue flowers.
An equally tiny blue bow rode just below each hip bone.
Jake went to his knees.
Kissed her belly. Her navel. The little blue bows.
And drew the panties down, down, down.
They pooled at her ankles. He cupped her hips with his hands. Brought his face closer.
She gasped.
“Wait,” she said in a shaky whisper. “Really, I don’t think—”
He put his mouth against her, at the apex of her thighs. Her dark curls were silken against his lips.
“Open for me,” he said thickly, and she shifted her legs, shifted again …
And screamed in ecstasy when he found her with his mouth and tongue.
She tasted of passion and of woman, and when he licked at her, her cries rose into the stillness of the morning.
Jake got to his feet, kicked off his boots and jeans and took her down onto the bed with him.
He caught a fistful of her hair. Bent to her. Kissed her. He couldn’t stop kissing her, couldn’t get enough of that soft, sweet mouth.
Her hands were on him.
Cool. Soft. They swept over his back, his chest; they framed his face as she lifted herself to him and kissed him.
“Addison,” he said, and she said yes, oh, yes, and he moved over her, knelt between her thighs, slid his hands under her …
“Look at me,” he demanded.
Her eyes went to his face.
And he entered her.
She moaned.
His breath caught.
She was wet and hot, tight as a silk fist closing around him as he went deeper, deeper …
She cried out his name. He was shaking.
But, somehow, he held himself still.
Waited until her muscles took all of him in.
Then, slowly, he drew back. Not all the way. Just enough. The sensation, so exquisite, so exciting, made him shudder.
She went wild beneath him.
He caught hold of her hands, brought them to her sides, moved faster, faster …
“Jacob.”
Her