Page 50 of Hunter

Relief flooded her when she saw Hunter standing there in clean clothes, the effects of the fire scrubbed away. Yet she came to an abrupt halt in the face of the two security guards flanking him. One was the guy named Reid—who probably didn’t like her any better than she liked him.

“Here’s your wayward boy,” he said with a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

A sharp retort leaped to her lips. She bit it back and managed a simple “Thank you.”

“Do you want us to stay?”

“No. I’d like the arrangement to be the same as last night,” she answered in a cool, dismissive voice.

Reid nodded and the duo departed, leaving Hunter standing in the hall staring at her with his arms stiffly at his sides and a strained expression on his face.

She felt almost dizzy as she faced him. “Are you all right?” she gasped.

He gave a little nod.

“Thank God.” Seeing him after the long hours of worry was like getting struck by a tidal wave. Struck from the back, so that she was propelled toward him. With a little cry, she flung herself across the space between them.

He took the impact of her weight, his arms coming up to catch her as she held on to him for dear life. Her hands slid possessively across his broad shoulders, up and down his back, as she assured herself that he was well and whole.

“I wanted to go to the hospital with you,” she choked out. “I wanted to be there. It was hard to come back here and wait.”

“They wouldn’t have let you be with me there. But I’m here—now,”

“Yes.” She reached up, tunneling her fingers though his dark hair so that she could bring his face within reach.

“Oh,” was all he had time to exclaim before his mouth melted against hers. She gave a little sob as her lips moved frantically against his. There was so much she wanted to say to him. So much she couldn’t say with the tape recorder ruling their lives.

But she could show him what she was feeling. Closing her eyes, she shut out everything but him, the taste of him, the feel of him. Each thing registered separately on her senses—the slightly coarse texture of his hair, the hard muscles of his shoulders as her hands came back to them, the clean smell of soap and water.

“Kathryn.” Her name sighed out of him like a plea—like a prayer of thanks.

“I’m here. Right here,” she answered.

His mouth opened, perhaps in surprise, as she eased his lips apart so that she could taste him more fully. And as she drank from him, she taught him the ways that two people could express their deepest feelings to each other—without words. Soon his mouth was moving hungrily over hers, tasting, sipping, nibbling at her tender flesh until she was shaking with the strength of her response.

His strong hands were under her blouse, burning the skin of her back, and then her front where he cupped her breasts through the sheer fabric of her bra.

He made a rough sound, half pleasure, half frustration.

“This thing is in the way,” he said thickly.

“Yes.” Reaching around, she unhooked the catch, and he pushed the fabric up, taking her breasts in his hands.

She heard him suck in a strangled breath, as he moved his fingers over her heated flesh.

“So soft.” The words were almost a moan.

She was just as inarticulate. She could only gasp at the pleasure of his unschooled touch, a touch that made up in ardor and tenderness what it lacked in sophistication.

His hips moved against hers, instinctively, insistently. “I . . . want. . .to. . . “The sentence ended with a choking sound in his throat. In the next moment, he wrenched himself away from her, his hands balled into fists in front of him, his chest heaving.

She reached for him, but he stepped farther away.

“No,” he ordered, his eyes fierce.

They both stood, sucking in drafts of air.

“Friends can’t do—” he bit out, then stopped abruptly, looking over her shoulder.

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