Page 58 of Dangerous Lover

But her plan was starting to backfire. Little tremors were running along the insides of her thighs, her vagina clenched once, twice. The free fall into orgasm was beginning and she hadn’t even begun to enjoy this feeling of dominance.

No matter, her body was taking over.

She slid up, then down and felt his trembling. She was trembling herself. “And that?” she whispered, watching him watching her. She felt like she was falling into the dark depths of his eyes.

“Caroline, I can’t—I’m sorry, I have to?—”

The hands that had been fisted on the couch came up and fitted themselves on her hips, holding her still as he thrust up inside her, hard.

She winced and he stopped, panting. His big hands opened, letting her go.

“Can’t touch you now,” he gasped. “Don’t want to hurt you.”

She was going to have to do it herself.

Caroline leaned forward, clasping her hands behind his neck for leverage and began a slow dance on him, long, lazy strokes as she nipped lightly with her teeth at his earlobe.

The trembling increased, she was so close…

Jack turned his head and caught her mouth with his, moving his hips just enough to match her rhythm. In and out…

He speeded up the strokes and she met him, rising and falling on him, a flash of heat, then another and suddenly shewas coming, milking him hard, sharp contractions so intense they were almost painful.

With a strong jolt, he came too, the jets of semen so strong they prolonged the climax. They groaned into each other’s mouth and Caroline felt she was breathing through him.

It took her a long time to finally settle down, but when the tension finally left her body, she curled forward, nestling her head on his shoulder.

As always, he was still hard inside her, even after his climax. She lay still. Any movement with him inside her would abrade her super-sensitive skin, on the razor’s edge of an arousal so strong it was painful.

He somehow understood. He didn’t move, didn’t try to press up inside her, didn’t try to start making love again. The only thing he did was reach for the afghan thrown across the back of the couch and fold it gently around her, then wrap his arms around her back.

She settled more deeply against him, lax and warm.

Though Caroline was boneless with pleasure, she was keenly aware of everything. The sharp smells of sex mingling with the rich smell of wood smoke. Her breasts and belly rubbing against the hair-roughened hard muscles of his chest and stomach each time they breathed. His soft hair tickling her cheek. The taste of salt on her lips.

Above all, she was aware of some giant emotion swelling inside her, big and bright and new.

It took her several minutes before she realized it was happiness.

Chapter Twelve

Summerville

It had taken him all day to cross the fucking continent and when he finally landed in Seattle in the middle of a snowstorm, Deaver had only taken the first step towards getting his diamonds back.

He had two new identities—Frank Dawson, farm machinery sales rep out of Iowa and Darrell Butler, FBI Special Agent. Both of them were shallow identities but Deaver wasn’t expecting to use either one for more than a week, two tops.

It was Dawson’s passport that would get him to the Caymans. Once he got his diamonds back, he’d drive down to Tijuana, ditch the rental SUV, then fly one way to Grand Cayman Airport. Even after paying Drake, he still had enough to lay low for a while. And once he had his diamonds in his hands, he would contemplate Drake’s offer.

It had stunned him, that Drake knew about the diamonds, but then Drake wasn’t a millionaire many times over because he was stupid. He was a dealer, sure, but his main commodity wasn’t guns or fake ID, though he did a thriving trade in them. No, the main thing he sold was information and it flowed to him wherever he was like a river to the sea.

That system of information extended to a network that crisscrossed the States. Half an hour after landing, Deaver was at a warehouse outside Seattle, the meeting having been set up by Drake. Deaver got every single thing he’d paid for, in excellent working condition and with extra ammo thrown in for good will.

Three hours after that, he was pulling into Summerville. He’d called ahead for a room at a Holiday Inn in Darrell Butler’s name and had said he was arriving late. He had something to do before checking in.

A downloaded map of Summerville lying on the passenger seat helped him to find Caroline Lake’s house. It was in the rich part of town, old stone and brick mansions set on ample grounds.

He drove by slowly, carefully studying the house. It was one of the nicest ones in this part of town—large but graceful. There was no wall, just an upward slope of what might have been lawn but now was an expanse of snow, split by a walkway. Someone had shoveled the snow off the walkway and the drive.

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