Page 89 of Dangerous Games (Tempting SEALs 2)

"It makes me very hard. Very horny. It makes me warn to prove to every moron looking at you exactly who you belong to."

"I belong to me, Clint." Oh man, God was gonna get her back for that lie.

"And that outfit proves it," he growled, his other hand gripping her hip, jerking her against his harder body as his knees dipped, driving his erection against the soft mound of her sex. "But baby, we both know the real truth."

His lips covered hers, but rather than the fierce, dominant kiss she expected, they sank into hers instead as a hungry growl left his throat.

Morganna felt her chest tighten painfully as his eyes grew heavy lidded but still stared deep into hers. His lips moved over hers, his tongue licking at her lips, his hips moving against her, stroking the suddenly swollen, throbbing bundle of nerves between the folds of her sex through the material of their clothes.

A whimper of longing, of emotion, left her lips at the exquisite pleasure, the sense of slow-building heat, overtaking her.

Clint owned her with this kiss, and she knew it. The soft rasp of his beard against her skin, the way his lips stroked hers, his tongue tangling with hers as his eyes held her gaze.

She strained against him, feeling her heart racing in her chest as her nerve endings sensitized, heated. The extreme tenderness of the kiss was like velvet, but beneath it was steel, fire-forged, dominant.

"When I get you back here," he whispered, "what's left of those clothes you're wearing will be peeled from your body, Morganna. Slowly. And then you're mine. While you're mine ..." He took small kisses from her, pulling at her lips,

making her moan at the threat of the deeper, darker passion she could feel just beneath the surface. "I'll show you what happens to bad little girls who run around half-dressed."

"Hmm, promise?" Her teeth caught his lips as he moved to pull back, seeing the flare of surprise, of possessive dominance, that flared in his eyes.

The primal growl that rumbled in his chest was her only warning before he stole the kiss from her. Catching her closer, releasing her hands as his fingers gripped her hair and pulled her head back for the deep mating thrust of his tongue into her mouth as his lips slanted over hers.

Oh yes. This was what she liked. A powerful, convulsive clench of her womb had her breath hitching as her hands tangled in his hair to hold him closer. The rasp of his beard, the corded power in his long, leanly muscled body, combined to overwhelm her senses.

"Enough." He pulled back, his breathing as harsh, as heavy, as her own. "You would tempt a saint." His lips were pulled back from his teeth in a grimace of pain-filled hunger that echoed in her body.

"Well... you're not a saint..." she panted. "Am I tempting you anyway?"

He groaned, a snort of laughter mixing with the sound as he laid his forehead against hers and stared back at her with heated need.

"Be careful up there," he whispered. "Reno would kick my ass if anything happened to you."

And how would he feel? She smiled, knowing, feeling the determination in him, the emotion, unspoken, undefined, but whipping from him like invisible waves of power.

"I'll keep you safe from Reno then," she promised softly "Come on, big boy; let's go fight some bad guys."

Chapter 25

THIS WASN'T GOING TO WORK. Clint could feel the blood rushing through his veins, pounding beneath his flesh. A fine film of sweat covered his skin, his sensitive skin. The heavy beat of the music was almost a physical caress as the waves of sound rushed around him. heavy with the singer's strident moans, her throaty, sexual cries of passion. Cries that reminded him of Morganna's. And as he listened, he watched.

She moved to the dance floor within the first half hour in the club, joining her friends Jenna and the dark-skinned young man, Sandy. Sandoval Mitchell was of South American descent, twenty-seven years old and a student at the university. He was a regular club-goer, though not an active part of the peripheral BDSM community.

At the moment, he was in danger of extinction. Honest to God, if he touched Morganna one more time, Clint swore he was going to rip Mitchell's hands off. Not that the other man had touched her in any way indecent. It was just the fact that he was touching her.

Touching bare skin displayed by that mockery of an outfit she wore, his eyes frankly admiring as they went over her. Of course, she had ignored Clint's request to stick close to his table as most of the women who had taken Doms as their lovers were doing.

The little witch had laughed at the order. She was there to dance, not to fetch his drinks, she had informed him.

The dance floor was the central attraction of the club. Here the submissives vying for a Dom, or to please one, danced with abandon. At least, Morganna danced with abandon. She danced like she made love, without reservation. And to this song it was the worst torture. "French Kiss." The song was pure sex. Morganna was pure carnal heat.

Her hands smoothed down her mostly naked thighs her head tipped back, her long hair caressing her bare hips as her hands came back up her thighs, caressing slowly across her midriff as her head rose, eyes slitting open, her gaze locked with his as her hands moved slowly, lifting until they clasped above her head as her body swayed.

The beat picked up, the moans and passionate cries echoing around him as her hips kept in time to the beat, moving side to side as her hair swept around her like a silken curtain

Perspiration glistened on her flesh; her eyes gleamed with purpose, with desire. She beckoned him with her look, with the movements of her body. Sent shards of hunger to rip at his tortured cock as he shifted in his chair.

Damn her. Son of a bitch, he was going to tie her down and spank her bottom red. She had him ready for her now ready to pick her up, rip those next-to-nothing pants from her body, and fill her as deep and as hard as he could go.

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