The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [76]
“What are you doing, Tess?”
“Nothing.” She touched his nose, his cheekbone, his eye. Her hand curved around his neck, rubbing the taut, corded muscles there, and she heard his indrawn breath leave him hoarsely.
She liked touching him. She could feel his power, electric and tantalizing and held precariously in check. She had done the right thing in coming to him.
She’d found the right man.
And she wanted him.
She knew so little about desire. She thought he was the kind of man who could teach a woman all about it. The kind of man who could draw a woman in and wring her out with passion.
She leaned forward.
“Don’t.” He grabbed her shoulder and pinned her back. “Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not what you really want, Tess.”
“I’m stronger then you think.”
“Yeah. But maybe I’m not.” He let her go. “Good night.”
“But—”
His gaze stopped her. It washed over her and stripped her bare. He moved closer. Then closer still. His head dipped. She held her breath and opened her lips, prepared to meet him all the way.
He twisted his head to the side at the last moment, and his teeth caught her earlobe delicately. “Go to bed, Tess. And lock your door.”
Then he was gone.
SEVENTEEN
¡MIERDA! YOU ARE not even trying!” “Jesus, lady, you’re demanding!” J.T. rolled off Rosalita, lying on his back and staring up at the swirling ceiling fan.
Rosalita propped herself up beside him. “You are not yourself.”
He cocked a brow. “You get off twice and you’re still so pissed you speak gringo? Rosalita, you are the Antichrist.”
She didn’t scowl, she didn’t sulk. She looked worried instead. He hated that. God almighty, someone deliver him from the women in his house.
Tentatively she ran one finger down the scar on his chest. He barely resisted the urge to bat it away. “It’s la chiquita, no? You like her.”
“I don’t like anyone, Rosalita. It’s part of my charm.”
No, he was not himself this evening. He was taut and aching. He was screwing the best whore in Nogales and thinking of another woman.
Christ, he wanted her. He wanted to take her until she couldn’t walk, she couldn’t stand, she couldn’t breathe, until all she could do was scream. Then he wanted to take her again.
And afterward? his mind whispered. What could you give a woman like that out of bed, J.T.? What could you offer a woman like her?
She was changing, becoming strong, capable. He knew, because he’d seen it before. Seen a woman come into herself and realize that she didn’t have just arms and legs but that she could run, fight, give, take. She could reclaim all the pieces of herself that had been stolen by stronger, cruel men and do whatever she wanted.
Rachel had chosen to give herself to him. And he had loved her for that unbearably.
He reached for the nightstand, found a crumpled pack of cigarettes, and pounded one out. He brought it to his lips and lit it. The tobacco seared ten years off his lungs. Gotta hate it. Gotta love it. It was just his style.
Rosalita was still watching him. Now she pressed her body next to his. He could roll her over and thrust into her again and she would only sigh her contentment. He could guide her head down and she would swallow him whole. If he could think of it, she would do it, and she could probably do a few things that defied his imagination as well.
He simply lay there, exhaling smoke and watching it drift languidly up to the whirling fan blades.
“I’ll bring you a drink.” Rosalita climbed out of bed, wrapped the sheet around her body. “You’ll feel better then.”
“You should get married,” he said lightly. “Find yourself a husband and raise a few kids instead of hanging out with the likes of me.”
The look of concern on her face grew. If he did or said one more thing out of character, the woman was going to check his forehead for fever and fetch him a doctor.
She opened the door and trailed down the hall.
Who was she most likely to run into tonight, Tess or Marion? The woman he didn’t want to save but seemed to think that only he could save her? Or the woman he’d once tried to save but now seemed to