Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [73]
Still, he’d given the men a chance, offering the opportunity for them to state their names and their business without bloodshed.
Pulling a gun meant they passed on the pleasantries, and that gave him plenty of reason to pound out some frustration.
He assumed Murray sent them, either as another test for Trace, or because he’d short-circuited his plans for Priss.
But even pounding on the henchmen hadn’t expended enough energy to ease his ever-growing tension. Priss was the source of that tension, and only she could release him.
He wanted her. Insanely. More than he could remember ever wanting a woman.
It defied logic.
“Trace…” she whispered.
Needy. Ready. Willing, and oh, so ripe.
“I don’t know enough about you.” He growled the statement as much to himself as to her when he switched to her other breast. He plumped her up with his hand, circled her nipple with his tongue, and drew her deep.
“You…” She gasped and her body arched. “You know more than I know about you.”
True. All of it. Out of necessity, he had to deceive her. He had to use her.
So what the hell was he doing getting intimately involved with her?
Cursing, Trace shoved himself away and let her feet drop back to the floor. He turned to pace and, running both hands through his hair, put needed distance between them before facing her again.
That was a mistake.
The sight of her, limp against the door, shirt up and legs braced apart, nearly felled him. Her bra cups were beneath her breasts, lifting them almost like an offering. Her nipples were tight and wet from his mouth, her eyes glazed, and her lips parted.
He shook, when normally he was rock steady.
Getting involved with her would be a mistake, but given the level of his lust, how she affected him, he couldn’t see any way around it.
Making the decision helped to steady him. “As soon as possible, Priss.”
She drew in a shuddering breath. “What?”
“I need to be inside you.” He flexed his fingers, loosening his fists, reaching for control. “As soon as possible.”
“Oh, okay.” She licked her lips—and nodded. “When?”
Incredible. It would be funny, except that he felt like he suffered a thousand torments. “I don’t know. I have to see how things go tonight with Murray.”
Some of the daze cleared from her eyes. She swallowed twice. “Murray.” She said his name with derision. “What will happen tonight? You’ll be okay?”
“Not sure.” That’s why he had to wait. What if he took Priss now—against a damned door, with his knuckles bruised and adrenaline pumping—and then Murray caught onto him and killed him? Hell, maybe Murray was already onto him and that’s why he’d sent the goons. With Murray, nothing was ever certain or clear-cut—except Trace’s hatred of the man.
Organizing his thoughts, he took a cautious step closer to Priss. It’d help a lot if she’d cover her chest and maybe stop looking so sexually ravenous, so innocently open to him.
It’d help if she wasn’t the most appealing woman he’d ever met. “In case shit goes sideways tonight—”
“No! Don’t say that.” Taking him off guard, Priss launched away from the door and threw herself against him. Her arms locked around his neck, her body squeezing into his.
At least her shirt dropped down to cover her breasts.
Against his shoulder, she said, “I…I don’t want to scare you, Trace.”
He tried to pry her away, but she held on. “Scare me?”
“I mean, I don’t want to scare you off.” She huddled closer. “I figure nothing much actually scares you. Not with how you fight, but—”
“Priss.” Holding her shoulders—safer ground there—he levered her back. “What is it?”
Uncertainty held her silent for a heartbeat of time before she blurted, “I like you. A lot.”
He was a coldhearted bastard, a killer when necessary. And still he softened.
“Don’t you dare smile!” Knotting her hands in the front of his shirt, she tried to rattle him. “I like you more than I ever thought I’d like anyone. I’m not asking for anything. Well, not for much. Sex. And I guess protection.