Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [99]
Trace stared at Jackson, then turned and walked out. Okay? Hell, no, he wasn’t okay. He’d been drugged with some strange but powerful chemical substance that made him ultra sensitive, painfully hard and kept even his skin singing.
And then to find out what Priss had been through, the situation she’d been in with Jackson…
Seeing Priss sitting primly on the edge of the bed dressed in Jackson’s clothes did little to assist a return to coherency.
Especially when Priss’s gaze immediately dropped to his open fly.
Damn. She practically devoured him with her eyes—and he liked it. He loved it.
He needed it.
But now wasn’t the time, damn it all. Using care, Trace fastened his pants the best he could. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
Did she sound worried, merely curious or a little annoyed? He let out a breath. “I need you someplace safe before anything else happens.”
Priss nodded, but still she sat there, her gaze bright, her cheeks flushed with residual anger. “You’re really okay?”
“I will be.” If she wanted an apology for him yelling at her, she’d be doomed to disappointment. She shouldn’t have been there in the first place, and she shouldn’t have been bullying Jackson.
He held out a hand. “Come on.”
She inhaled sharply, then propelled off the bed and into his arms, squeezing him tight. Her body was flush against his, touching him, moving, and he lost his fragile grip on propriety.
Tangling a hand in her hair, Trace drew her face back and took her mouth in a consuming, starving kiss.
It wasn’t enough.
He wanted to brand her, to claim her, to make her his own in every way imaginable. And she wasn’t fighting him. No, not even close. Instead Priss was all over him, accepting and anxious.
Trace let his hands drop to her bottom, lifting her up and against him. He ground against her, oblivious to everything except her taste, the heat of her body and his straining erection.
When he left her mouth to taste her throat, she whispered, “Trace?” with confusion and need.
“I’m sorry.” There was her damned apology after all, but not for yelling earlier. “Helene drugged me.” He lifted her higher so that he could open his mouth over the tender swells of her breasts.
“I know.” Her hands braced against his shoulders, trying to find balance. “I was so afraid….”
Backing her to the wall, he caught her thighs and lifted them to either side of his hips. Oh, God, perfect. The feel of her, her scent swirling around him… He ravaged the soft, fragrant skin of her throat while moving against the junction of her thighs. A few seconds more, and he’d be coming.
He groaned with rampant need that boiled closer and closer to the surface.
A light tap sounded on the door and Jackson cleared his throat. “Well…this is awkward.”
God Almighty, he’d kill him yet.
Priss’s hand smoothed over Trace’s hair, and he heard her say, “Not now, Jackson. Close the door. Trace will see you in a few minutes.”
“A few minutes, huh?” Jackson scoffed. “Yeah, sure. But uh…you’re okay, honey?”
Before Trace could decide whether or not to flatten Jackson, Priss hugged him closer.
“I’m fine, I promise.” Her hand continued to move over Trace, easy soothing strokes that still incited his every nerve ending. “Now go away.”
Trace heard the door close and he felt like a bastard, like a molester, like a weak idiot with no morals and no backbone.
Drugs were a real son-of-a-bitch.
Priss had been through her own kind of hell. She deserved his attention, his comfort. But he had no control at all. Hell, even now, knowing his lack of control to be true, he couldn’t seem to pull back from her.
Her hand slid over his shoulder, down to his side. “Trace?” She kissed his ear. “This might be easier on the bed.”
He groaned again, his body straining, racked with need.
Feeling her smile on his temple, he heard her whisper, “Or not.” And then she