He nodded. “That’s what I figured as well. He must have seen your balance at some point and tried to give Jean Paul a reason to keep him alive by passing on your password and account info.”
“It didn’t work.”
“No, it didn’t.” He didn’t say anything for a minute. “You all right?”
Though the question was asked softly, it packed a surprising amount of intensity. She hadn’t been the only one worried. It had been as hard for him as it had been for her not to be with him after the attack. But maybe it had proved what she already knew. She was strong enough to handle life with a SEAL. Though his job would take him away from her far more than she wanted, she knew he would come back.
She nodded. “A lot better now.” She paused. “I missed you.”
He gave her a wry smile. “I missed you, too. A lot.”
“How long can you stay?”
She didn’t know if she wanted to hear the answer, fearing he would say a couple of hours or tomorrow.
“A few days at least.”
She nodded, relieved. Although she knew it wouldn’t be enough.
It only took about fifteen minutes for them to reach their destination. Dean had let a cottage overlooking the beach not far from town. It sat by itself on a hilltop, not quite secluded—there were a handful of other cottages nearby—but it should afford them plenty of privacy.
Anticipation was racing through her veins as he got their bags out of the trunk (aka “boot”) and led her up to the pretty robin’s-egg blue front door.
She was pretty sure he was thinking the same thing as she was, and she wondered whether they’d make it to the bedroom the first time.
They didn’t.
No sooner had the door closed behind her than his body was pressing her up against it. His lips were on hers, and he was devouring her with his mouth and hands.
And she was devouring him right back. She couldn’t get enough of his heat, of his tongue, of that delicious taste of cinnamon.
She’d missed this. God, how she’d missed this. The heat. The fierceness. The intensity. How one minute she was herself and the next she was dissolving into a puddle of desperate need.
His body was so big and hard against her. The warmth and solidness of him never ceased to amaze her. Holding him. Touching him. Letting her hands roam over the heavy slabs of muscle.
He lifted her up a little against the door to notch himself between her legs and she moaned, her body drenching.
He lifted his mouth and unbuttoned his jeans and lowered hers. “This isn’t going to be pretty.”
“I don’t want it pretty.”
“Good. I need to be inside you.”
And with a hard thrust he was.
She jarred at the contact. At the thoroughness of the possession. It was always like that with him. When he was inside her, she felt consumed—claimed—in a way that she never anticipated she would like.
He hooked one of her legs over his arm to wrap around his waist and kissed her again, swallowing her moans and cries as their bodies slammed together with every deep thrust.
It took her breath away.
He was right. It wasn’t pretty. It was raw and fierce and primal. He was out of control, and she loved it.
He was so big and hard inside her, and his body was so hot he seemed to be on fire. All it took was a few thrusts of that powerful body surging into hers, and she was breaking apart.
He didn’t last much longer. With one last deep thrust he cried out, and she felt that powerful shudder as he came inside her.
He collapsed against her when he was done, the weight of his body holding them both up against the door.
