The Woman Left Behind: A Novel Read online

  There. That was it, the core of what had been eating at her for weeks, since the horrible night in the desert. She’d staggered and limped and fought her way through agony, exhaustion, terror, feeling the knowledge burning in her heart that she was the least important to him.

  She jerked away from him, moved out of his reach. Angrily she rubbed her hands up and down her bare arms, trying to erase the scalding sensation of his touch. Because she couldn’t handle her emotional turmoil yet, she put it aside and focused instead on the bitter temptation of his presence here. “I suppose you took my quitting the team as a sign I wanted you to come here for a quick hook-up? Scratch the itch and get it over with?”

  His jaw was set, his eyes narrow and fierce. “Adjust your expectations, babe. There won’t be anything quick about it.”

  Her entire body tightened, her memory supplying in vivid playback how it felt to have him on top of her, his mouth and hands on her, the hard ridge of his erection rubbing against her crotch. She felt torn in two by the warring needs to throw him out and to have him inside her, to feed the gnawing hunger she’d held at bay for a year and couldn’t control for even a minute longer.

  “Then let’s do it,” she snapped, and whipped her tee shirt up and off, tossed it to the floor. The cool air hit her, instantly tightening her nipples to points. “Let’s get it over with, then you can leave and I can get some sleep—”

  “Fuck leaving,” he snarled. “And fuck sleeping.” He looked down at her and his expression changed, hardening with sheer lust, color flagging the carved plane of his cheekbones. “Just look at those pretty little things,” he murmured as he moved closer, then his big hands closed on her bare breasts, cupping both of them, his rough thumbs rubbing over her nipples; the sharp sensation brought her up on her bare toes, gasping, and she seized his thick wrists—perhaps to steady herself, perhaps to hold his hands where they were. The heat of his palms seared the cool satin of her skin, making it feel as if her breasts swelled toward him, wanting more.

  Because she wanted more, because she wanted everything, she released his wrists and stepped back. Fury and want and need burned in her; if she could control her emotions she’d shut them down, reduce everything she felt for him to ashes, but she didn’t have that superpower. What she had was . . . now. She had now.

  She stalked to the bedroom, unwilling to make even the slightest soft or flirtatious gesture. This might not be war, but neither would she let it be lovemaking. It was sex, nothing more. She wouldn’t let it be more. But there was unfinished business between them, and she knew part of her couldn’t move on as long as she had doubt. She was on birth control, they were both healthy—there was no reason they couldn’t have this out.

  He seized her arm, hauling her around and against him. With his other hand he pulled his own shirt up and off, then pulled her so close that her bare breasts nestled against him, soft against hard, delicate against the roughness of his chest hair. Mutely she stared up at him, body-slammed by the shock of being body to body with him like this, wishing she didn’t feel so small next to him but perversely reveling in his strength. The look in his eyes scorched her with intensity and suddenly she felt breathless, knowing what was about to happen. Dreaming about him, thinking about having sex with him, was far different in the abstract than in reality.

  He didn’t kiss her; he simply picked her up and pushed her cotton pants down, tugged them off. Then he set her down; his gaze locked on her and he didn’t look away, didn’t blink, as he stripped off his clothes. She stood frozen, taking in every detail.

  She’d seen him without his shirt; seeing him completely naked was on a whole other level of arousal, both his and hers. His clothing disguised how muscled he truly was, the thick pads on his shoulders and chest, the ridged six-pack of his abdomen. Her breath began coming faster as she looked at him, and those powerful legs and narrow hips, and the thick penis jutting forward, bigger than she’d expected. Her breath tangled in her chest, making her fight for every inhalation. She heard the soft panting sounds she was making and her cheeks burned. Because everything was moving so fast—at her own instigation—and she couldn’t handle everything at once, she turned away again.

  She heard a low, rough laugh, then one finger traced a spot on her back. “Pretty,” he murmured, “and appropriate.” He traced the outline of the small, exquisitely detailed and shaded tattoo of a grenade on her back, a grenade that had been given winsome, seductive eyes with striking amber and blue irises. Way back at the beginning she hadn’t wanted to be called Babe and had suggested Grenade, and this way she had Grenade forever. It was a sly poke, an “I’ll show you” gesture. Despite herself she liked that he’d remembered, and got the meaning.

  His finger trailed down her back, then he turned his hand and smoothed his rough palm over the cool, sleek curves of her bottom. She closed her eyes and stood very still under his touch, concentrating on the moment. Her nipples were so tight they ached, and she clenched her thighs together because she ached between her legs, too.

  Tonight. She had tonight, this once. She had to indulge herself, this once. He had other plans, obviously, or he wouldn’t have brought a bag, but she was very much in doubt that there were be more moments after this. She’d spent over a year wanting him and denying herself and no matter what else happened she wanted this one time of completion, of being naked with him, of having him inside her. She wanted to know how he looked when he came, how he sounded, what it felt like to hold his convulsing body in her arms and body during that most intimate of moments. She would take that, and to hell with what he wanted.

  He moved close behind her, so close she felt his heat at her back, his breath on her shoulder as he bent his head to rub his chin against her hair. His hand slid farther down, into the heat and damp and softness, a softness he violated with the slow push of two big fingers into her.

  Jina gasped, rising up on her toes, quivering under the lash of sensation. He anchored her with an arm around her, and probed deeper. She couldn’t stop the moan that reverberated in her throat, didn’t try to stop it. Her head fell back against his shoulder and he took advantage of the sensitive, vulnerable curve of neck she presented, bending down to bite her, his teeth clamping on the sensitive cord between shoulder and neck.

  Electricity flashed through her. She almost came, almost went over the edge. If he’d bent her over and pushed his cock into her right then she would have, but he didn’t and desperately she regrouped, pulled her response back. She didn’t want to come the way she had before, without him even inside her. She wanted him as desperate as she was, as hungry, as on fire and blind to everything except the sensation of being together.

  She jerked away and fell back on the bed, her gaze angry and defiant and daring. Take me if you can, big guy.

  He could.

  The fire in her would scorch him alive. He knew it, and relished the burning. She challenged him, she pushed him, she dared him. She absorbed him on a level he’d never experienced before. Even her invitation was like beckoning him to a fight—and a fight was something he’d never backed down from. They might never settle this between them using words, but they would, by God, settle it in bed.

  He crawled onto the bed, grasping her knees and pushing them apart. He paused a moment to look down at her crotch, dark pink and soft and wet, the sight setting him on fire. He slid between her legs and pulled her to him. He didn’t stretch out on her—that was something he intended to relish when he didn’t feel on the knife-edge of both tension and orgasm—but sat back on his haunches with her hips in his hands and her ass on his thighs. The expression on her face was so belligerent he wouldn’t have been surprised if she took a swing at him. Nothing she dared would surprise him, yet on another level she was always surprising him, amusing him, interesting him.

  He leaned forward a bit, gripped his cock in one hand and brought the thick head of it to her body, rubbed it back and forth, nuzzling her with it until he felt the soft give of her body as she opened to