Page 101 of Cruel Summer


Font Size:

He pulled her back into his arms and kissed her again. She pushed her hands up beneath the bottom of his shirt, her palm making contact with his hard midsection.

He was perfect. Need tore through her, and she found herself pulling his shirt off, her touch greedy, her need taking on a life of its own. She knew what she wanted. She knew that his body was exactly the kind of playground she wanted to play on.

But seeing him… She hadn’t been prepared for that.

He was perfect. Toned and hard, and…tattooed.

It had been a while since she’d seen him without his shirt. She had in Hawaii, and had done her best not to hyperfocus on that situation. He had a tattoo now, over his shoulder, mountains that faded down into a bear. She reached her hand out and touched it, where the bear roared, just over his heart. “What’s that?”

“A mother bear,” he said. “Because she’s still watching over Chloe.”

It was perfect. It wasn’t her name. It wasn’t a scrolling, perfectly lovely tribute. It was the visceral, intense, aggressive love of a mother, permanently etched into his body because of the love he had as a father. A reminder not just of the softness that Becca would have brought to Chloe’s life. But the fierceness. He carried it with him. She loved that. In that moment, she loved him for that.

“It’s perfect,” she said.

“I understand waiting a while to figure out what permanent tribute you want.”

She nodded slowly. “Tributes are tricky. Because you’re right. They’re for you.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. They are.”

She was glad they’d stopped to talk.

Because it gave her a chance to think.

She still wanted this.

She moved her hands down his chest, over his stomach. He sucked in a sharp breath, closing his eyes. She wondered if every woman that saw him naked asked about that tattoo. She knew that they did. She also knew just suddenly, as deep as she knew anything, that he didn’t tell them. He didn’t tell them what it meant, because it was his heart. He might share his body with all and sundry, but she knew that Logan Martin didn’t share his heart with just anybody.

Maybe he didn’t share it with anyone at all.

She undid his jeans, sliding the zipper down slowly and pressing her palm against the hardness of his arousal.

She bit her lip, excitement breaking out in pinpricks all over her body.

It had been a while, months now, since she had been intimate with another person, the longest she had gone in more than twenty years. But this wasn’t that. It wasn’t just a response because of sexual deprivation. It was something more. Something deeper. Chemistry. Chemistry that had burned low and slow for all of these years. She might not have known everything about him or what he wanted, but she had known that he wanted her. She had known it was there.

He growled, moving her palm away from him and pinning her wrists down low behind her back. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“With all the time we’ve wasted, I’d say we’re behind.”

“We are exactly where I say we are,” he said, that stern, bossy tone sending an arrow of need straight down between her thighs.

This was him. The man who calmly, quietly pushed that cart through a grocery store in Hawaii as she gathered items that didn’t matter much at all, except they meant everything to her. Had watched slowly as she had put herself back together in that way. Had been the strong, steady presence while she did so.

That man who had held himself together to care for his wife, who hadn’t given in to despair because Becca had needed to see hope, and Chloe had needed to see strength.

She would take any orders that man gave. Who wouldn’t? He kissed her mouth again, along the line of her jaw, down her neck. Then he released his hold on her just long enough to pull her shirt up over her head before pressing her back against the wall, this time with her wrists held fast above her head. He looked at her, his gaze hungry as it raked over her skin.

“We’re not going to rush this,” he said, his voice low. “I’ve waited too damned long. I’m going to savor every inch of you.”

She shivered, the sensual promise affecting her so deeply she thought she was going to climax there and then.

He didn’t touch her. He only looked, but that gaze was like a trail of fire over her skin. Then he lifted his hand, brushing his knuckles slowly down her cheek, moving his thumb over her lips. She rocked her hips forward, desperate for something. She was so wet. So needy for him. She ached with it. She knew sex. The mechanics of it. She knew arousal. But she didn’t know this.

This was singular. They were singular. And he was going to drive her insane.

“Please,” she begged.