Atlanta Heat (4 page)

It made him harder? It was making her wetter. And if she didn’t get out of this secured basement that he called a cave and away from him, then it was going to make her jump feet-first into a relationship that she knew had the potential to break her heart.

He didn’t want her, he wanted her body. He didn’t want her heart, he just wanted sex. And reminding
herself wasn’t easy when he was standing there, his jeans straining with his erection, his gaze hot and hungry. She was terribly afraid that reminding herself was going to do very little good.

“
COME ON, WE BOTH
need to get some rest.” Macey forced himself to ignore the hard-on torturing him. He had his pet snake to put away before she went to bed. Drack was his defense. It hated guns, and anyone with the ability to access his cave would no doubt be packing a gun. He didn’t think Emerson would appreciate curling up with a full-grown anaconda on her first night here.

Besides, there was something in her eyes that pricked at his heart, that had him releasing her slowly and stepping back. Not exactly fear of him, but there was fear there, uncertainty, innocence. And the look didn’t make sense to him.

He knew she’d had lovers before, he’d made it his business to know. He knew her medical history and the fact that she had lost her virginity between the ages of eighteen and nineteen.

She wasn’t promiscuous, but he knew she wasn’t a prude. Unfortunately, she might be too damned
innocent for the likes of him, because the things he wanted to do with her would have had a call girl blushing.

She didn’t speak as he turned away and opened the bedroom door. Flipping the lights on, Macey had to clench his teeth against the sight of the huge bed across the room: plenty large enough for two people to play some hellaciously erotic games on.

Dumb thought
, he told himself, shaking his head as he felt her move into the room cautiously.

Striding to the walk-in closet, he pulled one of his t-shirts from one of the drawers built in beneath the hanging clothes. From another drawer he pulled free a pair of his sister Stacey’s cotton leggings. She was always leaving clothes scattered around the upper level of the house.

Moving from the closet he glanced at where Emerson stood in the center of the room, staring around it, resignation filling her face.

She might as well resign herself to it. Other than the bolt hole, this place was locked up tighter than Fort Knox. There was no getting in and no getting out without his help.

“Shower’s in here.” He moved to the door at the far end of the room, opened it, and flipped the lights on. “Towels and washrags are under the sink, fresh soap, both bar and that shower gel gunk my sister likes, is on the shelf beside the tub. Get whatever you need.”

“Now you have a sister, too.” She was leaning against the doorframe, looking around the bathroom
with hazel eyes that were gleaming a brighter green than before. “Guess you weren’t hatched after all, Macey.”

“Guess I wasn’t,” he drawled, his lips quirking as he watched white, sharp little teeth nibble at her lower lip.

She was nervous. He rarely saw Emerson nervous, and had never seen her uncertain, until now. Seeing it in her made him want to kill. It made him wish he was hunting terrorists with Nathan and drawing their blood. It plain pissed him off that Emerson would know so much as a moment of uncertainty or fear.

He watched as she backed out of the doorway and turned to the bedroom again. Her shoulders were stiff, her head held high, and as he moved around her he caught the flicker of indecision on her face. “I want you to promise me you won’t try to leave while I’m trying to sleep, Em.”

“I am not stupid, Macey.”

“I didn’t say you were stupid,” he assured her. “But you’re headstrong as hell. The admiral gave the orders, sweetheart; calling him or trying to run to him isn’t going to do anything but endanger your life. And if I have to stand and listen to another bastard strike you, I just might have to lose my temper.”

He reached out to run the backs of his fingers over the bruise that had formed on her cheek, remembering the killing rage that had swept through him when he heard the blow.

“It wouldn’t do a lot for me, either,” she assured
him, pulling away from him as a flush brightened her cheeks and renewed arousal glittered in her eyes.

Oh, she was hot. As hot as he was and just as ready for bedroom aerobics as he was; she was just more cautious.

Macey caught her arm as she turned away from him, holding her steady as her gaze flashed back to his. Wide, wary, her eyes glittered like emeralds and threatened to ensnare him in a web of arousal.

“I told you this wasn’t a good idea.” Her breath hitched as he curled his arm around her waist and pulled her to his body once more.

He couldn’t help it. He needed to feel her breasts against his chest again, needed the taste of her kiss going to his head like potent liquor.

“It’s the only idea.”

Her lips parted, whether to protest or meet his kiss he wasn’t certain, so he took the kiss.

It was late. Weariness was dragging at both of them, but he couldn’t help it; one more taste, one more touch, that was all he needed. His head lowered, his lips touching hers gently as he stared into her eyes. He didn’t take the kiss this time, he eased into it, eased her into it. He licked at her lips until they parted further. He nipped at the lower curve and felt her ragged breath of response, watched her lashes flutter as her hands clenched on his upper arms.

And he felt that tight clench in his heart again, the one that had warned him years ago that Emerson’s touch went deeper than flesh. Deeper than bone.

Macey could tell that she didn’t know whether to push him away or to pull him closer to her. Her breathing was harsh, irregular, those temptingly full breasts moving against his chest heavily. He wanted to fill his hands with them, feel her hard little nipples against his tongue again. He wanted to devour her.

“Macey, please …” A whisper-soft plea fell from her lips as he licked over them, her eyes dilating, the small ring of green darkening in arousal.

Macey cupped her cheek with one hand, his thumb relishing the feel of satiny flesh dewed with moisture. He could feel her burning, heating up for him.

“I want to touch you, Em.” He nipped at her lower lip. “I want to feel you silky and wet.” His hand moved from her cheek, down her neck, her shoulder. Going lower, he watched her eyes, her expression, each nuance of emotion that flickered over her face as he gripped the material of her skirt and drew it upward.

She trembled in his arms, a delicate little ripple of response that fanned the flames inside his own body higher. He was burning for her. Touching her was addictive; the more of her soft, sweet flesh that he touched, the more he wanted to touch. The more he needed to touch.

As the material of her skirt cleared her thighs, Macey watched Emerson’s lips tremble, part, fight to draw in air.

“Can I touch you, Emerson?” he whispered, his
fingertips running along the elastic band of her panties as they curved around the cheek of her rear.

“Macey …” There was protest and hunger, fear and need resonating in the tone.

“Just a little touch,” he crooned, keeping his voice soft, cajoling.

Touching her meant everything. Touching her right now was as imperative as breathing.

He moved his hand around her thigh again, sliding his fingertips over the soft damp crotch of her panties.

“Emerson.” He groaned her name as his forehead rested against hers. “You’re wet.”

Her face flushed brighter as her hips jerked, pressing her silk-covered flesh more firmly against his fingers. She wanted, she needed, just as desperately as he did.

He moved his hand higher, slid his fingers into the low band of her panties, and a groan tore from his throat as his fingers feathered over damp curls. Sweet, heated dampness beaded on silky curls, drawing his touch, his hunger, as nothing else could have.

He couldn’t stop himself. He had to have more. He wanted to see her face, watch her eyes as he took more. And he did. His fingers slid into the narrow slit, parted sweetly swollen folds, and found the nectar of the gods.

“You’re hot.” He was burning alive in her heat. “Hot and sweet, Emerson.”

Hot and sweet. Emerson stared back at Macey, fighting to breathe, to make sense of the wild
sensations tearing through her. She couldn’t find the strength to pull away from him this time. She felt weak, senseless, unable to process anything but the pleasure. The feel of his fingers sliding through her pussy, parting the sensitive lips, circling the entrance to her vagina.

She lifted closer, standing on her tiptoes, desperate to encourage his fingers to delve further, to slip inside her, to ease the tight knot of pressure building in her womb.

She needed to orgasm. Oh yeah, she needed that so bad. Just this once, in his arms, to know the culmination of this pleasure.

A finger slipped inside her. Calloused, firm, confident, it parted the tight muscles and sent her senses careening. Flames seared her nerve endings and she felt as though she was burning alive in his embrace, coming apart at each touch.

“This is going to be mine, Emerson,” he snarled, his finger thrusting inside her, sending waves of heat and violent pleasure through every cell of her body. “You’re going to be mine. You know you are.”

“Macey.” Her head tipped back as she fought the sensations. “You don’t understand …”

His fingers moved inside her, fracturing her senses. But nothing could cover the feel of something … something smooth twining around her ankle.

She jerked, looked down. Her eyes widened. Terror ripped through her senses as a blood-curdling scream tore from her throat.

Emerson jumped as a pointed head lifted, the flickering tongue touching her bare ankle. Nothing mattered but escape.

She was screaming, screeching, trying to crawl into Macey’s body, frantic to evade a bite from the biggest, most terrifying snake she had ever seen in her life.

One minute she was climbing Macey’s body, the next he was cursing and they were falling. Was he laughing?

They rolled away from the too-long, too-thick reptile, but it wasn’t enough. Emerson scrambled to escape. She felt her knee hit Macey’s body, heard his grunt, his strangled curse. Clawing at the wood floor, she finally managed to drag herself up on the bed, panting, certain the snake had followed.

But it was gone. It was gone and Macey was curled up on the floor, his hands cupped between his thighs as something between a laugh and a groan left his throat.

“It’s a snake!” She jumped to the floor now that it seemed to be gone and tugged on his arm. “Get up, Macey. It’s huge. Oh my God, it’s horrible.”

He was laughing?

Emerson stared around the room, caught sight of the huge reptilian head peeking from beneath a chair and screamed again. She was back on the bed, staring at the chair in horror.

“Macey, get up. Oh my God. Macey, get up.” The head was the size of a platter, and surely its mouth was large enough to swallow an ankle whole.

“Drack.” Macey groaned, pulling himself to his knees and giving a faintly wheezing cough.

“Are you crazy?” she screamed, watching the chair carefully. “Where’s the gun? Tell me and I’ll get it.” She was terrified he wasn’t going to get off the floor in time.

“Drack.” He laughed; he was laughing, for pity’s sake.

Emerson stared back at him, fighting the panic, the fear.

“What the hell is Drack? Macey, please get on the bed.”

He laughed harder.

“What’s so funny?” she cried, still keeping an eye on the chair. “Would you please get in the bed until we can find a gun.”

He straightened, bent over laughing again, then restraightened.

“You just terrified my anaconda, Em. And de-manned me all in the same whack. Hell, I bet you’re related to Morganna.” He laughed again, drawing her shocked gaze as his words began to register.

“You live with a snake?” she wheezed.

“Well, she lives here.” He snickered, moved to the far wall, and pressed a lever.

And there it was, the biggest aquarium she had ever seen, ripples of water, foliage and flat stones displayed behind glass as Macey opened the door.

“Come on, Drack, time to go home.”

Drack. The snake. The huge snake. The twelve
foot-long, at the very least, reptile slithered from beneath the chair with lazy ease and slid into the aquarium.

Once it was inside, Macey closed and locked the glass door before turning back to her with a grin.

“She watches the place while I’m gone.”

Emerson sat down slowly, staring at the well-lit aquarium, certain her heart had stopped and she had died.

“She lives here?”

“Right in there.” Macey nodded, chuckling as he pointed over his shoulder at the glass-enclosed cage.

“You should have left me with the terrorists,” she said. “It would have saved them the trouble of recapturing me after I leave here. Because no way, no how, not in a million years am I staying here with a snake.”

EMERSON’S SLEEP WAS RESTLESS
that morning, filled with visions of a naked Macey and an anaconda twined around his body rather than her. Flickering tongue and slitted eyes dared her to touch his gleaming, muscular body.

She shouldn’t have been bothered by it. She didn’t consider herself innocent; sometimes she considered herself too jaded, too cynical. She had learned years ago that defending her heart wasn’t easy. She wasn’t like her family. The Navy, preserving honor and tradition, had meant more to them than trying to understand the clumsy, too-emotional child they had found themselves stuck with.

Her parents had been overprotective, and each time she tried to protest the restrictions, her parents had pulled the guilt card. They were trying to protect her. They couldn’t work if she was constantly crying for their attention or arguing over their precautions.
So Emerson had kept her mouth shut and endured. Until her graduation from high school, until she left on her own for college and began carving out her own life.