Brash (20 page)

She held the keys up. “I'm going to take you home when you've sufficiently drowned yourself.”

“Not necessary.”

“I say it is.”

“You don't want to do that, darlin'. I'm not fit to be around.”

It was impossible to miss the heavy, pulsing pain that echoed in his incredible blue eyes. She knew some of what had happened to him in the past couple of months. Finding out his daddy was Everett Cavanaugh. That he had part claim to the Triple C. With a set of three new brothers. But clearly there was more. So much more.

She dropped the keys into her jeans pocket and turned to face her Coke. This wasn't how she'd wanted to meet Blue . . . talk to him . . . under the haze of tequila. But he'd offered up some protection for her tonight, and she was going to do the same.

I'm not going to let you get hurt, Blue Perez Cavanaugh. Any more than you already are.

*   *   *

She tasted like heaven, her mouth so warm and hungry, he fell easily in lust with it. His mind was clouded, unusable. But his limbs, his muscles, his tongue, his dick and his will were all alive with feeling.

She was sitting on top of him. Strawberry blond curls falling down past her shoulders, the tips licking her nipples. His mouth watered. That was what he wanted to be doing. Licking those dark raspberries. Tugging at them. Biting.

If he just knew where he was. What he was . . .

No. He didn't want that.

This was his heaven. In the real world, real life, he didn't get to go to heaven. Only with her.

The angel.

He groaned as her warm, soft fingers glided up and down his shaft. “I need to take you,” he uttered. “Be inside you. Can I?”

There was a moment's hesitation as if she was thinking.
Don't think. Don't think. It's bad.

Painful.

Problematic.

“Blue . . . ,” she whispered, her voice a hungry whisper.

Was he Blue? Blue Perez? Blue Cavanaugh? The tequila wasn't talking.

Clasping her soft, small waist in his hands, he lifted her up and placed her down on his shaft.

White, brilliant, healing heat surged into him.

Yes.

This.

Her.

“Wait. We need—”

But his mouth was on hers, and his fingers were playing in her hot, slick sex. And all that remained were the sounds of ecstasy and his cock working inside her. It's the only sound that mattered. Only music that should ever fill his ears.

“Oh, Blue . . . God, yes.”

“I need to shut it out, angel,” he rasped. “Them, all of them. And her. The pain. Please.”

And then he was falling. No. No. Not done. Not over.

Heat and tightness and a rush of moisture fisted around his cock.

Hated this. He wanted more. Her. Only her. She fit him.

Idiot. Fool.
No one fits.

Only hurts.

He came in a growl of madness, pumping wildly into her—his hands cupping her breasts, his ears filled with her moans. He should . . . should let her go. Now. But he couldn't. Not until she ran. Or lied. Or deceived. That would be all too soon. This woman was from hell. Had to be. And yet she felt like heaven.

Still inside her, he wrapped his body around her.

She was an angel.

Dark and addicting.

His angel.

Blackness spread through his worried mind, and in seconds, he was gone, asleep. He never felt her disentangle herself from his grasp. Never heard her pull on her clothes or whisper a pained, “Oh God,” as she hurried from the bedroom of the Triple C's river
cottage.

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