Nauti Nights (12 page)

“Wait for what?” Damn, he was nearly shaking. Every cell in his body was in a frenzy of need to mate. To fuck. If he didn’t bury inside her, he was going to go crazy.

“Dawg, please.” Was it a protest or need?

His hand flattened on her abdomen, beneath the loose material of her jeans, and felt the muscles there

flexing, spasming.

He needed her. Sweet heaven, her womb was clenching for release; her pussy would ripple and contract

around him. It would hug him like a hot little fist and welcome him more eagerly than her mouth.

His lips moved to the swollen, flushed mounds of her breasts above the lace of her bra then. Her nipples were hard and pointed beneath. With his free hand, he drew the material over the flushed mound and

stared in rapt attention a second before the overriding need to taste her had his head lowering.

Dawg groaned at the feel of her nipple against his tongue, the taste. The acceptance she allowed when his lips closed over one hungrily.

She jerked as though jolted with a hard surge of electricity. Her nipple tightened further, fit perfectly against his tongue, and drew him into a heated intimacy he had never known before.

He had never known, never understood how intimate this act could be. How it could feed his arousal, feed that deep, uncharted core of emotion he kept trapped in his soul.

It wasn’t trapped any longer. It spilled from inside him, filling him with blistering pleasure and

acceptance. She was accepting him. Giving to him. Letting him inside her soul as he drew the tender bud

farther into his mouth.

He drew on the hard, silky flesh, lashed it with his tongue, and felt his own body tighten in pleasure as her thin, sensual wail filled his ears.

Her fingers pulled at his hair, her nails kneaded his scalp, sending tiny pinpoints of fiery pleasure to erupt through his head before it exploded straight to his dick.

Dawg lifted his head, tore his T-shirt from his shoulders, and stared down at her for a long, intense

moment.

As her lashes lifted, he watched the pleasure rising inside her, the hunger and needs, and keeping a rein on his own was almost impossible.

“Now,” he growled. “I need you now.”

Crista stared up at Dawg as his fingers hooked in the loosened waist of her jeans and began to draw them, along with the thong she wore beneath, slowly over her hips.

Naked, aroused, his eyes glowing with unsuppressed hunger and raging need, he looked like a

vanquishing conqueror. All the warriors and warlords that the best romances wrote about.

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But this wasn’t a story. It wasn’t a book, and it wasn’t fiction. It was the man blackmailing her into his bed and stealing her soul with his touch.

“Dawg.” Trembling fingers slid over his shoulders as she tried to force strength into her arms to push him away, to push herself away from the temptation.

“I dreamed of you, Crista.” The material slid over her thighs as he drew back. “I dreamed of your kiss,

your taste. I dreamed of every wicked fantasy a man could have about his woman for eight years.” His

voice strengthened as he tossed the jeans and panties to the floor, and his eyes sharpened with angry

desire. “Eight years, damn you. One fucking night, and you didn’t give me a chance to make up for it. You didn’t give me a chance to prove you’re fucking mine!”

The snarl that drew his lips back held her mesmerized. Possessive, dominant. His eyes slid over her naked body, heating her insides and sending her juices spilling between her thighs.

Crista felt her head shaking, felt the denial born of a sudden knowledge that Dawg wasn’t what she

expected. This wasn’t going to be an affair she could walk away from. Dawg wasn’t a man she could

watch walk out of her life a second time and survive it.

“Yes, damn you,” he cursed, calloused hands pressing her legs apart as he slid deftly between them.

His lips lowered, stealing her protest and replacing it with passion and fire, with a whipping hunger she had no defenses against. As his tongue entered her lips, she felt the blunt pressure, the heated head of his cock pressing against the swollen folds of her pussy.

Tingling fingers of sensations began to play across her flesh. She froze beneath him. She remembered this part. Clearly, so clearly.

Her eyes struggled to open as she felt Dawg lever up, looking into his absorbed expression before she

followed the point where his gaze had locked.

There, between her thighs. Her legs were draped over his thighs, spread wide, her hips angled to the thick spear of flesh pressing into her.

Crista watched as the wet folds parted, separating for his cock, hugging the wide crest as he pressed

closer, penetrated the tender opening, and he groaned with hoarse male pleasure.

“So sweet. So hot.”

Crista whimpered as her body began to stretch to accommodate the impalement. She shook her head

against the cushion she lay on, dazed by the pleasure beginning to build inside her.

No, this went beyond pleasure. It went beyond words that Crista could compare it to. It was like being the center of a flame. It was burning in rapture.

“Dawg…It’s so good.” She watched. Watched as the wide crest disappeared inside her. As aching

pleasure-pain began to fill her.

“Easy.” He held her as her hips twisted, as she fought for more. A deeper stroke, a hard, filling thrust.

“You’re too tight, Crista. We’ll go slow. Easy.”

“You didn’t before,” she whispered feeling the agonizing need clawing through her system as her gaze

lifted to his. “Like before, Dawg. All of you. All over me.”

His hips bucked, piercing her another inch before he controlled the impulse. She didn’t want his control.

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all.

Her hands lifted from the cushions her nails had been digging into. Lifting her arms, she arched them

behind her head, stretched, lifted, then lowered them until her hands could cup her breasts, and her fingers could play erotically with her nipples.

“You were wild that night,” she whispered.

She had seen his desperation to separate dream from reality, and now some wicked imp insisted that she

help him remember.

“How wild?” His gaze blistered her with erotic hunger.

“You didn’t hesitate.” She brought a finger to her lips, dampened it, then painted her hard nipple with the moisture.

His gaze sliced to the motion before pulling back to her eyes, hotter, darker than before.

His breath was sawing in and out of his chest; moisture clung to his forehead, his shoulders.

“It might hurt,” he groaned, easing back.

“It destroyed me,” she assured him. “Pleasure and pain.” Her breathing hitched at the memory. “And you

were wild and hungry…”

Her head tipped back as a ragged, strangled scream left her lips at the penetration.

Halfway. He was buried halfway inside her, but he pulled back quickly, his muscles bunching as he

gripped her hips and plunged inside her again.

All the way.

Crista arched to him, her hips jerked, writhed, undulated to the fiery stretching, the pleasure-pain and ecstatic sensations whipping through her like wildfire now.

“Like that?” He spoke, but he didn’t stop.

Hard hands held her beneath him, his hips thrust and churned, his erection plunged inside her, spreading the fire and sending it burning through her body. Across sensitive nerve endings, through her

pleasure-dazed mind and back to the clenching, spasming muscles of her vagina as it struggled to hold

him inside, to hold on to the sensations that built to cataclysmic proportions.

“Is that what you want?” he snarled, fucking her furiously now, building sensation on top of sensation.

Her hands latched onto his wrists as he held her hips, her gaze locking with his as she felt perspiration begin to roll off her body.

“Like this,” she panted, shuddering beneath him, her hands sliding up his arms, reaching for his face. “All of it. Like before. Just like before.”

Before, his lips had been at her nipples, his lips, teeth, and tongue ravaging the tips as his cock ravished her pussy.

And he knew. A hollow groan left his throat as he came over her, his lips covering her nipple as Crista

became lost in the eroticism of being possessed by Dawg.

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hair and pulling at it sensually.

The band of tension in her womb began to tighten. Her hips flexed beneath him, arching to him as he

fucked her with mindless hunger, took her with dominant strength.

She was possessed. Taken. Fingers of fire rippled and burned beneath her flesh, and within seconds the

conflagration overtook her. The orgasm that tore through her had her crying out at the intensity of the

pleasure that rushed through her system. It exploded through her; it ripped through the few remaining

defenses around her soul as it released more than just the sexual tension.

She held onto him, her arms tight around his neck as she shuddered through each spasm of pleasure, felt

his release tearing through him, and whimpered at the remembered sensation of his semen pulsing inside

her.

The man was known for his paranoia with condoms, and twice he had forgotten while taking her. It was

enough to terrify a woman.

As he collapsed over her, Crista let a weary breath leave her throat and felt her muscles become relaxed, slack. Weariness washed over her, and she gave in to it. Because it was better to give in to it than it was to think about exactly what had happened. Because if she had to think, then she had to remember. And if she had to remember, then fear was going to overcome her. The fear of losing her soul once again.

“Crista,” he whispered her name against her ear then. “Did I make it better this time?”

“What do you mean?”

“Tell me the truth now.” He kissed the shell of her ear gently. “That first time, did I hurt you?”

Silence filled the room. Memories and regrets clashed inside her, tearing at her soul.

“More than you’ll ever know, Dawg. More than you’ll ever know.”

SEVEN

Dawg had learned years before how to read between the lines when it came to women. The survival

instinct was strong, and as a boy he had learned that a soft smile and a gentle voice didn’t always mean a gentle heart. Just as he had learned that there were often a dozen different definitions to any one comment that a man could garner when it came to difficult questions.

Had he hurt her? He heard the flash of remembered pain in her voice, but the memory wasn’t of a physical hurt. He hadn’t forced her, he hadn’t taken her so roughly that he had destroyed girlish dreams of a first time. If her response to him in the living room was anything to go by, then she had hungered as much for him as he had for her over the years.

No, it hadn’t been her body that he had hurt. It had been something far more delicate. He had hurt her

young heart and possibly scared the hell out of her when he spoke of bringing his cousins to their bed.

As he lay in his bed the next morning and stared up at the ceiling, he would have snorted at that thought if he weren’t more concerned about waking the woman now sleeping next to him.

Share her? He couldn’t imagine it. Even then the thought of sharing her had sent a spike of denial tearing through his chest, despite his stubbornness to remain dedicated to the extreme, raunchy pleasure to be had in the act.

And now? Hell, he hadn’t shared one of his women in years, despite Natches’s obvious dissatisfaction in

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his cousin’s recent lack of desire to participate in the games of their youth.

The truth had become obvious when Rowdy returned home from the Marines last year to claim his

stepsister. Even as the sharing had begun to wane, Dawg and Natches both had been certain they had

known what was coming. That when Rowdy returned, the need for the fun and games would return.

For Dawg, it hadn’t returned, though. He had seen the possessiveness his cousin felt for Kelly

immediately. He had been amused. More understanding than Natches had been, but privately relieved. As

much as he had once desired the little vixen that Rowdy was now engaged to, he found that over the years that desire had slowly changed. Affection and protectiveness had replaced the lust.

But the need for Crista had only grown over the years. Maybe he had understood Rowdy more than

Natches did because Crista had been back in town when Rowdy returned, and Dawg had been fighting the

demons that came with her return: the knowledge that he was missing something with her, that something

had been taken away from him. And now he knew exactly what he had lost.

A night of memories. The knowledge of how she smelled, how she tasted, the sounds of her cries and the

whisper of her desire as he took her. All the things he cherished about the sex act were missing from the night he had spent with her in his bed.

All he had were the dreams. Fragmented, broken, more tease than knowledge of an event that threatened

to take his head off with the pleasure.

Oh yeah, he remembered that much. In his dreams, he remembered being consumed by a fire so

overwhelming it had been all he could do to survive it. The same fire had ripped through him the day