The Last Time I Saw Her (20 page)

Barely feeling any of it.

I'm gonna wash that man right outta my hair:
the showstopper from
South Pacific
rolled through her head. Song or no song, though, it wasn't working.

She was hurting so badly inside that there was no room for anything else.

What she was not going to do was cry. Not over him. Not ever again.

The thing about letting yourself fall in love with a jackass was—you might be in love, but he was still a jackass.

With the power to break your heart.

I'll be damned if he's going to break mine,
she told herself fiercely.

Even as she was thinking it, she heard a
whoosh
from the shower door. A rush of cooler air penetrating the steam reinforced her interpretation of the sound: the door had just been yanked open.

Her eyes popped open. Water tinged with soap ran into them, making them burn, blurring her vision. Instantly she shut them again—but not before she saw Michael standing in the shower's open doorway, scowling at her.
Scowling
at her. While, startled by his advent, she was stark naked and cringing in an instinctive pose of classic female modesty under the spray, and he stood fully dressed, with billows of steam escaping around him, inches away in her bathroom, watching her shower. She'd shut the bathroom door. Had she locked it? She couldn't remember, but obviously not. Growling, she opened her eyes again just enough to allow her to see and snatch at the towel she'd flung over the top of the door.

“You really are self-destructive, aren't you?” he bit out before she could say anything.

She'd been scowling right back at him even before she'd opened her eyes.

At that, her scowl deepened into a full-blown glower.

She snapped, “Get out of my shower.”

Stepping sideways, which took her out from under the full force of the spray, Charlie swiped the towel over her face, then clasped it to her body so that it at least covered the vital full-frontal view that she had no intention of allowing him to keep looking at. It was a pale blue towel, plush and pretty. A hand towel, positioned over the door so she could use it to dry her eyes if she needed to, while her bath towel remained safely tucked away from the spray over the towel rack just outside the shower. Water soaked the towel almost instantly; she could feel the thick terry cloth getting heavier because it was wet.

“You say ‘I love you' to me. What, were you thinking I was going to say it back?” He looked mad. He sounded mad.

Well, welcome to the club
.

Her chin came up. Her voice stayed sharp. “We had an agreement. You stay out of the bathroom while I'm in it.”

His eyes swept her. “That's what you want. Admit it. You want me to say it back.”

That stung. Because it was true.
“Go the fuck away.”
Her voice had risen in volume until it was perilously close to a shout. Only she never shouted. Plus, he was the one who was always saying “fuck.” She never did that, either. Except now, when she was suddenly furiously angry with him.

His face was hard. His mouth was ugly. “What's the point? How do you think this whole thing's going to end, huh?”

Stomping her foot in the inch or so of water swirling on the shower floor, Charlie tightened her grip on the towel, pointed a finger at him, and yelled,
“I want you out of this bathroom. Now.”

“Fuck that.” He stepped into the shower with her. Fully clothed. All hard-eyed and hard-jawed and badass, radiating attitude at her. Hot water poured down over him, soaking his hair, his clothes, running in rivulets down his face. In that confined space he looked huge. Intimidating. Menacing, even. The skin around his eyes was tight with anger. His mouth was grim with it. She could feel the aggression coming off his big body in waves.

Cool, calm, and collected, that was her. In control of her emotions. Reserved. Self-contained. At least that was her before him. Now it was not her. Anger and hurt and a whole constellation of other emotions surged through her veins, and she shoved her pointing finger smack-dab into the center of his infuriatingly wide, honed chest with the soaking-wet white shirt plastered to it that of course revealed rather than concealed every single sculpted muscle, screwed up her face at him, and shrieked,
“Get. Out.”

Grabbing her with a hand on either side of her waist, he shoved her back against the slippery-wet tile wall and held her there, looming over her, his long fingers digging into her bare skin just above her hipbones, giving off dangerous vibes like the atmosphere does right before a lightning strike. She glared up at him, all but spitting with rage, and he bent his head to hers until they were practically nose to nose and snarled, “So you get me to say it. Then what? What do you see happening, exactly? You want to marry me and have my babies?”

What?
Charlie's heart stood still. Not even the savagery in his face or the sneer in his voice could take away from the unexpected chord that his words touched inside her.

Yes, that's what I want.
Her silent answer was instant, instinctive, and absolute. And shattering in its impossibility.

Bitterly, he said, “Goddamn it. You got no business looking at me like that.”

Then he kissed her.

Hell itself couldn't have burned hotter than that kiss. It was incendiary, explosive, combustible. A blast wave of heat igniting everything in its path. His mouth took hers,
took
it, a harsh possession that surprised a sound out of her, that had her grabbing at his wide shoulders for balance, that rocked her with its intensity. He kissed her fiercely, his tongue invading her mouth, his lips hard and insistent as they commanded her response. He slid a hand along her jaw, holding her head still for him. Leaning his considerable weight against her, trapping her in place, he kissed her as if he was the one calling all the shots, as if she had no say in the matter at all.

And instead of protesting, instead of pushing him away, instead of going all cold and rigid or, alternatively, punching him or kicking him in the kneecap or doing something to drive home her assertion that she wanted him to leave her alone, which she absolutely should have done, she went up in flames like the total sucker for him she was and closed her eyes and kissed him back.

As if she would die if she didn't.

At her response, she could feel the shudder that racked his big body, feel the rocketing urgency of his passion in the steeliness of the strong arm that snaked around her waist to pull her even closer against him, feel the unmistakable evidence of how aroused he was in the enormous erection he was holding her so tightly against.

When he lifted his head, electricity sizzled in the air between them. She could feel the charge of it even as she fought to breathe.

“You want me to say it? Fine,” he grated in a thick voice that barely sounded like his at all. “I love you. There. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

No, not like that,
the tiny part of her brain that was still capable of coherent thought protested. Not hurled at her in a brutish growl that vibrated with suppressed violence and a whole host of other charged emotions that that blistering kiss had left her too shaken to try to sort out. Dazzled, disturbed, and angry all at the same time, she opened her eyes and looked up at him. His body was curved over hers like a predator's. His handsome face was hard with passion. His eyes were fierce with it. His mouth was cruel.

Yeah, well. Under the right circumstances, she could radiate some attitude, too.

“Hey, Goldilocks? You know where you can stick that,” she said, meaning every word.

For a second, surprise flickered in his eyes. Then they blazed down at her. She glared right back at him, not giving an inch.

In that same thick, harsh voice, he said, “Just so you know, I'm getting ready to fuck the hell out of you.”

Oh, God.

Fire rolled through her. Her heart thumped. Her bones dissolved. Deep inside, her body went all shivery and tight. She was just mad and hurt enough that she might have been able to resist him, that she might have been able to shove past him and walk on out of there. What she couldn't resist was her burning desire to have him do exactly what he'd said. Her body hungered for him almost as much as her heart did. The really sad thing was he knew it. She could read the knowledge in his face, and that upped her anger quotient considerably. It was embarrassing, annoying, and—face it—hot. She was still glaring up at him, angry and conflicted—and yes, so turned on that she was already breathless—when he bent his head and kissed her again, licking into her mouth before taking full possession, his tongue and lips hot and insistent, making her instantly dizzy, making her cling to him, making every rational thought in her head go away.

She kissed him back like she was a junkie and he was her drug, which in all honesty she supposed he was. However it had happened, she needed him now in a way that was as elemental to her as her need for air to breathe. The steam rising around them was nothing compared to the steam gushing through her veins. He kissed her, and ribbons of desire snaked over her skin like the droplets of water that splashed them from the cascading torrent inches away, making her so hot that her mind clouded over, that she could scarcely breathe.

She gave herself up to kissing him, to the urgency of her own desire, to her certain knowledge of the way he could make her feel and her absolutely primal need to feel that way again. Her heart pounded. Her pulse raced. That tight, shivery feeling he'd awakened escalated until she was on fire with it. Deep inside, her body clenched and burned.

Whatever sexual attraction was, it sparked between them always. Now it was a monster of an electrical storm raging around them, sending firebolts cascading to earth that trapped them both in the resulting flames.

Still kissing her, he pulled the wet towel out from between them. Then his hand slid down from her jaw to find her breasts, caressing the soft globes, squeezing and fondling, a little rough, possessive, his fingers teasing her nipples until they were pebble hard and she was arching up against him and kissing him back with shameless abandon while her toes curled into the eddies of water at her feet. His clothes were wet but there. The knowledge that he was fully dressed while she was naked, the slight friction of his clothes against the silkiness of her bare skin, excited her more than she'd ever thought something like that could. The thought of him naked excited her even more. Her hands slid down to the buttons of his shirt. As she started to unfasten them she discovered that her fingers were unsteady. He lifted his head, looked down at her for an instant with eyes that smoldered, then let go of her to unbutton his cuffs and pull his shirt over his head. Even as she registered the utterly masculine beauty of his heavy shoulders and corded arms, of his wide chest and taut abdomen, even as she slid her hands over the warm, firm muscles covering his rib cage and thrilled at how sleek and taut they felt, he dropped the shirt. It landed with a wet slither in the swirling water on the floor.

With her hands still moving sensuously up the hard wall of his chest, she looked at him standing there bared to the waist, skin glistening wet and golden bronze, and her breathing suspended. He was tall enough, and close enough, that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. His jaw was set. His mouth was tight. His broad shoulders were wide enough to block her view of the glass doors behind him. His muscular frame looked impressively athletic. He was impossibly sexy, and looking at him, touching him, made her go all light-headed and tremulous with desire. At least a hint of what she was feeling must have shown in her eyes, because as he met them something raw and primordial flashed across his face.

“I want you more than I've ever wanted anything in my life,” he said, husky and low. As her heart shuddered in response, he kissed her again. Senses reeling, she kissed him back, wrapping her arms around his neck, intoxicated by the feel of his wet skin against her breasts, by the warm resilience of his muscles. The instant reaction of her nipples to being pressed so tightly to the unyielding wall of his chest made her insides quiver.

He was so much bigger than she was, so much stronger than she was, that there was no way she was getting away from him unless he chose to let her go—but she didn't want to get away. She loved his hands on her, loved the way he kissed her, loved how excited he was getting her. He knew it, he could always read her. She could tell, from how heavy-lidded his eyes had become, from the way he was breathing like he'd been running for miles, from the increasing tension in his muscles, that her skyrocketing arousal was acting on him like a match to gasoline. The thing was, she'd never burned as hot for anyone but him.

His hands found her bottom, splayed over the taut curves, tightened and pulled her even closer, fitting her to him like two pieces of a puzzle, moving her against his hardness in a blatant way that sent shock waves of desire shooting through her. Her stomach quivered. Her mouth went dry. Then one hand slid down even farther and his fingers slipped all the way between her legs to stroke her there. She gasped at the intimacy of it, at the sheer sensual delight of having him touch her like that. Melting against him, breathing in the warm, wet smell of his skin along with the faintly floral scent that rose around them in the steam, she instantly went all hot and liquid inside. Losing herself in a long, drugging kiss that was rendering her officially mindless, she clung to him as her head spun and electric little shivers raced over her skin. He touched and stroked the velvety delta between her thighs until her knees threatened to buckle, until she was lying bonelessly against him and moaning into his mouth. Then he pushed two long, hard fingers into her. At the unexpected jolt of pleasure, she cried out.

Then he did it again. And again.

A man with a slow hand.
Words from a song, they fit him perfectly.

“Oh.
Oh.
” Her little cries of excitement were accompanied by an urgent pulsing tension that wound ever tighter. Each thrust of his fingers made the hot quickening inside her intensify until she was burning with passion, mindless with it, absolutely his to do with as he would.

“See, I know what you like.” It was a guttural murmur uttered as he kissed her ear, slid his mouth down the sensitive column of her neck.

She was so turned on by what he was doing that she was trembling. Her pulse drummed in her ears. Her breasts swelled eagerly against the hard wall of his chest. Her body burned and throbbed and moved for him.

“Michael—” Her voice shook. She pressed intoxicated little kisses to the section of his chest that was closest to her mouth. He tasted of water, of man.

He lifted his head. She felt him inhale. Hanging on to him like he was the only solid thing in the world, plastered against the firm muscles of his chest and pressed so close to his powerful thighs and the tantalizing rigidity of his erection that she could feel their imprint like a brand even through the soaked wool of his pants, she left off kissing his chest and opened her eyes to find that he was looking down at her once more. His eyes gleamed with lust. His face was dark with it.

“Look at you. Look at how much you like this.” Holding her gaze, his hand big and warm between her legs, he stroked her most intimate flesh and caressed the tiny nub that quivered and throbbed at his touch. She reacted by gasping and writhing against him with helpless pleasure. Then he pushed his fingers inside her again, and every fragment of rational thought that remained to her was lost in the resulting wave of blistering heat. She cried out, shuddering, and his face suddenly turned so fierce and primitive that it made her breath catch. Heart thundering, closing her eyes in the only act of self-preservation she had the willpower left to summon, she let her head fall back against his shoulder in abject surrender as he bent his head and took her mouth.

Dropping a series of sizzling kisses on her mouth, on her neck, on her shoulder, he watched her between kisses while he fondled her breasts and played between her legs. Her body was on fire, burning up with readiness, and he knew it. He knew his way around a woman's body and, as he'd said, he knew her. Even with her eyes closed, she could feel the smoldering weight of his gaze on her as he deliberately brought her to fever pitch. She might have been embarrassed at the thought of what she must look like, all flushed and breathing hard and moving under his hands, if she'd been capable of any coherent thought at all. But she wasn't, she was mindless with need, so shivery and hot she thought she must climax at any second. Then his fingers left her, trailed provocatively across her one last time and were gone, and she squirmed in protest.

“Michael.” Her eyes shot open and she shuddered with frustration because she was absolutely on fire, so close to coming that she was shaking with it. Her arms tightened around his neck. “Don't stop.”

“Patience, grasshopper.” He repeated the words she'd said to him previously in a low-pitched rasp that made butterflies take flight in her stomach. Charlie thought she probably would have smiled in response if she hadn't been so consumed with lust for him that smiling, or anything that was much beyond panting and squirming and begging, was impossible. His hands were on her hipbones now. He pressed her back against the slick tile wall, holding her still and a little away from him when she would have clung, and bent his head so that she found herself looking down at the flexing muscles of his broad back. He kissed her breasts, trailing fire over the soft slopes, licking at the hard little points of her nipples until he had her gasping and spiraling even higher and forgetting every complaint she'd had. He said in that same gritty voice, “I'm trying to make a point here.”

“What point?” Oh, God, she was so hot for him she could barely talk.

He straightened to look at her. She clung to his shoulders, trying to keep at least a tiny portion of her head in the game, which was hard to do when she was throbbing and quaking inside and her skin sizzled everywhere they touched and her body burned for him and the intensity of the voltage between them practically crackled in the air.

“You like sex, babe. That whole cold, repressed Dr. Stone thing you do? It's not who you really are.”

I only get this turned on with you.
She didn't say it, because after the I-love-you debacle she would be damned before she'd give that much away. Or maybe she did say it, because his eyes suddenly blazed at her like twin flamethrowers. Or maybe, terrifying thought, he was once more reading her thoughts in her face.

“You like
this,
” he told her in a hoarse voice just before his mouth closed over her nipple. She gasped at the feel of the hot, wet suction pulling at the aroused peak, and dug her nails into his shoulders and arched her back to give him better access and moaned. His mouth on her breasts went all greedy and hard, and it made her pulsate with excitement. Her body was so tight and hungry for release now that she couldn't wait any longer, that she needed—
needed
—
him.

She reached for his belt buckle, but it was too far away for her to properly grasp. Like the rest of him, his abdomen was firm with muscle. Her fingers just brushed his warm, taut skin—