“Put your hands on me.” She sank her teeth into his shoulder. “I want your hands on me.” Hers were dragging at his jeans, closing around him.
“Wait.” But the bombs erupting inside him drowned out everything but pulsing, grappling need. With only his wounded heart as a pitiful weapon, he was defenseless against the spear thrust of desire. Against her.
He kicked himself free of clothes, lifted her off the floor.
He was deep inside her before they fell onto the bed.
It was all sweat and speed and blind sex. The hard slap of flesh against flesh, the raspy gasps of labored breathing. Teeth and nails and tangled tongues drove them both over the sumptuous mattress, rolling and riding.
It was a battle both had already surrendered to. Hot and hard and hurried, fast and frenzied and frantic, they pounded together. Wanting more, accepting less. The scent of roses choked the air with strong, sad perfume.
She straddled him, bowed back as his hands streaked over her. She wanted him to take her to that tenuous edge between pleasure and pain. There she would be alive, as she hadn’t been since he’d turned from her.
She had to know that here, at least here, he was as helpless as she, as unable to resist, as pathetically needy. She could feel that need riot through him, taste it each time he dragged her mouth back to his with a ravenous hunger.
While her heart screamed at him to love her, just a little, her quivering body greedily devoured, fueling itself with whatever scraps he would give.
No room for pride, no time for tenderness.
When she sank toward him, limp as water, he rolled her ruthlessly onto her back and drove her on.
He couldn’t breathe, didn’t think, just battered himself into her. He had to fill her, to empty her, to claim her in the only way he knew she would accept. With a jerk of his head, he tossed the hair out of his eyes. It was vital that he see her, every flicker of shock and pleasure on her face, every tremble of her lips.
Love for her swamped him. All but destroyed him.
“Look at me.” He grated the words out. “You look at me.”
Her eyes opened, but remained blind with passion. He felt her body quake under his, saw those eyes glaze as her head fell back.
He was powerless to stop himself from following her recklessly over the edge. But he cursed her, then himself, as he fell.
It didn’t seem possible to have been so completely aroused, and to feel so utterly empty. He’d never understood how vitally entwined the heart and the body were, until now. And now, staring at the ceiling, with Regan silent beside him, he understood it would never be possible to separate his again.
Not with her.
And he wanted only her.
She’d taken something from him that he’d struggled for years to build. His self-respect. How odd that he hadn’t realized that, either, until this moment.
He wasn’t sure he could forgive either of them for it.
She desperately wanted him to reach out to her, to fold her to him as he had in the past. It was miserable to be left like this, so cold, so alone, even as she was still quivering from him.
Yet how could she reach out for him, when she was the one who had taken the step, made the stand, and agreed to take him on his own terms? His own terms, she thought, closing her eyes against the lovely rosy glow of the lamp. Bad Rafe MacKade had returned, she thought bitterly, and taken it all.
“Well, we managed to have sex in a bed for a change.” She sat up, kept her back to him. She could control her voice, but was certain her face would show him that she was shattered. “It’s always firsts with us, isn’t it, MacKade?”
“Yeah.” He wanted to stroke that back, but it was so stiff and straight. “We’ll have to try it with sheets sometime.”
“Why not?” Her hands trembled as she slid off the bed, reached down for her underwear. “We could even throw in a couple of pillows, and a pretense of affection. Just for a change of pace.”
His eyes sharpened, narrowed, as she snapped her bra into place. Hurt and fury bubbled together in a messy stew. Rising, he snatched his jeans, jammed his legs in them.
“I don’t like pretenses much.”
“Oh, that’s right.” She grabbed her shirt. Silk whipped through the air and onto her back. “Everything’s up-front with you. No frills, no spills.”
“What the hell’s wrong with you? You got what you wanted.”
“You don’t know diddly about what I want.” Terrified she might weep, she jerked on her slacks. “Apparently neither do I.”
“You’re the one who took off your clothes, darling.” His voice was entirely too smooth. “You’re the one putting them right back on so you can move right along.”
“And you’re the one who rolled off me the minute you were done, as if your twenty bucks was up.” Rushing now, she jammed her feet into her shoes.
She might have had a chance if she’d been looking at him. A slim one. But he moved fast, and she was six inches off the ground, his hands like a vise on her, his eyes drilling holes in hers before she drew a second breath.
“Don’t say that. I’ve never treated you that way. I’ve never thought that way.”
“You’re right.” Oddly enough, it was the lash of his temper that calmed her. Stopped her, she hoped, from being a perfect fool. “I’m sorry, Rafe. That was unfair and untrue.”
Very slowly, he set her back on her feet. He realized his fingers were digging hard enough into her flesh to meet bone, and dropped his hands. “Maybe I moved too fast, but you caught me off guard.”
“No.” Yes, she felt very calm, she thought as she turned to pick up her blazer. Very calm, and very, very fragile. If he touched her again, she would crack like flawed glass. “I initiated things, and I agreed to your terms.”
“My terms—”
“Are clear,” she said, finishing for him. “And acceptable. I suppose the problem is that we’re both volatile personalities under the right circumstances. Any circumstances, as far as you’re concerned. And as for me, the past few days have been difficult. That doesn’t mean I should take it out on you.”
“Do you have to be reasonable, Regan?”
“No, but I’m going to be.” Though her lips curved brightly, she couldn’t move the smile into her eyes. “I don’t know what we’re fighting about, when we’ve found the perfect solution. A simple, physical relationship. It’s perfect, because the rest of our common ground is narrow to nonexistent. So, I’ll apologize again for picking a fight. I’m just a little tired and out of sorts.”
She made herself rise on her toes and kiss him lightly. “If you’d like to come by tomorrow after work, I’ll make it up to you.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Why the hell couldn’t he read her eyes? He could always read her eyes if he looked hard enough. “I’ll take you home.”
“No, really.” She had to will herself not to run to the door and escape. Instead, she picked up her purse. “I’ve got my car,” she added. “And I really am tired. I could use an early night.”
He just wanted to hold her, to fold her into his arms and keep her there. “Whatever you say. I’m supposed to meet my brothers at the tavern in a few hours, anyway.”
“Good, then we’ll try for tomorrow.” She made it to the door without stumbling. He didn’t offer a goodbye, and neither did she. Her