Watched as she took a deep, shuddering breath. Then another and another.
Her beautiful breasts trembled against the deep V of her neckline and Marc’s fingers itched—ached—with the need to touch her there. To hold the warm, firm weight of her in the palms of his hands while he kissed, licked, sucked her nipples until she orgasmed.
It had been one of his favorite things to do when she’d been his.
As he stood there, watching her, an image came to him. One of Gideon on his knees in front of her, pleasuring her the way Marc used to. Rage exploded within him, turned his voice harsh and tinted his vision with red. Or maybe that was green.
Within seconds he was next to her. “Who is this Gideon guy to you?” The question came out before he even knew he was going to ask it.
Isa’s eyes flew open and she whirled to face him, one shaky hand pressed to her chest.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“What are you doing out here?”
“I followed you.” He stepped forward, ran his fingers down the sweet softness of her cheek.
“Why?”
He ignored her question, focused instead on the sudden increase in her breathing. She was either nervous or aroused. Or maybe both. He wanted to revel in her reaction, probably would have, if he hadn’t been struck by the sudden realization that her response might be for Gideon instead of him.
“Who is that guy to you?” he asked again.
“Gideon?”
He didn’t like the way she said the guy’s name, all soft and familiar. It pushed at him, made him snarly. And more determined than ever to have her in his bed again. “Yeah.”
“He’s my escort. And—and my friend.”
Her voice broke as he slid his hand from her cheek to her jaw to the pulse that fluttered wildly at the base of her neck. “Is that all?”
She wet her lips with her tongue and he nearly groaned. It took every ounce of control he had not to lean forward and brush his own tongue against hers.
“Is what all?” She was breathless now, her chest rising and falling unevenly.
The knowledge that she wanted him, too, sent a shot of lust straight to his groin. He stepped closer, brushed her body with his even as he circled her neck with his thumb and fingers. It wasn’t a threat or an attempt to intimidate. No, it was simply a gesture of the possessiveness ripping through him like a freight train, one he couldn’t have stopped even if he’d wanted to.
And he didn’t want to. Not when need for Isa was a fire in his blood, a haze in his mind.
He leaned forward until his lips were only an inch or so from hers. “Gideon. Is he just a friend? Or is he more?”
“G-Gideon?”
He liked the confusion in her voice, liked that she couldn’t remember who he was talking about. “The guy who brought you here.” Marc leaned closer still, brushed his lips over the corner of her mouth. “Are you with him?”
Isa shuddered, trembled, against him. “No.”
The denial came out as a whisper, but it was good enough for him. More than good enough as her skin flushed and her nipples peaked against his chest.
“Good,” he said, right before his mouth closed over hers.
The kiss was as much about possession as it was about pleasure.
It had been six long years since he’d touched her, since he’d held her, since he’d licked his way across her full pink lips, but, in this moment, in his mind, she was still his.
At the first press of his mouth against hers, Isa’s lips parted on a gasp. He took instant, ruthless advantage, thrusting his tongue into the deepest recesses of her mouth. Her hands came up to his chest and he thought, at first, that she was going to push him away. Just the idea upset him more than he wanted to admit. He prepared for it, for the torture that would be letting her go. But then her hands clung instead of pressed, tangled in his shirt and held him close. It was all the permission he needed.
He brought his hands to her face, cupped her jaw. Stroked his thumbs along her cut-glass cheekbones. And kissed her as if he’d been dying to kiss her for all these years.
He plundered her.
Sweeping his tongue along her own, stroking and circling, teasing and tasting, he coaxed her into opening a little wider, letting him in a little deeper. She did, and he swept in, taking more of her. Taking everything she was offering and demanding more.
He licked his way across her lips, down the inside of her cheeks, over the slick roughness of the top of her mouth. She moaned then, a soft, breathy sound that shot straight through him and made him harder than he’d been any time in the past six years. Harder than he’d been any time since he’d last held her in his arms.
With that thought in his mind and desire pounding through his gut, he tilted her head to gain better access. And then it was on.
Their tongues tangled, slipping, sliding, stroking their way over and around and under each other. He sucked her tongue into his mouth and relished the way her body arched, the way her hips bumped against his, the way her fingers clawed at him, scratching him through the thin silk of his dress shirt.
He used to love the little pricks of pain, and the knowledge that he would carry her marks for hours, sometimes days. It was a blow to find out he still felt that way. That he still wanted her brand on his body—and his brand on hers—as much as he ever had. Or it would be a blow, he figured, as soon as this kiss was over. For now, he couldn’t think about it. Couldn’t think about anything but her and the feelings rushing between them. Because he didn’t have a choice, he gave himself over to it all. Gave himself over to Isa.
How could he not when the kiss, when she, was a strange mix of soft and sharp, poignant and desperate. The familiar and the exotic. He wanted her—and whatever she would give him—more than he wanted air.
His head was spinning by the time she pulled away. She didn’t go far, just broke off the kiss and stood there panting, her forehead resting against his. He let her catch her breath, and dragged precious oxygen into his own overworked lungs, giving his overheated body a chance to calm down. Then he claimed her mouth again.
It was even better the second time.
Her lips were warm and swollen and she tasted so good—like fizzy wine and the sweetest summer blackberries. And the sea. Cool and clean and so, so wild. But then, she always had.
So much about her had changed since he’d last been with her, he’d been afraid that her taste had, too. To find out that it hadn’t—it nearly brought him to his knees. Instead of letting it, he kissed her again. And again. And again. Until her skin was hot and flushed against his palms. Until he was rock hard and aching against her. Until their lips were bruised and swollen and tender, so tender..
And then he kissed her some more.
And she let him. She let him kiss her, let him touch her, let him in when he’d spent so long thinking that it would never happen again. That she would never open herself to him and that, if she did, he would never trust her enough to let her.
But this wasn’t about trust, he told himself as he continued to take everything she had to offer and push for more. This wasn’t about love. It was about need. About chemistry. About a past that burned hotter between them than any jewelry forge ever could.
His mouth was nearly numb by the time she finally broke the kiss. This time she didn’t stay in his arms, resting against him. Instead, she shoved him away, hard, then turned to face the ocean. He gave her space,