“No,” he admitted grudgingly. “I’ve been thinking about it, and you’re right.”
She leaned forward a little. “DiNero believes it. That’s why he called the Crew.”
“Then I guess that’s all it matters, huh?” He leaned back.
Monica smiled a little. “Yeah. I guess it does.”
They sat in silence for a minute or so that should’ve been awkward but was only quiet. It had been a long time since he’d sat with a woman this way, without idle chatter and inane small talk, stupid words to cover up the fact both of them were thinking only of how to get in each other’s pants with the least amount of effort. He couldn’t stop thinking about her flavor.
“Look,” Monica said abruptly. “About last night.”
“We don’t have to talk about it.”
“No. We do. I don’t want you to think—”
“I don’t think anything,” Jordan interrupted. “We’re both adults. It happened.”
Monica shook her head. “But you didn’t like it.”
“I didn’t—” Jordan cut himself off. “What the hell?”
She laughed gently, tipping her face up. “I mean you didn’t like that it happened. Not that you didn’t like...it.”
Jordan scowled. “It was unexpected. That’s all.”
“It won’t happen again.”
That did not actually make him feel any better. If anything, the thought that he would never again be inside her tightened a knot in his lower gut. He didn’t have words for her, though, just a low grunt.
“I am sorry,” Monica said. “You were there, and I needed someone.”
Jordan gave her a long, steady look. “Gee, way to make a fella feel special.”
Monica ducked her head, looking embarrassed for a second, before popping up with the first genuine, full-fledged grin he’d seen on her. It lit her entire face. She was pretty, but that smile, that fucking smile... She was beautiful.
He kissed her.
He could have stopped himself. Years of therapy, of learning self-control, of discipline, of fighting the hunger—he could’ve done anything but kiss her. She was in his arms the second after that. She opened for him immediately. Her arms went around his neck, her fingers threading through his hair.
He picked her up as easily as he would a bag of feathers. She moaned softly into his mouth. The hum of it sent an arc of electric desire straight to his already rock-hard cock. He settled her on the table and pushed himself between her legs. She moaned again when he pressed his erection against her. She wore a flowing pair of thin batik-printed pants that provided little barrier, but his denim jeans were majorly cock-blocking him.
In seconds, without breaking away from her mouth, he’d yanked open his fly and pressed himself against her again. For a moment, they were at an impasse, but then Monica lifted herself up, fiddled with something at her hip and released a tie he hadn’t noticed before. The pants opened somehow in that magic way of women’s clothing he’d never understand. She wasn’t naked beneath, but a good tug tore her panties away. She cried out, a sharp sound that mimicked pain—except Jordan knew the sound of pain.
He was inside her in the time it took to breathe once, twice. She cried out again, and this time, there was a tinge of true pain in the sound. He wanted to slam deep inside her but eased out, only to have her grab him by the hips and pull him back.
“Look at me,” she demanded in a low, urgent voice.
He did and lost himself in her gaze. She took his hand and slid it between them to get his thumb against her clit. She was slick, and his thumb slid easily against her. She bucked and gripped his hips again. Her back arched. Her mouth opened.
“Fuck me,” she whispered. Then louder. “Please, fuck me.”
The table creaked as they rocked. The hunger built inside him, and the only way to slake it was to take her. Her mouth. The heat between her legs.
“Mine,” Jordan heard himself say but as though from far away.
He felt it when she came, her body clutching his and forcing him over the edge into an orgasm so powerful that he saw gold stars flickering around the edges of his vision. He captured her mouth once more, the kiss at first fierce in the last few ripples of his climax, then softening.
In the silence that followed, he heard her breathing shift. He looked into her eyes again, not sure what he expected to see there. Or what he wanted to see.
Monica curled her fingers in the front of his shirt and pulled him to her to brush his lips with hers. “Jordan.”
That was all she said. One word, his name, a wealth of meaning in the two syllables, if only he could figure out what it was. Or if he wanted to.
They disengaged. She tidied herself, and he did the same. Neither speaking. She didn’t need to ask him where the powder room was, since the layout of their bungalows was the same. By the time she came out, he’d changed into his running clothes.
“Oh,” she said.
“I need to go for a run.”
“Jordan...”
“What?” he asked roughly.
“What just happened?”
“You ought to know,” he told her. “You were there.”
“That’s not what I mean, and I’m sure you know it.”
“What can I say?” he said with a shrug. “I needed someone. You were there.”
Bastard, Monica thought, even though she knew she’d deserved it. Why did she seem to pick only the men who got bent out of shape about what could be pure and simple passion if only they’d let it? She was still bruised and tingling from the ravishment Jordan had so delightfully provided on his dining room table only an hour or so before, but though her body was sated, her mind was anything but. She’d tried to sleep but couldn’t, and for once, not because she was afraid of the nightmares.
She’d been watching from the window to catch a glimpse of him coming back, but so far, nothing. Instead, she sat on her uncomfortable couch and made more lists. She’d signed in to the Crew database again to compare what she’d been able to find out with what others had logged in their experiences. So far, not much was making sense. Then again, not much ever did.
Dark had fallen, and with her window cracked, she could hear the familiar far-off noises of the animals in their habitats and night-active insects. Low-grade anxiety plagued her. A crackle of tension, as though there was an oncoming storm. Or maybe it was simply that she’d been here two days already and hadn’t figured out what she was looking for.
Or she was fooling herself, she admitted reluctantly, and her need to pace was directly related to the man who still hadn’t come back from his run.
Jordan Leone was trouble. Bad news. Which was probably why she wanted him again, Monica thought with a sigh and a smile so twisted it almost hurt. She rubbed at her face and tried to shake off the lingering feeling of his touch, but all she could think about was the way his mouth tasted.
She wasn’t going to accomplish anything this way. No amount of note taking or database studying could help her if she didn’t get out there in the field and do her own research. DiNero had hired her for a job, and she meant to do it—because the sooner she found out