Riding the Storm (4 page)

Her
legs grew shaky, her breath choppy. A twisting, wrenching sensation tugged at
her, from her breasts that strained against the wet, cold fabric of her T-shirt
to her pulsing, aching clit, which screamed for attention. Just one light
caress would send her over the edge. A flick of her thumb, or better, a flick
of Remy's tongue. But she waited, watching him, her feet inching her closer.

Remy's
long fingers squeezed his hard flesh, stroked, and then his hips jerked forward
and she heard his roar of release over the sudden tempest that broke over their
heads like the heavens had opened up.

She
smelled the acrid stench of ozone, felt her skin sizzle with electricity, and
somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she'd never been so close to
death—not even during her tornado-chasing days—but it didn't matter. Nothing
mattered but finding relief.

She
circled a fingertip around her clit, pressed against it in exactly the right
place, and then her shout joined Remy's, and somehow, over the rioting storm,
she heard their voices mingle.

When
she could think clearly again—and she had no idea how long it had been—she
found that the rain had stopped. The sky still flashed, but the lightning was
distant, the thunderclaps muted. She blinked away water, and was surprised to
find Remy a mere arm's length away.

He
hadn't been the one who'd moved.

His
chest heaved as he sucked oxygen into his lungs. He'd collapsed against the
tree, his arms trembling. One hand still moved in slow, languorous strokes
along his now semi-hard penis. A drop of liquid clung to the tip, but in the
dark, she couldn't tell if it was water or cum. She wanted to fall to her
knees, take him in her mouth and find out for herself.

As
though she'd spoken her thoughts aloud, he fixed his sharp gaze on her, and her
breath caught in her throat at the look in his eyes. He appeared exhausted,
relieved and pissed off all at once. He shifted his gaze down, and her nipples
tightened when he focused on them.

In
one smooth motion, he tucked himself back inside his loose cargo pants and
reached for her, his fingers stopping just short of touching one beaded nipple
that pushed against the wet fabric as though it craved his attention.

Swearing,
he pulled back. "Button up," he growled, and she realized her hand
was still down her pants.

Like
a teen who'd been caught in the bathroom with a nudie mag, she jerked her
fingers from the damp bed of curls where they'd been nestled. Heat scorched her
cheeks, and she was at once glad for the darkness and retreating lightning
storm. She was no prude, had often stroked herself to orgasm during
intercourse, but never had she masturbated in front of a complete stranger. Her
humiliation completely outweighed her irritation at how Remy had just barked
out an order at her—one she'd obeyed.

"Remy,"
she croaked, her voice sounding unused and harsh, "what… what just happened?"

His
eyes narrowed, and he said nothing, but a muscle in his jaw ticked and his
fists clenched at his sides. He looked so tired, so full of regret that it tore
at her heart—something she'd thought withered and died a long time ago.

She
took a tiny, cautious step forward, feeling oddly like what she approached was
a timid fawn and not a full-grown, battle-scarred SEAL. His head came up, and
his nostrils flared, and he watched her warily as she reached toward him. He
flinched when she let her hand come to rest on his forearm. If she thought her
skin had burned during the storm, it couldn't compare to the way white-hot
electricity seemed to sear his.

"Don't,"
he said roughly. But he didn't move away.

Emboldened,
she stepped closer, until her breasts touched his biceps, sending an erotic
sizzle coursing through her. "We need to talk."

He
glanced down at his crotch, where it was obvious that he had grown hard again,
and suddenly, a bolt of lightning came out of nowhere. "Shit." He
tore from her grasp and headed for the cabin. He didn't turn as he said loudly,
"Get inside. A storm's coming."

"What
the fuck were you doing out there?" Remy demanded. His anger had mounted
with every step he took toward the house. Haley had barely crossed the
threshold and shut the door before he'd turned on her.

She
was breathing hard, her shirt soaked through and plastered to her breasts. Her
nipples poked at the fabric, and he let his eyes trail to her shorts, still
unbuttoned, remembering the way she'd looked when she'd touched herself. Wild,
dripping with water, her tongue caught between her lips as she watched him with
heavy-lidded eyes, her hand down her shorts, where he wanted to be.

"I
was… she started, then pushed wet hair off her flushed cheeks and stared at
him. "I was worried about you."

"You
shouldn't." Every one of his senses remained on heightened alert, and God,
he could smell her, wanted to taste her, run his tongue between her legs and
make her cry out his name the way she had out by the tree. And she would let
him—he was sure of that.

Every
one of his senses wanted her to worry about him, and that's what worried him
the most. Where the hell was
that
coming from?

"I
shouldn't?" She made an angry gesture at the window, flinging droplets of
water onto the warped hardwood floor. "This weather is crazy. You could
have been killed."

"I'm
going to take my truck and drive away from here, and everything will get
better," he said. "Trust me on that."

Didn't
matter if the whole damned bayou had washed out—he'd sleep in his truck or in a
tent or right out in the open in the middle of the rain; he'd done worse on
missions. Besides, he'd slept outside more times than he cared to remember when
he was a kid, when his father got piss-drunk or when he hosted his weekly poker
games and his asshole friends would treat him like shit.

He
and the weather had forged an uneasy truce for most of his life, at least until
he ran across Hurricane Haley and her magic touch. Now all bets were off and
both the weather and Haley were threatening to kick his ass.

His
eyes drew to where her shorts gaped open at the fly, and the hair on the back
of his neck rose. He wondered why he hadn't seen the symbol earlier, when she'd
been in the shower. She followed his gaze, and then idly traced the tattoo on
her right hip with her middle finger.

"I
got it when I was in the Air Force," she said, because he couldn't stop
staring. The roar in his ears got louder. "It was a stupid, drunken dare.
I thought about having it removed once, but… She shrugged.

"When?"

"When
was I going to have it removed?" At his nod, she circled it once more.
"About six months ago, I guess."

About
the time Mother Nature had started messing with him even harder than usual.

A
step forward, no touching, and he stared at the symbol and then at her. This
was so
not
good. "Haley, you've got to tell me why you're really
here."

"I
told you, I'm here to study weather phenomenon in the area."

"Bullshit."
He balled his fists at his sides to keep them from reaching out.

"You
don't think I'm a meteorologist?" She crossed her arms over her chest, and
they pushed her breasts up and out. He swallowed dryly. "I'll have you
know I got my initial training in the military, and then I got my degree in
meteorology and worked for the National Weather—"

"Not
that," he gritted out, dragging his gaze away from her breasts. "The
reason you're here. It's bullshit."

She
whirled away from him. "I don't have to prove anything to you."

Her
hips swayed as she stalked toward her equipment, muddy feet squishing on the
floor, and just as he knew the wind was about to pick up, he knew he shouldn't
touch her. But he did it anyway. Grasped her elbow and swung her around.

"That,"
he said, looking down at her tattoo. "I've seen it before." He kept
to himself the fact that he'd seen it in his dreams. That he'd been drawing it
since he was six years old.

"Well,
there's
some solid evidence that I'm lying," she huffed, but he'd
stopped listening, found himself on his knees in front of her to get a closer
look at the tat.

He
didn't mean to touch it—hell, his hands were still fisted at his sides—but his
tongue snaked out to trace the cloud and the fist holding the lightning bolts,
letting it linger on the smooth, sweet expanse of wet skin.

Going
to have to ask her what the tattoo symbolized. Later. When he was done fucking
her.

No
point in denying that was going to happen.

She
moaned when he licked an errant drop of rainwater from her belly, and her
response encouraged him, let him trace circles that got wider and wider until
he had to peel down the fly of her shorts for better access. And when he looked
up at her, he wasn't surprised to find her watching him, her mouth already
swollen as if in anticipation of his kisses.

He
wasn't going to kiss her. They were well beyond that intimacy.

When
the tingle started at the base of his spine and worked upward faster than it
ever had, he closed his eyes, because he didn't want to see the darkness that
was seconds away from descending.

When
he heard the sound, like a train ready to smash through the center of the
house, her computer went wild behind her, the printer furiously spitting out
the graphs and charts neither of them needed to look at to know they were in
for some major weather.

What
she didn't know was that it was all his fault. Mother Nature wouldn't hurt her
as long as she was with him, but the same couldn't be said for
him
. He
shouldn't be here.

"Haley."
Her name passed his lips as a plea, to which she responded by grabbing his
shoulders, holding him against her.

She
wouldn't let him break away from her touch—he could have easily, that they both
knew, but her hands on his body mesmerized him, held him prisoner in ways that
weren't physical. The pressure was beginning to build again; his earlier orgasm
had done little to help him, and suddenly, it didn't matter why she was here.
Nothing mattered except the anticipation of skin on skin and the need to feel
her flesh contracting around him.

He
rubbed his face against the wet denim of her shorts until his cheek felt raw,
and then he tugged at the waistband, first with his teeth and then his hands.
The shorts came all the way down, and he pushed her thighs apart roughly. She
whimpered, kicked the fabric away from her feet.

His
cock was rock hard by the time his tongue darted through her damp curls and
into the hot flesh between her legs, leaving her no doubt that he was claiming
her, with his mouth, the rasp of his tongue, the light stroke of his teeth
against her clit that left her begging incoherently.

He
freed himself from his own pants, his face still buried in between her thinghs,
refusing to break away from tasting sweetness and sin and everything in
between.

The
floorboards vibrated under his knees as he used one hand to work his cock while
he licked her swollen sex, then probed, hard and fast. He was caught in a
frenzy of need and want, and his free hand dug into her hip, and
God, she
was so wet for him
. He was vaguely aware of her hands clutching his hair,
pushing his face closer against her, and of her calling out,
Don't stop,
please don't stop
…

Glass
shattered somewhere in the house—windows blowing out—and she yelled above the
sound as she came against his mouth. He swirled his tongue through her folds,
easing her down from her high even as his hand worked himself toward his own
pleasure, upward toward the pinnacle. Maybe if he could get there, he'd release
enough steam that he could take her like a normal person, with no risks, no
terror. He couldn't stand to make her afraid of him.

He
loosened his grip on her hip, and she sank down to her knees, facing him.
Desire had darkened her half-lidded brown eyes to a smoky umber, and her cheeks
glowed with warmth. A sultry smile tipped the corner of her mouth, and he'd
never seen anything so beautiful, so tempting. Damn, but he was in trouble.

She
placed her warm hand over his that gripped his cock, and she looked into his
eyes as she guided his fingers where she wanted them to go. Then, like a
petulant child, she slapped his hand away and replaced it with hers.

His
balls constricted almost painfully as her hand dropped to cup them, her
fingernails scratching lightly at the sensitive spot behind them.

"Do
you like that?" she murmured, and he could only groan, and then she peeled
off her shirt and was on all fours in front of him, her curvy ass open to the
air, her breath scorching the head of his penis.

His
entire body trembled in anticipation as her lips hovered near the tip,
nibbling, kissing, flicking her tongue against the weeping slit. Shocks of
pleasure shot from his groin to his toes, and his skin rippled as if he could
almost feel the light from the thunderbolts on his flesh.