Page 146 of Deadline

“You could put it that way.”

Her chin went up a notch. “Hogwash.”

“Pardon me?”

“I don’t believe that for a second. You don’t need to prove your courage, even to yourself. If you hadn’t reacted exactly as you did when Headly was shot, I’d be injured or dead, too. You didn’t duck for cover. You took command of the situation.

“You registered the direction the shots came from, even as you pushed me to the ground and then went to attend Headly. You probably don’t even remember, but you issued orders to the people who came running, and they did as you said because your response to the emergency was correct.

“So don’t try to sell me on the idea that you w

ent to slay a dragon in order to win a badge of courage. To win a Pulitzer maybe. Is that what this is about?”

“What if it is?”

“Would a prize be worth risking your life?”

He pushed his fingers through his hair. “This has nothing to do with a freakin’ prize.”

“Then what’s worth risking your life for?”

He didn’t say anything.

“Dawson?”

“What?”

“Tell me.”

“What?”

“What is it that you want?”

They stood there, squared off, breathing hard, angry.

Then he pulled her against him and began kissing her with a need so fierce it alarmed him. But not enough to stop. Especially not when she responded in kind. As though pent-up fear, despair, and lust had been unleashed simultaneously and in equal proportions, they kissed ravenously.

But he didn’t lose his head completely. Aware of the guards patrolling the beach and keeping a careful watch on the house, he lifted her against him and carried her into a short hallway that would prevent them from being seen. He set her down with her back against the wall and resumed the frantic kissing.

Every primal mating instinct demanded haste and nothing less than total possession. In a matter of seconds, he was pulling her T-shirt over her head. The bra must have been built in, because her breasts were left bare. He cupped them in his hands, reshaping them reflexively, rubbing his lips against her nipple until it beaded, then sucking it deep into his mouth.

She fumbled with the buttons on his fly and then her hand was claiming him, her fingers tightly squeezing, massaging their way up until her thumb was at the tip, pressing—

“Jesus.” Gasping with pleasure, he ground his forehead against the wall behind her shoulder in an effort not to come. “Wait, wait.”

The fabric of her skirt was as light as air against his hands as he slid them beneath it. He worked his fingers under a wedge of lace. She was soft and warm and wet. He quickly rid her of the underpants so he could luxuriate in the femaleness, the snug, silky, wonderful feel of her.

She pressed down hard on his exploring fingers, moaned his name, whispered, “More.”

He lifted her up to straddle his thighs and thrust into her, fully, completely, and without caution. He would have paused then to apologize for his lack of restraint, would have rested there deep inside her, giving them both time to adjust, to breathe.

But she rocked against him and searched for his mouth with hers, whimpering a litany of words that signaled her own urgency.

He fucked her. He gave, took, told her with every stroke what he hadn’t been able to convey with words, communicated what he’d felt from the moment he saw her enter the courtroom, and knew, in that instant, that he’d been blessed and doomed in the same heartbeat.

He changed the angle and the tempo to favor her. She clutched handfuls of his hair and squeezed his hips with her thighs. And when her orgasm pulsed around him, he came and came and came.

After half a minute, he regrettably disengaged. Weakly, she slid down the wall to sit on the floor. He lowered himself beside her and gathered her against him. She pressed her open mouth against his throat and murmured his name. She slid her hand inside his shirt and pressed her palm against his heart. The gesture moved him more than a spoken endearment and felt even more intimate than the hard-core sex.