Page 90 of Protecting What's Mine

“Good,” she whispered.

The soft knock on the back door startled her. There on the other side of the glass was Lincoln Reed.

Illuminated by the lonely porch light, he was filthy. Ash and dirt streaked his face and forearms. Rain soaked his t-shirt through to the skin beneath. Those blue eyes burned brighter than any flame.

Mack knew what would happen if she opened the door. He knew it, too. A frisson of understanding passed between them through the glass.

Her heart thudded in her chest. The familiar tendril of adrenaline awoke in her belly like a sleeping dragon.

She wantedthis. She wantedhim.

She reached for the handle and slowly slid the door open. Another pause. Another beat as they eyed each other. The attraction so palpable, she wondered how she ever thought she could ignore it.

“Send me home, Dreamy,” he rasped.

In this moment, there was nothing she wanted more than this man’s hands on her.

She shook her head. And it didn’t take any more than that. Linc stepped inside. Into her space, into her arms.

He smelled of smoke and rain. His skin was wet and hot beneath her eager palms as she roamed his arms, his shoulders, his back. She felt the energy crackling off him, recognized the adrenaline of a call that couldn’t be slept off.

There were other ways to burn it off, to ride that wave until the blood was cool again.

Carefully, he pulled the door shut behind him. Then his mouth was closing over hers.

Teeth and tongues tangled. Lips bruised. His hands slipped under the hem of her t-shirt to rest on the bare skin of her waist. Thumbs skimming just under her breasts. She breathed him in, tasted him.

She let him lead as he backed her farther into the kitchen.

He lifted her onto the counter. Rain pattered steadily on the window above the sink.

“Linc.”

“Don’t change your mind. Please, Dreamy.”

She cupped his face in her hands. “I’m not changing my mind. I just like saying your name while your hands are on me.”

He dropped his forehead to hers. “Jesus. You level me.”

“Hoping you plan on returning the favor,” she said, nipping at his jaw.

He growled low in his throat and shoved a hand into her hair, gripping it tight.

She saw the clench of his jaw, the flutter of his pulse in his neck, as he carefully loosened his grip.

“You don’t have to be gentle, Hotshot. I’m not some fragile flower.”

“No, you’re not,” he said. His fingers tightened on her hair again, testing her. He guided her head back and took her mouth.

The fierceness of his desire sent her own heart galloping.

She ran her hands up his chest and dug her nails into his shoulder. His muscles tensed and bunched under her touch. His palms worshipped her skin, stroking over the flat of her stomach, the subtle dips of her waist and hips, and finally, finally the curves of her breasts.

Thank God she hadn’t bothered with a bra tonight. If she had, she still wouldn’t know exactly what it felt like when her nipples hardened against Linc’s rough calluses.

Her head fell back, knocking smartly against a baby blue cabinet door.

“Are you okay?”