Run the Risk. Lori Foster

coming closer. In a husky, suggestive tone, he said, “I’m betting you’re wet, too.”

      So many ways she wanted to reply—all of them dangerous.

      She couldn’t think when she looked at him, so she turned her back and tried to order herself to caution.

      “Thank you for the help.” It was an obvious hint for him to go, but at the same time, she had that image of him standing there, at the foot of her unmade bed. Tall, bare-chested, sexy as sin…

      His hands settled on her shoulders; his scent settled around her.

      And before he said a single word, she knew she was a goner.

      * * *

      LOGAN IGNORED the not-so-subtle suggestion for him to hit the road, especially since her voice had gone all thin and high. She was nervous, he got that.

      Why, he didn’t yet know.

      But he had her in a bedroom, in the near-dark, and with every fiber of his being, he was aware of her as a woman.

      Not of his plan to get hold of her brother. Not of how she could assist him in his goal to obtain justice.

      Just…her.

      The way she trembled, the scent of her damp skin, her arousal.

      They stood in the shadows while lightning flashed outside and occasional thunder rattled the windows.

      Holding her shoulders, he drew her back into his chest and bent to inhale the heady fragrance of her damp skin. “I don’t want to leave you alone in this storm.”

      The silence grew taut, and he knew she warred with herself, with what she wanted—and probably her damned brother’s rules.

      Finally she whispered, “I’ll be fine.”

      “You want me to stay.” And knowing that, he went about convincing her, putting soft love bites on her throat, teasing her ear with his breath and his tongue, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close enough that she felt his erection against her soft ass.

      “Logan…”

      “Your shirt is wet,” he told her and boldly smoothed a hand up and over her breast. The restrictive bra confounded him. It couldn’t be comfortable.

      “Don’t.” She caught his wrist and drew his hand down to her waist, but she didn’t step away from him.

      “Okay.” He pressed his hand lower, to her belly, and asked, “Is this better?”

      She shocked him by nodding.

      Need held him in a powerful grip; he pressed his hand lower, between her thighs, cupping her through the long skirt and insubstantial underwear.

      They both breathed harder.

      She parted her thighs.

      Amazing. So this was okay, but her breasts were off-limits? Prodded by concern, by the idea that she could be scarred, or worse, he asked, “Why, honey?”

      Pressing back against him, she put her hand over his, encouraging him to continue while muttering low, “No questions.”

      Not being a fool, Logan agreed. When he got her in bed, he’d get her naked, and then he’d figure it out on his own. He’d reassure her and let her know whatever it was, it didn’t matter, not between them.

      She flattened her hands on his thighs, and her nails dug into him. He heard the catch in her breathing, savored the heat of her, how she moved against his exploring fingers.

      For the longest time they stood there like that, in the dark with the storm all around them, damp, hot, necking and petting. He grinned against her shoulder. “I haven’t done this since high school.”

      It took a little while before she asked, “This?”

      “Making out. Fooling around with my clothes on.” He pressed his hard-on against her. “Getting so frustrated, I almost can’t take it.”

      She groaned—and started to step away.

      Logan turned them both instead and brought her down to the bed. He sprawled out over her, kissing her hard, deep, hoping to obliterate any objections.

      She had none.

      Of her own accord she parted her legs so that he fit between them. Her hands tangled in his hair, and she held him close while he kissed her.

      When he again reached for her breast—dying to see her, to touch her—she stalled. “Wait.”

      Of course he did. Balanced over her, edgy with need, their breaths mingling, he…waited.

      Her body beneath his was an indistinct form, but he felt her urgency, the way she stared at him, and her indecision.

      Her hands kneaded his chest. “If we’re going to do this—”

      “I hope we are.”

      “—then I need the curtains closed.”

      Even though it was black as pitch outside? He looked toward the window. Was she afraid a flash of lightning would show him something? Like what? Thinking to encourage her, he said, “You don’t need to—”

      “And you have to keep your hands to yourself.”

      Thoughts, ugly suspicions, bounded this way and that. He gave her a gentle kiss. “I don’t understand.” Any of it, including the driving need to discover her hang-ups. “I’ve got my hands on you now.” He emphasized that by tucking her hair back, smoothing her cheek with his thumb.

      “I don’t want you…feeling around on me.”

      Moving his body over hers, he growled, “I can feel you. All of you.” He closed his eyes at the giving softness of her curves, the open cradle of her thighs. “You’re soft and hot and—”

      A little panicked—or else very close to the edge of release—she said in a high voice, “Promise me right now, or we’re done.”

      Unease warred with conviction. He couldn’t keep from brushing gentle kisses on the bridge of her nose, her brow, and he wanted to go on kissing her. Everywhere. “Whatever it is, honey, I swear to you, it’s okay.”

      “It’s me.” Stroking her hands around to his back, fraught with uncertainty, she clutched at him. “I need my clothes on. I need the lights out. I need you to keep your hands mostly to yourself.”

      Jesus. “When I mentioned high school, I wasn’t looking for a reenactment.”

      She sucked in a breath. “Fine.” Shaking, she pushed against him while trying to turn away from him. “Then let’s forget about—”

      “No way.” He brought her face back around to his and again kissed her, softer, deeper. “You can trust me, Sue.” Like hell. “I won’t hurt you.” Damn it.

      In the near darkness, they watched each other. Her eyes glimmered, but he couldn’t see her well enough to decipher her thoughts.

      She touched his jaw. “Let me up.”

      Damn, damn, damn. Flopping over to his back with a groan, Logan stared toward the ceiling, hot, frustrated, but mostly troubled. From the knees down, his legs hung over the end of the bed.

      The part the rain had soaked.

      The wind howled eerily, suiting his mood. Thunder crashed, and he felt it in his chest.

      He didn’t want things to end like this.

      He rose up on one arm. “Sue?” It amazed him that he kept the forethought to continue using her alias. There remained just enough light filtering in for him to see her shadowy form as she lifted her skirt.

      Lust tied him in knots. He drew in necessary oxygen. “What are you doing?”

      “Taking off my panties.” She dropped them on the