Dead Calm. Lindsay Longford

I’ll hunt you down and kill you. And no jury on earth would convict me.” Her voice was low and breathy as she slipped her hand between their bodies, closed it over his, tugged down, the slippery material opening as he slid his hand inside and found softness and heat, found the hard bump of her nipple.

      And lingered, tugging, entranced by the contrast of cold suit and flushed skin.

      Touching her, he remembered again how it had been for him the first time he’d seen her, the rush of wanting, the physical ache of needing to touch her.

      Touching her, he could forget the past, could escape the prison of his soul by losing himself in her.

      That was what he wanted most on this dismal, storm-wrecked morning, escape was what he’d craved and hadn’t known he needed.

      Here, with her smacked up against him, he didn’t have to think about the creeps spraying graffiti around town, didn’t have to think about the jackasses stealing from the Christmas charity kettles. He didn’t have to think about the baby left in the manger, didn’t have to think about George. Didn’t have to think.

      That was the blessing. It had been a lifetime since he’d felt anything, not anger, not joy. Nothing. But with Sophie in his arms, he could just feel.

      This, he thought as he moved his mouth along the long line of her neck, this salvation in Sophie’s scent, touch, in the very texture of her skin under his seeking fingers, this was the light in the darkness. “Closer,” he muttered against the slope of her breast. His chin scraped against the metal zipper teeth as he nudged the vest opening wider. “You’re not close enough. I want you closer.” He cupped her butt with one hand and pulled her tightly to him.

      From that first moment, he’d known it would be like this.

      In this moment, only Sophie. Beginning and end of thought, of regret, of anger.

      Right now. Alpha and omega.

      Now.

      Sophie.

      She tasted the hunger in his lips and fed on it, felt his seeking fingers at her waistband.

      “Two-piece?”

      “Yes,” she exhaled into his ear. “Easier to get into.” She wiggled her fanny, and felt him shudder against her. “And out of.”

      “Excellent.” He flattened his palm into the curve of her back.

      She twisted upward. “Good hands, Finnegan. Ah, but you have good hands.” Her brain turned to mush as he edged a forefinger between the tight fabric and her spine.

      The adrenaline rampaging through her had a focus now, and she leaned into it, just the way she would lean into a wave. Judah’s lean form. Judah’s hands on her. The movement of his hard body against her took all the energy the surfing hadn’t touched and channeled it, a straight line from him to her. She should have grabbed Finnegan instead of her surf board, she thought muzzily as his thumbs met in her belly button and pressed, circled lower.

      How long had it been since she’d been touched like this? She couldn’t remember, oh, he was taking her breath away, she couldn’t breathe….

      Her knees buckled, and he went with her, their knees bouncing on the packed sand, but she couldn’t turn him loose. Her fingertips hummed with the sensation of his hot skin against them.

      His hands were on either side of her face, framing it and holding her still. “Inside. We need to go inside.”

      “Too far,” she gasped.

      “I can run.” He pulled her to her feet and lifted her off the sand, snugging one arm under her behind and staggering to his feet.

      “If you think so.” She locked her legs behind his waist and buried her face in the crook of his neck, breathed and went dizzy with the feel of his skin against her cheek. “Go for it, tiger.”

      He lurched with her up the slope of sand and sea oats toward the shadowy house. The rise and fall of his chest matched her own. “Damn. How much farther?”

      “Two hundred yards. More or less.” She nipped at his ear and ran her hand down from his belt as far as she could.

      “Not much farther, big guy.” His arousal surged against the heel of her hand, and she moved coaxingly against it.

      He stumbled. She slid down his body. The soggy fabric of his jeans rubbed against her, sent sparks shooting through her.

      “We’re not going to make it,” he muttered, frustration in every syllable.

      Laughing, she let all the night’s misery drift away in the wind. “You don’t have to look so grim.”

      “You don’t know the half of it.” He still held her snagged against him as he marched her backwards toward her house.

      “Really?” she whispered slyly. “How…impressive.”

      Stomping onward, he glowered at her. “What? What?”

      “Nothing.” She stroked her hand down the hard front of his jeans, felt him throb into her curving palm.

      “Oh.”

      “Oh, indeed.” She laughed again. She could never have hoped for this kind of ending to the horrible night. In Finnegan’s arms, all the destruction of the ER melted away.

      Here was life. Here was pleasure. She moved her flat palm against him again. Here was power. His.

      Hers.

      Laughter kept bubbling up from deep inside. Her body fizzed and sparkled, everything inside her coiling and tumbling. And still he marched her relentlessly backwards, bumping against her, struggling with the waistband of her suit bottom as he kept moving. Trapped by his arms, the sides of her open vest bent back under her arms.

      The wind blew against her bare breasts, tickling her with sand and cold. Her nipples brushed against his wet shirt, hardened.

      “This is crazy, Sophie.” But he didn’t stop. Didn’t stop touching, didn’t stop moving her back to the house, his bare feet tangling with hers at every step, his pants legs flapping against her bare calves and knees.

      Sensation everywhere. She was drowning in touch and smell. Drowning in Judah.

      Careening backward, she tripped on the root of one of the pine trees and fell, a dizzying swoon of gray sky and his blue eyes.

      Landing on the cushion of pine needles with Judah coming right after her, his arms still wrapped around her, she couldn’t stop laughing at the silliness of it all. Oh, she’d needed this, this laughter, this touching, this. How could she not have known how much she needed his touch? She slid her palms under his wet jacket, let them slip down wet skin, traced the contours of muscles, felt their response to her touch. Some rawness in her soul eased under the balm of touching and being touched and laughing.

      And in some distant place in her brain she pictured them tangled together on the beach, a mess of sloppy wet clothes and sandy bodies and she laughed again.

      “What’s so funny, Sophie?” His tongue traced the curve of her mouth, gently, dampening her lips, and the wind touched them, too, and everything in her shivered with delight.

      She just wished Judah didn’t look so grim.

      So lost.

      She didn’t want him lost. She didn’t want emotion now, not his, not hers, only this physical exhilaration that blanked out memories and thought and everything except this.

      “Easy,” she murmured. She smoothed the frown between his ocean-blue eyes. “It’s not the end of the world.”

      Not answering, not meeting her gaze, he lowered himself over her, fitting his pelvis against hers, sliding his arms under her. “Any chance of getting this damn bottom off?”

      “Finnegan, if I’ve learned one thing in this life, it’s that there’s always a chance.” She squirmed