Men Of Honour. Lori Foster

“Does my messiness bother you?”

      Folding the towel and hanging it over the shower bar, he looked at her—then all over her. “You should see the inside of Chris’s place if you want to see messy. And I still love him.”

      Her mouth went dry over that L word. Never had she known a man so comfortable with stating affection, especially for a friend.

      Molly cleared her throat. “Well, it’s just that you’re …” She gestured at his naked body. “I mean …” She gestured at her own. “All this could be done later, right?”

      “You think I give a damn if your bathroom is cluttered?” He glanced at her askance as he picked up their clothes. “I’m hanging on by a thread here. I was just buying some time to get myself under control.” He strode past her into the bedroom.

      “Oh.” Molly hustled after him. “I guess I’m not used to guys—”

      Dropping the clothes on the floor, he turned and put a finger to her lips. “Again, I don’t want to hear about you with any other man.” He took her shoulders and dragged her closer to him. “No one has ever made me feel so goddamned possessive.”

      She started to say “Oh” again, but he took the word from her in a deep, hot, really possessive kiss.

      Her toes curled.

      Without her realizing it, he freed her hair from the topknot, and it tumbled down to her shoulders.

      He sank both hands into her hair. “I can’t believe you were going to cut this.”

      His mouth grazed her throat, her jaw. “I can’t believe it mattered to you.”

      “It does.” He kissed her neck, then her ear.

      “I couldn’t believe you took the time to work the tangles out for me.” In fact, that might have been the moment she started falling for him. The tenderness after so much brutality, the matter-of-fact way he’d handled her and her personal trauma, had devastated her senses. She hadn’t been prepared. She still wasn’t.

      “I enjoyed it.” Hooking a forearm under her derriere, he lifted her and turned with her to the bed.

      It was insane, how easily he handled her, the ease with which he lifted her, carried her. His strength continued to amaze her; his care would forever impress her.

      Settling into the cradle of her body, he lifted to one elbow and looked down at her. With care, he smoothed back her hair, kissed her swollen lips.

      Molly touched his face. Tears threatened.

      “What’s wrong?”

      She shook her head. “The way you look at me makes me feel pretty.”

      Pressing a hand between their bodies, he touched her, and his cheekbones darkened with aroused color. “Pretty doesn’t cover it.”

      “No?” She could barely speak as he pushed not one, not two, but three fingers into her. Breathless, she whispered, “Then what does?”

      Stroking in, back out. In again, so deep … “Smokin’.” His chest expanded. “Sexy as sin.” His gaze was so intent, it affected her as strongly as his touch when he said, “Mine.”

      Startled, Molly stared at him. She didn’t know what to say, how to interpret that. “Dare …?”

      He moved away from her in a rush, going for a condom that he rolled on in record time. When he came back to her, he caught her hips and turned her to her stomach. “On your knees.”

      Even as she got to her knees, her thoughts scrambled—until his hands clasped her waist and he drove into her with one hard thrust.

      After two climaxes, she was swollen and sensitive and oh-so-ready for him. She cried out with that initial entry, then cried out again as he began a hard, fast rhythm. It was so deep this way, she felt every inch of him.

      “Arch your hips up,” he told her in a rough command. She felt one hand on the small of her back, the other under her, first touching her nipples, then sliding down between her legs.

      It was too much. “Dare … I can’t.”

      “Yes, you can.” Just as he’d done to her nipples, he caught her clitoris and held it with his fingertips. Each of his deep thrusts caused her to tug at his hold in a maddening stimulation.

      When she groaned, he said, “Spread your knees out a little more, baby.”

      The pleasure drugged her until she couldn’t think, could only feel. She felt heavy, so heavy that her arms didn’t want to support her and they bent until she rested on her forearms.

      Dare growled a low approval over that.

      Another release began spiraling within her, drawing tighter and tighter. Her body throbbed, ripe and aching and in need.

      Dare started pumping faster, and she knew he was close. His thighs were slapping hard against the back of hers. Heat poured off him, off her.

      Tighter and tighter.

      Her lungs burned. Her legs trembled.

      Eyes clenched, Molly fisted her hands in the sheets to hang on—and the release hit her. She cried out loud, sobbing with the power of it, her body on fire.

      Dare’s savage groan filled her ears. He stroked deep, stiffened, and she knew he was coming, too. He’d held on, waited for her.

      When he stilled, she literally collapsed flat on the bed. Dare landed over her and started to move, but she whispered, “Please. Not yet.”

      She could still feel him inside her, not as big now, but she didn’t want to lose the sensation yet.

      “Just for a minute,” he whispered with a kiss to her ear, and he wrapped his arms around her, giving her his weight.

      It felt heavenly. It felt safe.

      It felt like love.

      MOLLY FELT THE HANDS on her, pinching. Deliberately hurting. She couldn’t see beyond her fear, but she cursed them, English curses that she knew they might not understand but gave her strength all the same.

      One man reached for her breast and laughed at her panic. Instead, he struck her in the ribs. She lost her breath, gagging with the pain, falling to her knees, knowing they might kick her, knowing the ground held bugs and mud and worse. She struggled to stay upright, struggled, struggled …

      Jerking awake with a start, Molly cried out—and immediately Dare came into the room.

      “Hey. It’s okay.” The overhead light came on, blinding her. The bed dipped when he sat down beside her, when he pulled her into his arms.

      Her throat felt too tight for her to swallow, burning with the need to cry. She was crying. She felt the tears hot on her cheeks and shame beat at her.

      Angry at herself, at the bastards who’d done this to her, she tried to struggle away from Dare.

      He tightened his hold. “Don’t do that, Molly. I understand. I know. But don’t push me away.” He kissed her hair, closed those impossibly strong arms around her.

      “I hate them.” Her voice sounded high and broken, infuriating her more. Shaming her more.

      “I do, too.” Shifting, he pulled her onto his lap. “When I was younger, when I got that knife wound on my chest?”

      That got her attention, and she nodded to let him know she was listening.

      “I was so pissed off I was blind with it. Mostly at myself for not being able to stop it, but at the man who did it, too. It took me a few weeks to recover, especially after I got an infection.”

      Dare wore a shirt now, and she subtly tried to dry her eyes against the soft cotton.

      He caught the sheet and lifted a corner of it to her. “Do you need a tissue?”