Men Of Honour. Lori Foster

lifted away, but not far. “If I’m going to do this—”

      “You are.” She needed him so badly that she’d insist if she had to.

      Dare smiled. “Then I want to do it right.”

      She had no idea what he meant by that.

      His eyes glittered at her in the darkness before she saw his resolve. “Tell me if you feel any panic at all.”

      “I won’t. Not with you.”

      He freed her from the quilt and spread it out behind her.

      Cold air washed over her, but she wasn’t chilled. Far from it.

      Easing her down to her back, Dare stretched out beside her. Even with the quilt as a cushion, the wooden boards of the dock should have been uncomfortable to her back. But at the moment, all Molly felt was Dare, breathing so close to her, touching her so carefully. She stared up at a velvet blanket of stars and the fat, glowing moon, and she knew the truth.

      She was fast falling in love with a man who wanted her almost as much as he pitied her.

      For now, it just didn’t matter. She needed this, she needed him, too much to care about anything else.

      DARE LOOKED DOWN AT Molly, so trusting and so vulnerable in ways she didn’t even know. He’d made a vow to himself, but how could he have known that she’d offer herself like this?

      All during his drive home, he’d thought of Molly’s life thus far. Her mother had died too young, and her father was a world-class bastard. Growing up under Bishop Alexander’s rule would have been a trial of endurance; that man could make anyone’s life hell.

      Now, thanks to the photos Trace had shared, Dare knew that Bishop had the affiliations necessary to continue making Molly’s life miserable. He held close associations with a number of shady characters, but two in particular were of interest to Dare.

      The grainy shots had been of Bishop and his wife at a formal party, chatting up well-dressed couples. But Trace had recognized a few faces: Ed Warwick and Mark Sagan. Trace had gone one further and done a preliminary dig on the relationship background between the men.

      During a political fundraiser years back, Bishop had aligned himself with Ed Warwick, a retired military man who’d taken a post as an immigration official. On the surface, the two had only associated in their combined effort to financially back a senator. Later, when Warwick was accused of accepting bribes to clear the way to citizenship for ineligible aliens, Bishop broke ties, and Warwick hired Mark Sagan, a highly paid, very elite lawyer to represent him.

      Amazingly enough, Sagan was known as a white separatist. Many despicable deeds had been attributed to him, but without proof. Sagan was the kind of man that Dare detested: polished and suave on the outside, bloodthirsty on the inside. Throughout his law career, Sagan had acquainted himself with numerous criminals who always managed to skirt the law.

      Shortly after Warwick hired Sagan to represent him, one witness died in a hit-and-run, and two others changed their stories. Warwick wasn’t cleared, but lack of evidence made it impossible to prosecute. Bishop and Warwick had celebrated a subdued reunion, and since then, they’d been involved in many joint efforts with Sagan.

      It was clear to Dare that Molly’s father had contacts he could have easily used to set up her kidnapping, and with Sagan, he had access to the muscle to see it done.

      The facts didn’t lie: Bishop had the associations and the means.

      But what would be the motive?

      As Dare smoothed back Molly’s hair, he couldn’t think of a single reason why her father would want to cause her so much physical harm. And without a reason that would lead him to some hard evidence, he couldn’t officially accuse the man.

      That meant that the worst—not knowing—was still ahead of her.

      How could he ever turn her loose without knowing she’d be safe? And how could he, in good conscience, accept her intimate offer when she needed him so badly for protection?

      Dare made up his mind, and it already tortured him. He’d give Molly what she needed, but he wasn’t going to have sex with her.

      Not yet.

      Finding her on the dock, half-frozen and with so much need, worked miracles toward shoring up his sometimes-misplaced honor. She needed to know that her life could still be the same, and that the nightmare would eventually fade into a dark but manageable memory.

      “Are you cold?” She kept trying to crawl into him, clutching at him to keep him near, pressing herself close.

      “No.” Her nails dug into his upper arm. “Dare, I want—”

      “Shh. It’s all right.” He unzipped the oversize hoodie and slipped his hand inside. “Just relax for me.”

      The second he touched her breast through the thin T-shirt, she tensed—and a soft moan escaped her parted lips.

      The sound was sweet and desperate, proof that she’d been thinking about this, about him, for a while now.

      “You’re in a bad way, aren’t you?”

      She nodded, licked her lips. “I need you, yes.”

      Because they had touched her, hurt her, abused her.

      He had to remember that this was to eradicate ugly memories. He had to remember all that she’d suffered.

      Seeing the bruise on her cheek, Dare bent to brush his mouth over it. “They hit you … here?”

      She said nothing, but her breath hitched.

      “And here?” Skimming his mouth along her throat, he gently touched each mark, occasionally licking over a fading bruise or putting a soft love bite over angry fingerprints. It was so dark out that he worked by memory—not that he’d ever forget a single mark on her delicate skin.

      “My … my ribs,” she whispered by way of encouragement, making Dare smile.

      Overcome with tenderness, rigid with lust, he pulled the T-shirt up. “Right here,” he whispered, knowing that his jaw brushed her breast as he pressed openmouthed kisses to her ribs.

      “Dare.” She tunneled her fingers into his hair and arched up a little.

      Her tight hold on his hair stung a little and showed her level of urgency. Knowing she was ready, Dare turned to see her breasts. Thanks to the cold and her excitement, her nipples were puckered tight.

      God. Holding her shoulders, he bent to lick first one nipple, then the other, before closing his mouth around her.

      Her drawn-out groan echoed over the lake. Her knees came up and she started to turn toward him. Dare held her down and tried to slow her response a little.

      This was for her—but he wouldn’t deny himself the pleasure of her body in the process.

      She grabbed his wrist and pushed his hand down to her belly.

      Dare paused. His chest tightened with painful possibilities. Repeatedly Molly had told him that she wasn’t raped. But had they—

      “They didn’t,” she said as if reading his mind. “They threatened, and, yes, they sometimes touched me … in ways they shouldn’t have. But … but that’s not why …”

      He laid his hand over the soft, womanly rise of her belly. “You’re a woman, and you want me?”

       “Yes.”

      He kissed her nipple again. “Already?” And then, a little more desperately, “Are you sure, Molly? We have all night. There’s no rush….”

      “Don’t make me wait, Dare.” She shifted and squirmed. “Please.”

      Amazing. Still unsure, but unwilling to push her, Dare cupped his hand between her legs, touched her