knocked you over and still their only thought was getting the dirt on you, on us, digging up whatever scandal they possibly could. The night Selena was killed, they’d been following her. After the accident they took pictures,” he spat. “They wanted to know if she was drunk, or on drugs. They wanted scandal.”
Alison’s face paled. “I never knew. It was never in the paper … it didn’t …”
“I paid them off,” he said, his voice low. “There was no scandal anyway, but I feared they might publish the pictures. I bought them and had them destroyed.”
Her eyes filled with tears, for him, for Selena. It rocked him, made his heart seize and his chest ache. She cupped his face and kissed him tenderly, her lips soft against his.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
He wanted to pull away, to leave so that he could gather his thoughts, regain control. But he couldn’t leave, not with her standing there, looking devastated and vulnerable and so beautiful she made his hands shake with desire for her. He cupped her chin and tilted her face up, kissing the streaks her tears had tracked on her lovely face.
His heart thundering in his chest, he began to release the buttons on her silk blouse, baring her demure lace bra. He swallowed, nearly undone by the fierce desire rocketing through him. But it was more than that, more than just physical need. He had never felt anything like this before, not with Selena, not with any woman. He felt incomplete unless he was touching her, kissing her, stroking her gorgeous body.
His mind rejected that thought even as his heart, his body, ached to be joined with her. He could not allow her to matter so much. He had loved Selena, but she had not touched him in this way, had not wielded this kind of power over his body and his emotions. And still, when he’d lost her it had felt as though his world had crumbled.
Alison meant far more to him. In that moment when he’d thought she might have been hurt he had been able to imagine losing her. It had been like staring into a dark void that was opening up, preparing to swallow him whole, leaving him with nothing but eternal blackness. He could not allow that. But he couldn’t stop kissing her.
He growled roughly and tightened his hold on her, kissing her hard, bruising her lips with the force of his passion, his rage. It was a kiss designed to punish her for what she made him feel, designed to reassert his dominance. He plundered her mouth, dipping his tongue deep inside before nipping the fullness of her bottom lip.
When he parted from her, her eyes were huge, her breathing ragged. Her nipples were beaded, pressed against the flimsy bra. She wanted him still, even though she’d been angry with him. And God help him, he wanted her.
He denied the refrain that was playing through his mind, denied the insistent tattoo of her name that was beating through him. It wasn’t about her. She wasn’t special. She was just a woman. And he was a man. He wanted what a man desired of a woman and nothing more. It wasn’t Alison; it was just sex. He had been without it for too long; that was why she affected him so strongly.
He backed her across the room and turned her so that she was facing away from him before bending her gently over the surface of the dresser that was positioned up against the wall.
“Max?” she asked tremulously.
“Trust me,” he grated.
He moved his hands up her still-slender waist, around to her stomach and over the little bump that housed their baby. His heart jumped and he curled his hands into fists before opening them again and palming her breasts, releasing the front clasp on her bra and letting it fall open. He covered the creamy mounds, squeezed her sensitized nipples, drawing a low, desperate moan from her lips.
He abandoned her breasts to push her skirt down her hips, taking her tiny pair of panties with it. He pressed his hand against her mound, pushing one finger through her slick folds and finding the bud that housed her most sensitive nerve endings. She shivered, her head falling back to rest against his chest. The sweet scent of her perfume, so uniquely her, assaulted him. He swept her hair to the side and kissed her neck, her bare shoulder.
Unsteadily he reached for the closure on his slacks and freed himself, bringing his naked flesh against the softness of her bottom. She gasped and arched into him, pressing the heart of her, her glorious wetness, up against his aching body.
Keeping one hand centered on her clitoris, stroking her mercilessly; he splayed his other hand across her stomach and tilted her back gently as he thrust into her tight heat.
He lost all sense of control, all sense of time. He had wanted to take her this way to make it impersonal, so he couldn’t see her face. But he knew … her scent, the feel of her soft skin beneath his hands, the soft sounds of pleasure that she made … the fact that his body had never responded this way to any other woman. It was Alison, and he could not deny it.
He kissed the side of her neck, gentled his touch on her breasts, let his hands slide over her soft curves. His heart squeezed in his chest. This was Alison. His woman. The mother of his child. There was no denying it, and he didn’t want to.
Suddenly he needed to see her, needed to watch her face as he brought her to the peak, needed to cradle her close to his body. He withdrew and swept her into his arms, crossing the room quickly and settling her onto the bed. “Alison,” he whispered, brushing her hair back off her forehead.
She raised her hands and cupped his cheek, the emotion in her eyes nearly undoing him completely. “Max.”
He entered her slowly, his entire body trembling with the effort to maintain control. She locked her arms around him, moved with him, her soft sighs of pleasure gratifying him in a way that went far beyond the physical. And after she had cried out her climax he rushed to follow her, and it was her name that he whispered hoarsely as he came hard, spilling himself inside her, branding her. Branding himself.
Emotion tightened his chest, squeezed down hard on his heart and refused to release him from its iron fist. The look in her eyes, the one of pure wonderment, affected him too much. He rolled away from her suddenly, pulling away from the feelings roiling inside of him.
She turned to her side, facing him, and his breath caught when the full impact of her beauty hit him. Her face was flushed, her mouth swollen. She had never looked more enticing, more lovely. He gritted his teeth against the rising tide of emotion that was threatening to swamp him.
“I have work to do.” He turned away from her and buckled his belt, his breathing ragged, his heart pounding hard. His instinct was to go to her, to hold her. But he wouldn’t allow himself that. Wouldn’t allow himself to show that level of weakness.
He could hear her behind him, collecting her clothing, and when he turned to face her again he could read the hurt and confusion she clearly felt. He didn’t have to say anything for her to know that he was distancing himself from her. That itself was enough for him to want distance. He didn’t want her feelings involved any more than he wanted to involve his own.
“I’ll be working late tonight. You should sleep in your own room,” he said, his voice clipped.
She flinched as though he’d struck her. “Okay.”
Her mobile phone rang and she reached down and fished it out of her purse, which had been thrown to the floor at some point in their frantic hurry to come together.
She checked the caller ID. “It’s the lab.” She answered, but neither her face nor her tone gave away
