Left To Die Read Free Page B

was just lying there, snoring softly, his incredible, muscular back to her, his hair black and gleaming against the pillowcase.
    “Sweet dreams, hotshot,” she muttered ungraciously as she searched in the dark for her clothes. Black lacy undies, matching bra, slacks and a sweater.
    “Back atcha, sunshine,” he whispered without so much as lifting his head.
    “Some of us have to work.”
    “Really?” He rolled over then, instantly awake, and grabbed her hard, pulling her back down onto the bed.
    “Hey! I don’t have time for this—”
    “Sure you do.”
    “Really, I—”
    But he’d already stripped her of the bra she’d just put on and had yanked off her panties in one quick, sure motion. He rolled her atop him and she felt his erection, thick, hard and ready.
    “You miserable son of a bitch,” she said as he thrust up inside her.
    “That’s me.”
    God, he was good. Her juices began to flow within seconds and his hands, kneading her breasts before he rose up to suckle her nipples, made her cry out in pleasure.
    His movements were quick. Sure. Long.
    She was panting, her breath fast and shallow, her blood coursing hot through her veins, her mind spinning in images of lovemaking and desire.
    Her fingernails bit into the muscles of his shoulders as she felt herself begin to spasm. One rocking contraction after another as she leaned back her head, her eyes shut. An orgasm started deep inside and shook her to her soul. “Oh God…Oh God…”
    He held her tight, strong hands gripping her waist, keeping their bodies pressed together as he jerked upward, thrusting in and out, faster and faster, causing her breath to get lost somewhere in her lungs and her mind to spin out of control again. “Oooooh,” she whispered as at last he lunged upward, thigh muscles straining and taut. With a growl and one last, hard, mind-numbing thrust, he let go, releasing himself into her.
    She felt him stiffen, his back muscles convulse, and when she opened her eyes she found him staring at her, as he always did whenever they made love.
    “Damn you,” she said, sweat running down her back and curling the hairs around her nape. “Damn you straight to hell.”
    “Too late,” he said and laughed, pulling her down into the rumpled bedclothes. “I’m already there.”
    “I know.” She let out a long sigh, telling herself she really, really had to get up. “Me, too.”
    “You’re late, you know.”
    “You love it, don’t you?”
    “Love what?”
    “Being a prick.”
    His grin was a wicked slash of white in the semi-dark. “No, darlin’, you love it.”
    She snorted and rolled off the bed, swiped up her clothes and, before he could grab her again, dashed into the bathroom, where the air was so cold her breath came out in clouds of steam. What was it about him that was so insidiously tempting? Why could she never say no and mean it? What was it about him that she found so damned sexy? Hadn’t she sworn over and over again that she was going to get over him, that she wasn’t about to tumble into his trap again?
    Yeah, well, a lot of good that did.
    If only he weren’t so unabashedly good-looking.
    Oh hell. She’d known a lot of men. Many good-looking. Most with rock-hard bodies. But this one…this one was different.
    Really? Isn’t he just another bad boy in a long line starting with Chad Wheaton in the eighth grade? Face it, Regan, you have horrible taste in men and enough signed divorce decrees to prove it.
    She glanced in the mirror and cringed. Bloodshot eyes, messy hair, ruined makeup, a hickey the size of New Hampshire on her neck. What was the phrase? Rode hard and put away wet? That’s what she looked like. And she didn’t have time to go home and step into a long, hot shower.
    Deftly she cleaned herself with warm water and a cloth. Dampening her face, she scrubbed off the traces of last night’s mascara and lipstick. Then she dabbed the cloth at her armpits and between her legs.
    Within five minutes she