Dangerous Secrets by Lisa Marie Rice Page A

opened, they were an inch from hers. He stared into those eyes, mesmerized. That clear, crystal gray, like an early morning sky. There were slight crinkles around her eyes as if she were smiling. Yes, thank you, God. Nick’s gaze dropped to her mouth, slightly uptilted. That was definitely a smile. Oh yeah.
    He kissed her, a long, deep plunge into that smile. When his tongue stroked hers, she clenched around him, gasping into his mouth.
    She wasn’t furious at being manhandled, at the suddenness with which he’d grabbed her, at being held ferociously tight.
    “No, you’re right, I’m not,” he croaked back when he came up for air. Hell no, he wasn’t sorry. He’d kill to remain right where he was, naked on a wooden chair with his cock buried in the most delightful woman he’d ever met.
    Nick smiled back. Or tried to. His mouth couldn’t make the right moves. How could he smile when every atom in hisbody was concentrated on her, the feel of her against him and above all, the tight, warm feel of her cunt around his cock?
    There was something about that thought that rang a warning bell somewhere far away in his head. Something about the feel of her…tight and just a little wetter now and warm…
    Something about that didn’t feel right. Or rather, felt all too good. Better than anything had ever felt before…
    Fuck.
    He wasn’t wearing a rubber.
    His head nearly exploded.
    This was impossible. Nick never fucked without a rubber, never. Never ever, ever . He knew exactly what was out there and though he expected to die young, he wanted to go out like a man from a bullet or a knife to the heart and not hooked up to machines in a hospital. Gah. Better a bullet than disease. No question.
    Suiting up was second nature, simply part of the sexual act. As natural as brushing his teeth. He never went anywhere without rubbers and had even brought them with him to Afghanistan, not that there’d been any chance of using them in that hellhole. They’d expired in his pocket and were probably dust now in his flak jacket in the basement of his condo.
    But right now, in his pants pocket on the floor of her bedroom were several packets of brand-new top-of-the-line rubbers, just waiting for him.
    They might as well have been on Mars for all the good they were doing him there. The normal way to go get them would be to withdraw from Charity, get up and walk over there,but every cell in his body rejected the notion. He couldn’t pull out of her if they put a gun to his head.
    Not to mention the biggie—he was on a hair trigger here. Yep. Nick Ireland, Mr. Cool, Iceman himself, who had fucked Consuelo for hours while calculating probabilities that her dick-wad brother was changing lieutenants, was about ready to blow.
    He could feel it, a volcanic pressure rising from his loins, the little electric tingle along his spine, all telltales he was familiar with. Just Charity breathing caused a little rustle in his system, bringing him that much closer to shooting his wad. Any movement, any at all, would just push him over the edge.
    Pulling out would mean friction, sliding out of those smooth, soft, warm walls…
    Oh God. He had to tighten his groin to keep from coming at the thought. If he pulled out he’d embarrass himself by spurting into the air. Or worse—into her.
    He stared into her eyes, shaking slightly from the effort of not coming.
    “I’m not wearing a ru—a condom.” His voice was hoarse, as if he’d spent hours screaming. His throat was tight. Huge steel bands were gripping his chest. “I’m really sorry about that.”
    If she wanted to haul off and hit him, she’d have every right. He couldn’t even flinch because any movement was a no-no. All he could do was stare in the eyes and take it like a man.
    Charity was silent.
    “Sorry,” he said again. It came out a wheeze. With every second that passed everything in him wound tighter. Hiscock in her lengthened, thickened, and then— whoa —she clenched around