Heiress Behind the Headlines by Caitlin Crews

of the table. Propping himself up on one arm, he continued to kiss her, deeper and with more raw command, as his other hand traced the shallow indentation of her belly button, then moved farther south. He pulled the scrap of scarlet to the side, and then slipped his long fingers into the wet heat beneath.
    Finally.
Fire.
Larissa arched against his hand, her mind spinning out, dizzy and desperate.
    “Jack …” she managed to say, and it was like throwing kerosene on an already out-of-control blaze. She felt his focus sharpen, as his hands traced her secret curves, then a long finger tested her entrance. Then two. She shuddered in anticipation, in joy, in the helpless wonder, the enormity, of what he made her feel.
    He moved closer, the blunt head of him pressed up against her, so very close, and then—impossibly—he stopped. He looked at her.
    Just looked at her. As if he was trying to see … everything.
    She was nearly mindless. Nearly. She felt that dark, nearly black gaze from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. Inside and out. It was as if he was already deep within her, had already claimed her. Changed her. And she knew, in the way she always had, that there was nothing about this man that could ever be taken lightly. That he demanded too much, and would take too much, and there was no way around that simple, salient truth.
    But the other truth was that her desire for him was like a poison in her blood, turning her inside out, alive and sharp and
now.
She hooked her legs around his hips, swiveled hers, and pulled him into her.
    Too much. Never, ever enough.
    He slid all the way home, hard and sure, and she burst into a shower of light all around him.
    He waited until she opened her eyes again, those sea-green depths shot through with gold, dazed as she slowly focused on him, and then, only then, he began to move.
    She was even more perfect than he’d remembered, than he’d dreamed all these years. Her soft curves, her lithe body, her dangerously addictive mouth. The small sounds she began to make in the back of her throat as he set a slow, steady pace. The scent of vanilla hung in the air between them, tempting him, teasing him, making him move faster, deeper.
    He built her up again, using his hands and his tongue and his mouth. He played with her, with that masterpiece of a body that he’d never expected he’d touch again, laid out before him, his to command. Her hips rose to meet his, her nails dug into his back, and she clung to him, urging him on.
    He wanted her too badly. He wanted all of her. He reached between them, unerringly finding the very center of her pleasure, and stroked her, even as he kept up his demanding pace. He felt her tense again, her muscles clenching his, her mouth against his skin.
    And then, finally, she screamed out his name and he followed her, tumbling over the edge into oblivion.
    When he could breathe again, he pulled back from her so he could study that beautiful face of hers. Trying, once again and with as little hope of success, to figure out what went on behind those perfect bones, that flawless skin. She lay sprawled across the kitchen table like some kind of banquet, her skin flushed a light shade of rose, her arms stretched above her head in total abandon.
    God, she was beautiful. The most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
    It made him harden again. It made him want her as if he hadn’t just had her. It made him want things he’d told himself were part and parcel of that darkness five years ago, things he’d told himself had never been real.
    But she was real, and she was here. And for this moment, at least, she was his.
    He told himself that kick he felt in his chest was anticipation for the night ahead, nothing more.
    Jack stepped back and refastened the jeans he’d never managed to fully remove, then adjusted the scrap of scarlet between her legs, putting it back into place. Larissa stirred slightly, though her eyes stayed closed. She looked … soft. Almost