with desire. "Jack," she murmured.
He stared down at her for a long moment, frozen with indecision and guilt. And then she parted her lips slightly, her tongue peeking out as if to taste the kiss he hadn't yet given her, and he was lost.
A low sound, half pain, half pleasure, rumbled in his chest. "I'll probably burn in hell for this," he growled, his voice savage, his mouth so close his lips brushed hers as he spoke. "But I can only resist just so much temptation. And you, Angel—Dammit, you I can't resist at all," he groaned, and took her mouth with his.
Chapter 6
There was no escaping her, Jack thought, disgruntled and on edge as he prowled through his darkened apartment, searching for surcease from the desire that clawed at him. Evidence of Faith's presence was in every room, on every surface, in the very air he breathed. Mirrors and windows sparkled, even in the dim light. Hardwood floors gleamed. The furniture smelled of lemon oil. The sheets on his bed and the towels in his bathroom carried the faint perfume of flower-scented fabric softener. She'd taken the time to impose order on his bookcases, too, while she was cleaning. Not only were the books dust free, but they were upright and arranged separately from the videotapes and CDs, with space found for neat stacks of magazines, which—he knew because he stopped, midprowl, to check—were shelved according to the date of publication.
Jack struggled with the childish urge to yank them out of the bookcase and fling them on the floor, leaving her handiwork in as much of a mess as she'd left his libido. He stifled it and stomped through the dining room into the kitchen instead, whacking his shin on her cart of cleaning supplies as he rounded the counter. With an oath, he shoved it aside and reached out, flicking on the overhead light. Her pink sponge was perched on the edge of the sink. Her yellow rubber gloves were arranged, side by side on the counter. Her flowered apron lay in a crumbled heap on the floor. Jack bent over and picked it up, intending to toss it on the counter with the other tools of her trade, and found himself lifting it to his nose instead. It smelled faintly of lemon cleanser and fabric softener and that same elusive fragrance that had invaded his senses when he'd buried his face in the curve of her neck.
Innocence.
Sweetness.
Warmth.
"Oh, don't be a jackass, Shannon," he muttered savagely.
Innocence didn't have a scent, unless you were talking about babies. Sweetness was for fresh-baked cinnamon buns or caramel corn. And warmth didn't smell, unless something was burning.
As he was burning.
And she had been burning.
He looked down to find that he'd crushed the apron in his fists and, very deliberately, relaxed his grip.
She'd been right to call a halt to things. Absolutely right. He'd let it go too far. No matter that she had been willing, even eager, up until the point when she suddenly froze on him. Her actions only meant that she had come to her senses a moment before he had.
But, God, he wished she'd remained insensible and unaware just a little longer. He'd barely had a chance to taste her lips before she'd made a muffled sound against his mouth and stiff-armed him, pushing out of his embrace. He'd held on for a moment longer than he should have, surprised by her unexpected action. Instead of fighting to free herself, though, she just stood there, docile as a chastened child under his hands after that first initial action. The expression in her gold-flecked eyes wasn't outrage or embarrassment or even fear, as he half expected. It was anger. Anger laced with resentment, tinged with guilt. The guilt he could understand, given what he'd learned of her background during the last two days. But the anger? That made as little sense to him now as it had when he'd rescued her from the clutches of Freddie Bowen. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out why she should be mad at him in either circumstance.
He'd started to
He stared down at her for a long moment, frozen with indecision and guilt. And then she parted her lips slightly, her tongue peeking out as if to taste the kiss he hadn't yet given her, and he was lost.
A low sound, half pain, half pleasure, rumbled in his chest. "I'll probably burn in hell for this," he growled, his voice savage, his mouth so close his lips brushed hers as he spoke. "But I can only resist just so much temptation. And you, Angel—Dammit, you I can't resist at all," he groaned, and took her mouth with his.
Chapter 6
There was no escaping her, Jack thought, disgruntled and on edge as he prowled through his darkened apartment, searching for surcease from the desire that clawed at him. Evidence of Faith's presence was in every room, on every surface, in the very air he breathed. Mirrors and windows sparkled, even in the dim light. Hardwood floors gleamed. The furniture smelled of lemon oil. The sheets on his bed and the towels in his bathroom carried the faint perfume of flower-scented fabric softener. She'd taken the time to impose order on his bookcases, too, while she was cleaning. Not only were the books dust free, but they were upright and arranged separately from the videotapes and CDs, with space found for neat stacks of magazines, which—he knew because he stopped, midprowl, to check—were shelved according to the date of publication.
Jack struggled with the childish urge to yank them out of the bookcase and fling them on the floor, leaving her handiwork in as much of a mess as she'd left his libido. He stifled it and stomped through the dining room into the kitchen instead, whacking his shin on her cart of cleaning supplies as he rounded the counter. With an oath, he shoved it aside and reached out, flicking on the overhead light. Her pink sponge was perched on the edge of the sink. Her yellow rubber gloves were arranged, side by side on the counter. Her flowered apron lay in a crumbled heap on the floor. Jack bent over and picked it up, intending to toss it on the counter with the other tools of her trade, and found himself lifting it to his nose instead. It smelled faintly of lemon cleanser and fabric softener and that same elusive fragrance that had invaded his senses when he'd buried his face in the curve of her neck.
Innocence.
Sweetness.
Warmth.
"Oh, don't be a jackass, Shannon," he muttered savagely.
Innocence didn't have a scent, unless you were talking about babies. Sweetness was for fresh-baked cinnamon buns or caramel corn. And warmth didn't smell, unless something was burning.
As he was burning.
And she had been burning.
He looked down to find that he'd crushed the apron in his fists and, very deliberately, relaxed his grip.
She'd been right to call a halt to things. Absolutely right. He'd let it go too far. No matter that she had been willing, even eager, up until the point when she suddenly froze on him. Her actions only meant that she had come to her senses a moment before he had.
But, God, he wished she'd remained insensible and unaware just a little longer. He'd barely had a chance to taste her lips before she'd made a muffled sound against his mouth and stiff-armed him, pushing out of his embrace. He'd held on for a moment longer than he should have, surprised by her unexpected action. Instead of fighting to free herself, though, she just stood there, docile as a chastened child under his hands after that first initial action. The expression in her gold-flecked eyes wasn't outrage or embarrassment or even fear, as he half expected. It was anger. Anger laced with resentment, tinged with guilt. The guilt he could understand, given what he'd learned of her background during the last two days. But the anger? That made as little sense to him now as it had when he'd rescued her from the clutches of Freddie Bowen. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out why she should be mad at him in either circumstance.
He'd started to
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