Hard Night (11th Hour #3) Read online

  After all, desire wasn’t anything more than desire. And he had to admit, he was caveman enough that he liked that she remembered nothing about any other man. That all there was in her head was him.

  Even if these feelings she had for him were prompted by his brother, she wasn’t thinking of Joshua. She wasn’t remembering Joshua. Or anyone else for that matter.

  If he touched her that’s what she’d remember. Him and only him.

  Unless she gets her memories back.

  There was that. But there was only one way to test that theory.

  He pressed his fingers to the satiny skin of her neck, firming his grip, meeting her gaze, letting her see the hunger in his. “And if I did want you back? What then, Ms. Beasley?”

  Her eyes darkened, her fingers trailing down the side of his face, down to his jaw, a caress that had his breath catching. “Then I think you should kiss me, Mr. Night.”

  He didn’t need to be told twice. Her mouth was right there, full and red, and he’d been wanting to kiss it for months now.

  So he bent his head and brushed his lips over hers.

  It was only supposed to be a test. A small taste to see what would happen.

  But she gave a soft, helpless moan, and at the sound all the frustrated desire of the day before returned suddenly and full force, wrapping its fingers around his throat, choking him. Setting alight a fire inside him that burned white hot.

  Her scent, the feel of her skin. The softness of her mouth opening under his, letting him in as if his kiss had been what she’d been waiting for years for.

  As if it truly was him turning Ms. Cool and Controlled Faith Beasley inside out with desire.

  The deep satisfaction that filled him in that moment should have made him pull back, because this wasn’t meant to be personal. This wasn’t supposed to mean anything at all.

  But she’d lifted both hands to his face, cupping his jaw, and he could feel her fingertips trembling against his skin. Pulling away would hurt her and that’s not what he wanted to do.

  So he didn’t pull back.

  Instead he gave her what she wanted, slowly beginning to explore the sweet heat of her mouth, tasting her and gently coaxing her to taste him in return. She gave another of those soft moans in the back of her throat, kissing him back at first tentatively then, as he encouraged her to kiss him deeper, with more desperation.

  There was no finesse to her kiss but somehow that only made it more erotic, his cock hardening painfully, demand rising inside him. Wanting more of her. Wanting her surrender.

  He spread his fingers out on her throat, slid his hand down so his fingertips traced the fragile dips and hollows of her collarbones.

  Such vulnerability and yet such strength. She was a woman of so many contrasts and mysteries, and she tasted like them too, sweetness with a dark edge that made his own darkness want to roar.

  He took the kiss deeper, not meaning to, yet unable to help himself, demanding more and getting it as her head fell back to allow him greater access. Her hands moved from his jaw and up, her arms winding around his neck, her body arching into his.

  This was only supposed to be about getting her memory back, about giving her something that she’d asked for, but it was difficult to remember that when the heat of her mouth and the delicate press of her body were making him want things he shouldn’t.

  She’d asked him for a kiss, that was all. And he’d given it to her.

  But now he couldn’t stop.

  He wanted more than that. He wanted her under him the way she’d been yesterday, except with nothing between them this time but skin. He wanted her naked and wet for him, panting his name. Desperate for his cock. Desperate for anything he’d give her.

  Because no one had ever been desperate for him like this. He’d never let anyone get close enough to be desperate. He kept everyone at a distance, kept himself a stranger, a mystery, and he preferred it that way.

  It was an isolated kind of existence, but he didn’t let himself want anything more, because losing it was way too easy.

  But then Faith had turned up in that hospital and he’d taken her home, cared for her. Let her into his life—at least to a limited extent. She knew him better than anyone ever had and now she wanted him too . . .

  He’d never thought that would be such an aphrodisiac. But it was. It just fucking was.

  He broke off the kiss, ignoring her soft cry of protest. Then gently he shoved her up against the doorframe and pinned her there.

  She gave a sharp intake of breath, her eyes widening as she stared up at him. Her gaze was hot and full of hunger.

  That made him even harder.

  He kept one hand around her throat, the other on the doorframe above her head then, slowly, pushed his thigh between hers, watching her face as he did so.

  She gave a little groan, her legs opening, letting him push the muscle of his thigh right up between them until he was pressing against her pussy. She wore yoga pants, the thin fabric doing nothing to stop the heat he could feel soaking into him.

  Fuck, it felt good.

  Her eyes glowed brighter and she lifted her hands to his chest, spreading her fingers out over his T-shirt and pushing lightly at him. Testing him.

  The pressure was delicious and he was very tempted to strip his T-shirt off and let her touch him skin to skin. But no, not yet. He wanted more of her hunger for him first. He wanted to drive her into a goddamn frenzy.

  He’d needed her for six months, needed her memories, all the while taunted by the chemistry that burned between them. He’d controlled it ruthlessly because he’d needed her trust more than anything else, but it had taken its toll even if he hadn’t truly admitted it to himself. Now control seemed irrelevant, especially since she was burning too. And holy shit, it was intoxicating to see her want him as badly as she did. To need him. To see her usual self-containment break apart under the pressure of her desire.

  He wanted more of that, so much more.

  She angled her hips, trying to push against him, her breathing getting faster.

  Demanding, wasn’t she?

  He let the hand around her throat drift down her body, his fingertips trailing over the curve of her breasts, brushing the button-hard tips of her nipples and making her gasp, but not lingering. Tantalizing her. Then he let his fingers trail lower, over the flat plane of her stomach, and farther down, to where his thigh was pushing between hers.

  She shuddered as he eased his hand into the tight gap, until he was cupping her pussy though the fabric of her pants, the damp heat burning against his palm.

  Her mouth opened and her pupils dilated, her breath catching audibly.

  “Who are you thinking of, Ms. Beasley?” He stared into her eyes, not hiding the rough sound of his voice. “Tell me who you’re thinking of right now.”

  “You.” There was no hesitation and the way she was looking at him . . . as if nothing else existed for her but him. “I’m thinking of you.”

  “No one else?” He shifted his thumb, pressing lightly over her clit. “No glimmers of memory?”

  “No.” She took a ragged breath, her hips lifting against his hand. “N-nothing.”

  “Hmmm.” He moved his thumb, tracing a light circle around the hard bud he could feel beneath the damp fabric, watching pleasure unfurl across her lovely face. “What about now?”

  She gave her head a shake, arching her spine restlessly against the wood of the doorframe, trying to move against his thumb. The material where his hand pressed was wet, the delicate musky scent of her arousal filling the air between them.

  He fucking loved it. Loved how she panted and twisted and moved, wanting more of his touch. More of him.

  It made him feel savage. Made him want to draw this out, push her higher. Make her beg the way she had the day before.

  He rubbed his thumb across her clit back and forth, relishing the way she groaned. How her head fell back against the frame, her lashes falling with it, her fingers curling in the fabric of
his T-shirt and gripping on tight.

  “J-Jacob . . .” Her voice was thick and he loved the slight stutter as she said his name too. “What are you d-doing?”

  “What does it look like?” He leaned down even farther so her face was inches from his, so he could study the fine grain of her skin, all pink with the pleasure he was giving her, and see the glint of blue beneath her black lashes. “I’m going to make you come, Ms. Beasley.”

  And he stroked her again, moving his thumb rhythmically, unable to tear his gaze from her face.

  “Look at me,” he ordered roughly, wanting that midnight gaze on his when it happened, wanting to see it burn with ecstasy. “Look at me now .”

  Her lashes lifted as if she’d been waiting for his command. And as he pressed his thumb down on her clit, curling his fingers against the soft heat of her pussy, the look in her eyes began to ignite.

  It was one of the most erotic things he’d ever seen.

  She gripped his T-shirt even harder, pulling on it as her hips shifted against his thumb, against his hand. And she trembled and gasped, and then cried out as he increased the pressure on her stiff little clit.

  “Harder,” she said raggedly. “Faster. I need m-more.”

  He smiled, the demand in her voice making everything that much sweeter. “You’re very bossy when you’re about to come, Ms. Beasley.” He bent and brushed her hungry mouth with his, purely to tease her. “I like it.”

  She tried to kiss him back, giving a frustrated moan when he pulled away, not giving her what she wanted. Not yet.

  “And you’re a b-bastard.” She panted, twisting the fabric of his shirt in her hands. “P-please . . .”

  “Since you asked so nicely.” He slid his hand beneath the waistband of her yoga pants.

  She went still as his fingers touched the smooth, hot skin of her stomach, her breathing ragged, then began to tremble as he pushed his fingers farther, under the lace of her panties, finding wetness and heat and soft, damp curls.

  Jesus, she felt good.

  Her eyes went huge and dark as he stroked through her slick folds, caressing and exploring a little before he eased a finger inside her.

  “Oh . . .”

  The sound she made was husky, throaty as he slid his finger deeper, and he felt her tremble. She was so wet, so hot, her inner muscles clamping down hard on him. Tight too, so very, very tight.

  She had no memory of any other man touching her like this; to her, he would be the first. And he liked that. No, he fucking loved that.

  Possessiveness clenched hard inside him.

  “Is this mine?” he demanded. “Is this wet little pussy all for me?”

  Faith’s chest heaved, her breasts pushing against the fabric of her T-shirt, the hard outlines of her nipples visible. “Y-yes . . .”

  “No one else’s.” He slowly eased another finger inside her, stretching her gently. “Only mine.”

  She gasped, lifting her hips, trembling. “Yes.”

  “Say it,” he ordered. “Say it, Faith.”

  But at the sound of her name she jerked, her pussy convulsing around his fingers, and whatever she’d been going to say was lost in her desperate cry of release.

  So he covered her mouth and took what he wanted anyway.

  CHAPTER 8

  Faith could barely stand, the after-effects of the orgasm sweeping through her making it difficult to concentrate on anything as mundane as standing. Only Jacob’s hard thigh kept her upright along with the big, hot hand that lingered between her legs, his fingers still buried inside her.

  She panted through the aftershocks that pulsed in time with the beat of her heart, the intense pleasure making her feel boneless and heavy.

  She didn’t want to move. In fact, she didn’t think it was possible for her to ever move again.

  Jacob had lifted his mouth from hers and was looking down at her, eyes glittering, the intent expression on his brutally handsome face sending shivers up and down her spine.

  He’d never looked at her that way before, not with such open hunger, and it left her breathless.

  Being honest with him and telling him that she’d wanted him to want her back had been a risk, but it was one she was glad she’d taken. So very glad.

  Because then he’d crowded her against the doorframe with his big, hard, delicious body and turned the kiss she’d asked for into a touch that had set her on fire. The feel of his fingers pushing inside her had made her come almost immediately and shockingly hard.

  She’d told him the truth when he’d demanded to know whom she’d been thinking about. There had been no glimmers of anyone else, no echoes of memory. As far as she was concerned the hot kiss he’d given her had been her first, just like the touch of his fingers between her thighs.

  And then there had been his sudden burst of possessiveness.

  Only mine . . . Say it, Faith.

  Her name. He’d never said it before and the sound of it in his rough, deep voice had sent her over the edge almost before she was ready.

  That and the demand with which he’d said it.

  He was possessive with things he viewed as his, he’d just never gotten possessive with her. And the fact that he had . . . well...

  That means you’re his, doesn’t it?

  The thought made her shiver all over.

  He was such a mystery, a black-eyed enigma who’d held himself separate from her for a long time and now that he’d purposely closed the distance between them—very, very purposely—it was as if he’d handed her the keys to the kingdom.

  She had no idea what this would mean or where it would lead, but she didn’t much care. He’d been her anchor in the frightening days after she’d come out of the hospital, had provided her with a calm, safe space, had allowed herself to find an identity.

  She trusted him. And perhaps that was simply an echo from his brother and perhaps it wasn’t, but it was Jacob whom she was with now. Jacob who was kissing her, touching her.

  Jacob and no one else.

  His fingers inside her shifted, pulling out slowly. Then he lifted that hand in front of her face.

  “Look,” he said in a low, rough voice. “See how wet I made you.”

  His skin glistened and she went hot all over.

  Then before she could say a word he licked his fingers.

  The rawness, the sheer dirtiness of watching his tongue lick her moisture from his skin had the breath catching in her throat. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.

  He made a deep, very male sound that caused yet more heat to wash over her. “Delicious.” His voice was a purr. “I’ve had breakfast and yet now I’m starving.” He dropped his hand and then leaned in again, pinning her with his dark gaze and his hard body. Pinning her with the desire she felt building inside her once more, making her acutely aware of how hollow she felt, how empty.

  “What do you think I should do about that, hmmm?” He lowered his head, his beautiful mouth millimeters from hers. All she’d have to do would be to reach up and it would be on hers.

  God, she wanted it to be on hers.

  She was starting to feel desperate again, which was shocking considering the first orgasm she had was still making its presence felt. Yet that didn’t stop her from trying to rise up on her toes, seeking his mouth. Only to have him pull back and out of reach the way he had before. “Don’t do that,” she murmured, frustrated.

  His eyes gleamed, as if he knew exactly what he was doing to her and, more, was enjoying it. “Don’t do what?”

  Breathless with impatience, she jerked on the soft cotton of his T-shirt. “Don’t pull away.”

  He smiled. Oh yes, he was enjoying this, the bastard. Like he had yesterday, too. Looked like he got off on it.

  “Demanding,” he said softly, approvingly. “I like that in a woman.”

  She tugged at him harder. He still had his thigh thrust between her legs, and the heat and the pressure were starting to drive her nuts. “Jacob, stop. You’re being a tease.”


  “You didn’t answer the question, Ms. Beasley.”

  “Question?” She couldn’t stop looking at his mouth, at the shape of his full bottom lip. It had felt soft on hers and yet hard as well, and so, so hot. He’d tasted like whisky, strong and rich and wickedly alcoholic and she wanted more. She wanted to drink the whole damn bottle. “What question?”

  “The question of what’s mine.”

  He stood there unmoving, obdurate as a rock wall, while she tugged at his T-shirt like a kitten clawing at a curtain and just as ineffectual. It was frustrating as hell.

  She felt like she had yesterday, trapped under his massive, iron-hard body, wild with desire and frustration while he did nothing.

  He called you sweet girl.

  She blinked at the memory. Yes, so he had. Whatever that meant, if it meant anything at all.

  “What do you mean what’s yours?” she asked, dismissing the thought. “I really think you need to stop talking now.”

  The hand he’d just licked moved again, down to her mouth, his thumb stroking along her lower lip. “This, for example,” he said. “Or maybe . . .” His hand dropped lower, fingertips brushing over her breast, grazing her sensitive nipple and sending sparks of sensation racing along her nerve endings. “This.”

  The look in his eyes was fierce, sharp, demanding a response from her whether she wanted to give him one or not.

  She shuddered. “Why do you want those?”

  “Because I do. Because you wanted me to want you back and that’s a dangerous thing to say to a man like me.”

  “It’s not dangerous.” Her mouth felt sensitized, almost bruised, though his touch had been featherlight, and she was desperate for him to stroke his thumb along it again. “Why is it dangerous?”

  “You should know by now.” One blunt-tipped finger circled her nipple, a light caress that had her shivering all over. “I keep what’s mine and I never let it go.” Another aching circle, another rush of sensation arrowing straight between her thighs. “So be very careful about how you answer, Ms. Beasley.”

  But she was getting tired of him toying with her. Tired of his questions. She didn’t want to talk anymore. She wanted his hands on her and hers on him, and she didn’t much care how it happened, only that it happened now.