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  She slid behind him, hating to put her arms around him, hating this longing for the way he’d once made her feel. She’d always been completely self-sufficient. That her body could so easily betray that independence tore at her.

  Her head snapped back as Blake gunned the motorcycle out of the lot. They pulled up to the traffic light while emotions surged inside her, confusion, desire, embarrassment over her need and Blake’s rejection—and tightly coiled anxiety at the threat of Jack on their tail. Could it have been Jack sitting there watching them?

  That ominous possibility compelled her to search over her shoulder. She had to know if her fears were founded. She had to identify who sat behind the wheel of that car.

  But by the time she looked back, it was gone.

  Chapter 7

  She picked Desanto over me.

  Jack shifted the “Lucky Crown” into park under a tree in an abandoned lot, where he could clearly see Blake’s motorcycle roll into the Paradise Motel.

  The course of their journey was easy to follow.

  But the course of events unfolding before him wasn’t.

  A vein throbbed in his temple. He hadn’t gotten out of the car to confront them at the restaurant because he’d needed to see it for himself. The evidence before him now—watching Desanto strut up to the lobby desk while Layla waited patiently for him—told Jack all he needed to know. One room. One bed. It meant one thing.

  Desanto had taken back the only thing Jack had ever needed in his life. Layla was slipping from his grasp.

  Eight months ago he’d seen the signs. Then, her true feelings came out into the open the same night he’d peeled Desanto away from a bar fight. Blake had been playing referee, but the justice system didn’t need to know that. Jack had hauled him into custody, hoping that slapping him with bogus charges would pay him back. Blake deserved it, for what he’d done.

  The guy had cornered him off duty one night, when Jack was meeting up with Johnny to sell blow to one of the guys in Rob’s band. Rob wasn’t there. Neither was the band. But Blake was waiting for him with a lethal look in his eyes.

  Jack rubbed his neck, recalling the move Blake put on him faster than he could react in self-defense. He’d almost blacked out under the pressure of Blake’s hand closing off his windpipe. He’d barely heard the threat—that if he ever so much as touched Rob again, threatened him, bullied him, even looked at him the wrong way, Blake would come back and finish the job. Blake had told him that right before Jack had passed out, when the last thought leaking from his brain was whether he’d wake up again. When he came to, he vowed that Blake would never get the chance to finish anything.

  Hauling Desanto into custody for that bar fight a few weeks later had sent a wave of triumph through Jack. Except the charges against Desanto were dropped. Damn lawyers. He hadn’t realized Blake had access to that kind of cash for bail.

  The momentary triumph had been about more than just regaining his pride. Jack had been desperate to get Desanto off his tail. The bastard had reopened the case against him, the murder rap that wouldn’t go away. A wound that had festered between them for years. But Jack had handled it, made the witness conveniently disappear. There was a weapon more powerful than the gun in his holster: fear.

  The word brought Jack’s thoughts back around to later that night, at Layla’s place. He’d needed to blow off steam and had told her about Desanto’s arrest, the dropped charges. “The guy’s six-three with two black belts, a loud Harley, and a bad attitude.”

  “And that amounts to assault with a deadly weapon, using himself ?” Disgust had clouded her eyes. Her total disbelief was intolerable.

  In a moment of heat he’d made an accusation he regretted now. But she’d sided with Blake. A repressed, deep-rooted wrath had surfaced and blurred the outer edges of his vision with red haze.

  “You’re taking his side? How could you? Unless you are back with Blake.” The mere thought had sent a surge of aggression through him. “Are you sleeping with him?”

  “Did it ever occur to you that you’re the problem? That no one else is to blame?”

  “You picked the wrong night to test me.” He advanced on her. “How long?” he demanded.

  “We’ve never slept together,” she said. “But maybe I should consider it. Sex with anyone has to be better than Strictly Missionary Control-Freak Jack.”

  At her cruel outburst, the taste of rage had filled his mouth. He’d exploded into violence. Fear had filled her eyes when she shrank back. The submission that accompanied her fear had felt like cool, quenching water riding the fury that burned through his veins.

  That look of frightful submission, that inkling of doubt inside her, lowered her defenses enough to give him the control he craved. He’d gotten high off the rush.

  But the memory of that high was replaced with a sinking feeling. He scowled. Strictly Missionary Control-Freak Jack . The name taunted him, the way he’d been taunted by the neighborhood kids when he’d been left behind and had to fend for himself in his uncle’s trailer park. His lips trembled with barely suppressed ferocity.

  He stared hard at the motel across the street, thoughts swarming in his mind…all the things he should’ve done to make Layla stay with him. He could be everything for her. Emptiness lived inside him that only Layla helped him forget.

  Instead of letting him fill her empty places, too, she’d told him to keep his creepy, vicious tendencies to himself and stay out of her life. Then she’d shut him out. Did she really think a door would stop him from getting to her?

  She’d never have to worry about being lonely—because he’d never leave her alone. He would always be there, protecting her from men like Blake who’d only make her heart break with disappointment.

  It had been so easy, convincing Layla the night her brother went missing that Blake had abandoned her—Layla’s worst fear.

  Where was her fear now? How could she forget how Blake betrayed her?

  If what Jack saw before his eyes was true, and she was going back to Desanto, then the guy must have offered her something she couldn’t resist.

  Security? No, she couldn’t trust him.

  Money? Maybe, the guy was on his way to becoming a self-made millionaire with his stupid landscaping business. But then, Jack was, too, and after he sold the kilo from the drug bust in Sturgis he’d come close to matching Blake’s status. If not money, then…

  Sex? Oh, hell . His chest rose and fell on quick breaths.

  If she was turning to Blake because she thought he’d be better in bed, then Jack had news for her. He’d unleash the secret, darker side of his lust, if that’s what she wanted. He’d show her he could be all the man she needed.

  He craved her, needed her. She belonged to him.

  He clenched the steering wheel. “Fifteen minutes with her. That’s all it’ll take.”

  Now he just needed to get her alone. Good thing he’d planned ahead. A smirk twisted his lips and the tension in his body eased a fraction.

  Jack started up the car. “I have a surprise for you, Desanto. Stop in the bar across the street, have a nightcap,” he urged from the secret sanctuary of the tinted-glass Crown Vic, as if he could will Blake to do his bidding.

  Driving it out of the abandoned lot, he steered diagonally across the street into the parking lot of a local bar. He smirked when his eyes landed on three motorcycles parked near the door. Perfect.

  Jack had gotten in touch with Johnny again, who had an “in” with someone in the gang L ittle Robby rode with. Jack had sent word through the pipeline that he’d make any outstanding warrants—for anything—disappear, if some of them stayed behind in a nearby bar to do Jack a small favor. He’d wipe out a warrant in exchange for ‘em slamming a fist into Desanto’s jaw and sending him to the hospital. That would get him away from Layla for a good long while. “And I’ll arrive just in time.”

  He pulled his cowboy hat low over his eyes and stewed silently, his hands opening and clenching, the anticipation riding his
nerves raw. He wanted to see Blake go down. Jack could almost taste the satisfaction. He planned to watch it happen from a front row seat at the bar.

  Then nothing will come between me and my girl.

  His jaw tightened with the pressure of having to wait for what was to come.

  This time I’ll take her the right way. I’ll show her everything. Then she’ll see. She’ll come back to me.

  *

  The pessimism that Layla had felt since sunset had begun to drift away. In its place sat an indefinable heaviness, something close to foreboding.

  She watched Blake slide off the bike, shed his coat and stretch the stiffness from his muscles. Lord, he was a beautiful man, bulging in all the right places, tight and hard everywhere. She discreetly eyed him as he sauntered over to the check-in window of the Paradise Motel, noticing the back view was nearly as appealing as the front.

  Maybe that’s where this apprehension was coming from. More than the nervous suspicion that her ex might be following her, the thought of spending the night in the same room—in the same bed?—with Blake had her heart pounding hard against her ribs. The blood in her veins thickened at the prospect. The curves of her body filled with awareness, desire.

  Even his curt rejection back at the restaurant parking lot didn’t dampen her urges. It had to be weakness. A character flaw she’d contained until faced with Blake’s presence again for hours on end.

  There had to be a reason why women trailed after him, vying for his attention, landing on his doorstep whenever the opportunity arose. She didn’t want to be one of those women, a quick hit between the sheets and nothing more.

  Shuddering at that sordid notion, she reinforced her defenses, shielding whatever weak part of her caved in to his appeal. Could she survive the constant sensual triggers he evoked? The image from the rest stop bathroom stall came to mind. Blake, on his knees, about to—

  “We got lucky, landed the last room available.” Blake made the announcement as he sauntered toward her, where she waited on his motorcycle. He tossed the silver room key into the air and caught it. His gaze settled on her, watchful as he said, “But we had to settle for one bed. Hope that won’t bother you.”

  “Really?” She shrugged with false disinterest, while her heart galloped in her ribcage.

  She couldn’t openly reveal the desire pluming like a hot air balloon fired by lust. He’d turned her down flat an hour ago, the disappointment still pinging inside her.

  He slid in front of her and shifted the out of idle. Layla wanted to shift, too, but there seemed to be no other way to ride on this bike unless she was suctioned to him.

  After driving the Harley behind two buildings, he pulled diagonally into a space in front of their motel room door. He got off, unlocked the door and disappeared inside.

  Layla craned her neck to steal a peek at what the arrangements would entail for the night. Her gaze softened with surprise when she saw that the interior defied her expectations. The walls were painted a soft sea-foam green. The carpet looked plush and new, the color of sand. The bed seemed inviting, a pouf of white pillows nestled under a comforter with a seashell motif. A clean scent floated to her. It was nothing like what she expected a motel would offer.

  Soft light spilled out from inside. Blake had left the door wide open for her to follow.

  And she would have—only she couldn’t move.

  The bottom half of her body had glued itself to the leather seat. This was worse than before, at the rest stop. She felt completely frozen, helpless. Then the tingling started. She inched herself up from the seat. The sensations strengthened, washing through her. Just like before.

  Uh-oh.

  “Um, Blake?”

  “Huh?”

  “I need you—I mean, I could use your help.”

  He stuck his head out. “What’s up?”

  “I can’t get off your motorcycle.” Her teeth tugged at her bottom lip as she lowered her gaze. She sat on the leather seat, bent forward slightly, her back arched, hands pushing against the tapered cushion.

  When she looked up, she caught his gaze. His eyes narrowed, sharp and focused. With a leisurely strut, he crossed the distance between them. A conniving look crossed his features, which were illuminated on one side of his profile by lamplight pouring out of their room. The other half of his face was lit by streetlights along the road.

  “Can’t get off, huh?”

  She threw him a look. “Something like that.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  Alongside the motorcycle Blake paused, assessed the scenario, and bent down. A second later Layla bounced over his shoulder.

  She had expected a suave, fluid move like him lifting her into his arms. Humiliation fueled annoyance. Miffed, she said, “Another Neanderthal moment brought to you by Blake.”

  “Hey, I’m trying to help you out. I have to carry you like this.” He stepped across the threshold of the room, into the soft spill of light. “How else am I supposed to tell if you can feel this?” He wedged a hand between her legs, sliding it from her ankle to her calf. The strength and dawning familiarity of his touch conjured dangerous desires. “Does that help? Can you feel it?”

  “Barely.” Did that sounded like an encouragement? She wriggled against him.

  “Like that, huh?” His hand trailed higher, between her knees. “This?”

  Layla inhaled sharply. “Y-yes. I mean, I can feel it.”

  She’d been desperate for his touch back at the rest stop. Now that craving intensified. His confident touch. His coaxing words. The scent of his heated skin. The memory of his warm, inviting mouth. The penetrating promise of his tongue.

  Her hands sank into the folds of his T-shirt. The warmth of him seeped through the fabric and licked her fingers like fire. Without thinking she scraped her nails lightly up his spine.

  He sucked in a breath. Then the weight of his hand coasted up the backs of her legs. His fingers splayed over her backside. Those teasing caresses became impossible to withstand. “Like that?”

  “Yes,” she half groaned. The bathroom-stall experience had primed her. Now she wanted the real thing. She wanted Blake.

  “I told you I’ll do whatever I can to ease your needs on this trip,” he said, his voice sounding deeper, gruffer.

  Then don’t stop , she silently begged. Touch me again .

  “Is this what you really want?” The journey of his hands paused.

  Every nerve ending leaped in response to the absence, singed with the awareness of where his fingers were hovering, about to glide along the seam of her jeans

  “Blake… please .”

  “Don’t worry, baby.” His voice had dropped an octave, soft yet rough like torn velvet. “I will.”

  Blake shut the door behind them and slid her down it. Her body contoured to his form along the way. He caught her in his arms, clutched her against him before her feet reached the floor.

  Her breasts pressed against his chest. She felt his heart pounding like a drum beating an ancient rhythm of sexuality that awakened instinct.

  Second thoughts were clouded by the smoldering look in his eyes. He turned his face to the side of her neck, dragged his lips across her skin open-mouthed. The hot mist of his breath coated her throat. Chills skimmed across her skin. Every inch of her body demanded the same warmth that he spread down her neck.

  He devoured her.

  The softness of his lips contrasted with his bristle. Smooth. Scrape. Smooth. An erotic dance of heat, then burn. He explored the most responsive parts of her that were exposed to him, her chin, then beneath her jaw where her pulse pounded, then the indentations above of her collarbones, down to the valley between her breasts.

  There he started using his tongue. The hot, knee-numbing flicks slid lower.

  “Oh, yes,” she moaned. “I need to feel you…everywhere.” The place between her thighs grew warmer, wetter, imagining exactly where she wanted his talented tongue.

  Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging
at the long strands. His arms tightened around her waist. His strength liquefied her bones, and she melted against him.

  Craving his kiss, she was about to bring his face back up to hers when his teeth clamped down on an erect nipple through the fabric of her top. Breath whooshed from her lungs. He tugged. Layla nearly fell apart. He knew the exact pressure to use. Just enough sting without pain. So much pleasure she writhed and arched and fisted her hands in his hair.

  No protests came as he slipped off her jacket. He slid the straps of her top off her shoulders, peeled the fabric away from her chest and exposed her before him. His eyes absorbed every inch of her.

  The long pause that followed slowly stole the air from her lungs until her vision darkened at the edges. What was he waiting for? What was wrong? “Blake?”

  “Ahh, Layla.” He exhaled. She breathed him in. He filled her. Like no one else. All the way to those dark edges that had made her draw back in fear of his refusal. “You’re so beautiful. So incredible…so much…more than I ever…” His eyes locked onto hers. “I’ve wanted to be with you like this for so long.”

  Gliding the backs of his fingers reverently along the rounded edges and undersides of her breasts, he cupped the mounds, lowered his head and kissed between the cleavage he created. He passed his thumbs over the peaks. Her nipples rose, tightened, begging him to notice.

  A growl came from deep in his throat, followed by a primal grin of satisfaction. He descended on those peaks one at a time, grazing them with his teeth, soothing them with the rough flat of his tongue, flicking them with the tip. Then he clamped. Tugged.

  Layla jerked. A shiver whipped through her. The movement was followed by an erotic-driven convulsion. “Blake.”

  “Don’t hurry this,” he whispered, his breath lightly scalding her skin.

  How long had he pictured this moment, and thought of it in terms of the ultimate conquest?

  But now that he was here…well, now it wasn’t like that at all.

  The pads of his thumbs caressed the gentle slope of her abdomen, bartering with her desire for his caress in order to buy himself time to figure out exactly what this was.