Calamity Gene

Chapter 8

"I don't like you," Trace growled down at her.

"No one's asking you to," she replied, grabbing two fistfuls of his shirt as her knees wobbled.

"You don't belong here."

"I'm not planning on moving here, it's just a holiday."

"Just so we're clear."

"We're clear," she said. "Now what?"

He looked at her face for one long scorch of a moment, then with a barely audible "Fuck!" he brought his mouth down on hers.

It was scalding, brutal, the way he kissed her, the unleashed anger in it making her remember the words he'd thrown at her in the barn. I will ride you hot and hard and there will be nothing else to it... Alpha, caveman, asshole, bastard... You have ten seconds to decide if you can handle it. This kiss, like those words, was a warning, a goad to get her to tell him to stop.

Seconds only. Make or break time. Instinct told her they would not be repeating this scene over and over ad nauseam for what was left of her two weeks at Three Range. A truce had not been reached in the barn; the final battle was being fought here, now, in her cabin.

This was Trace's Waterloo.

But she was Wellington to his Napoleon. The power was hers, and the victory, because he could not stop himself.

Gene threw her arms around his neck and opened her mouth to him, kissing him back for all she was worth. She wasn't going to lose him, not if she could help it.

It was her last coherent thought because his tongue was inside her mouth, seeking, searching, claiming, taking. Savage kisses. Urgent, wet, hot kisses. An endless, groaning stream of them.

He dragged his mouth from hers at last, glared down at her. "Get undressed," he said, and shoved her away from him so that he could drag at his own clothes.

There wasn't much for her to remove. In a matter of seconds she was naked.

He was sstruggling with his shirt buttons, but his eyes were on her. "On the bed," he said. "Spread your legs."

A thrill ran through her. "I love a masterful man," she said as she lay herself on the bed.

"Shut up," was his testy response.

But she only laughed as he ripped off his shirt with barely repressed violence.

She disported her limbs appropriately. "Please tell me I'm going to have to grip the headboard," she said, and laughed again when he only glared at her.

He yanked off his boots and socks, tore off his jeans, reefed hisunderwear down, throwing them aside item by item with unrepressed violence.  She thought he was about to come for her even before she could do any more than register that his body was magnificent, and as he took one long step toward her she thought about telling him to wait, to stop, to stand there so she could look at him.

And then he did stop. But not for the benefit of her hungry eyes because he uttered something sharp and hard with another "fuck" in it, and turned on his heel.

"No!" she cried out, scrambling up.

Trace froze mid-stride, both fists clenching at his sides.

"Don't go," she said, and it came out like a plea.

He threw a look at her over his shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere," he said, and his fists unclenched. A stalk over to his jeans, a stop to sweep them up, a dig into the pocket.