Mitch and Samantha from Captive Hero.
“Aren’t you afraid I may have a radio in my room?”
No? Wanting to see his face, she used the slight slackening in his body to push back and twist around.
Chalk up another mistake for Samantha the stupid.
A quick recovery had Mitch plastering her against the wall, every solid, hard inch he possessed rubbing her sensitized form. Strong and fierce, wicked cravings cancelled the fight from her mind. She stilled.
Talk about captured.
Damn, he felt…damn. She never experienced anything so incredible. Her gaze dropped to his mouth so achingly close. She’d love nothing more than for those delicious lips to seize hers again.
Stay strong, her mind ordered. You can get past this. In an attempt to regain control, Sam closed her eyes and inhaled.
Mistake number four.
He smelled hot, woodsy, manly. Ah hell, she was in trouble. The man oozed testosterone like it was free. Okay, so it was, but damn. All her combat experience with said male affliction couldn’t help her now. Her trusty immune system against rockin’ hot men failed her for the first time. Ever. She didn’t have a defense against it. Not with him. Her control slipped further, and when she opened her eyes, her heart literally performed a defensive spiral in her chest.
He’d switched gears too. Hunger deepened his gaze to mirror warm Bermuda waters and devoured the remnants of her strength.
Trouble. She was in deep. Liquid heat throbbed through her core, aching to consume the thick, bulging erection now pressing her belly. God, she never wanted anyone this bad before. Never ached with such force.
Lack of control was completely new.
Maybe if she’d had sex just once in the past seven months she could combat this dangerous desire. But she hadn’t. And she couldn’t.
Breath clogged her dry throat. What was he waiting for? Why didn’t he do something?
With escape no longer a thought, Sam’s need to set the mistaken pilot straight, to make him understand the truth, flew into the wild blue yonder as a greater need, a deeper, stronger need prevailed.
Her need for Captain Mitchell.
“Shit,” someone muttered, a second before their lips met in a heated, mutual, frenzy.
Hands still captured by his, she leaned into him and rejoiced at his low, guttural groan. He kissed her again and again with mind drugging precision, and she met the give-and-take demands with equal zeal, his lips drawing a response clear up from her curled toes.
If hot had a taste, it was Mitch. The man melted her bones. Oh, he was good. He threw down desire’s gauntlet and need commanded she returned the pleasure.
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