He scooped her into his arms and held her tight across his lap. It was a big lap, warm and protective, reinforced by rock-hard thighs and a sense of security that shouldn’t have made sense.
After Miguel, she’d sworn she would never be fooled by a man again. But her relationship with Miguel had never been this. He’d bought her expensive food, wooed her with pretty words, and fucked her without fireworks. Not even a spark.
He’d never held her, never embraced her without throwing her against the closest surface and rutting atop her.
Angling her head, she sought John’s vibrant gaze. Sweet Lord, he was so close, regarding her as if nothing else existed in the world. She nuzzled so deeply against his chest she felt the rhythm of his heart in her soul, dancing with hers. Endlessly, he held her, his mouth nearly upon her lips, chasing her breaths with unspoken questions.
“I was out of options,” she whispered. “What was I supposed to do?”
“You survive by doing what you’re told.” Green eyes glared down at her.
“Fuck that.” She glared right back. “I will always fight. And I did, earning more punishments. More beatings. More days without food. But you know what? Every infraction ensured that he couldn’t whore me out. Since I refused to be a prostitute, I was completely useless to him. So Miguel was called in. He drugged me, and a week later, I woke in the basement of Casa de La Rocha, only to become his personal whore. Then he gave me to his brothers.”
He tucked her head beneath his jaw and caressed her hair. His fingers swam with strong, powerful strokes, every touch made to comfort a woman as if he’d been born and bred to it.
For long minutes, he just cradled her, arms locked around her back, controlling her breaths with the confident, steady rhythm of his chest. She shouldn’t want him like this or find pleasure in his affection or feel so full of him.
Sleek with muscle beneath the terrycloth, his thighs shored up hers, supporting her like the arm tight around her back. An arm roped with cords of strength. The scent of raw masculinity, soft copper hair, flawlessly fair complexion, speckles of random freckles… How could she not admire his physical attributes?
The carved cut of his features lent him a rugged look, whether he wore a suit, gym shorts, or nothing at all. A unique mix of polish and roguishness, he was insanely gorgeous by any measure.
Oh, how she wanted to spend some time with his sinful mouth. Without an audience. With no agendas. She wanted to kiss him for no other reason than to savor his taste and delight in the tingles he delivered.
Dammit, get a grip.
She wiped a hand across her lips, but it didn’t erase the hot, virile feel of him, the potency of his skin, the answering electricity in her blood. Every drip of remembered pleasure drew her deeper into his trap.
It was no use. He was too tempting, and she was too interested. So she let herself indulge, just for a moment.
Running a palm up his chest over the robe, she slid her fingers between the lapels to brush the sparse hair on his pecs. His breaths grew shallow, but he let her explore, bending down to kiss her head. Then he leaned back and watched.
Her hand roved lower, to his abdomen, to his waist, as lean and strong as a pillar, chiseled with sexy ridges and indentations. She spread open the robe to roam along the thin trail of hair, defined hipbones, and the proud, semi-hard length of his response to her touch.
“What’s your real name?” he murmured.
She closed her eyes and pulled her hand away. “I can’t.”
“Hector La Rocha knew it. That’s why he sent Miguel to take you.” His American accent turned growly. “Why is the secrecy of your name so important?”
“What’s your real name?” She moved to crawl off his lap.
He caught her waist and wrenched her back, wrapping her legs around his hips to straddle him.
“I’ll give you mine…” He gripped her jaw and brushed his lips against hers. “When you give me yours.”
“I want to tell you.” Her heart hammered as she cupped his powerful jaw, his beautiful, sculpted face. “I’m scared. I’m…” She cast her gaze around the room, knowing if she gave him this information, it wouldn’t happen here. “Hector was murdered in prison and—”
A strange, unguarded look swept across his features, there and gone too quickly to analyze. “What does his murder have to do with you?”
“His sons are looking for his killer. They believe the assassin belongs to a cartel in Colombia. Rest…ari…something.”
“Restrepo,” he whispered, his face paling. “The Restrepo Cartel.”
“Oh, my God.” She scrambled off his lap. “You’re one of them? You work for a rival cartel?”
“No, I work for myself. Tell me what you know.” He rose and grabbed her robe. “This is fucking important.”