What had she done?
That had never happened. Ever. As slight as her climax had been, hell, she could do better on her own. Maybe. But despite the strength of the orgasm, she still had orgasmed from nothing but a breath of air.
“What the hell happened back there?” Her bodyguard, Dyson, was suspicious. Of course, why wouldn’t he be? She had run out of the back of the club in nothing but a long coat and her undies and dived into the Trailblazer like the hounds of hell were after her ass.
They may as well have been. The minute Dyson had jumped into the passenger seat she had been out of there in a scream of tires and a jerk of the back end of the Trailblazer that would have done a high-speed car chase proud.
She’d lost her mind.
That was exactly what had happened. She’d lost her mind. For one impossibly long second, she had been certifiably insane.
“I knew better than this.” Dyson was snarling again, his brown eyes furious. “Were you attacked?”
Only by her own lust.
Emily lifted a shaking hand to her flushed cheek as she breathed in roughly and fought to keep her foot from lying too heavy on the gas. She wanted to be home. Now. But she didn’t need a ticket. God, if she were pulled over she would likely be arrested.
“I wasn’t attacked.”
“Then why are you running like a scared chicken with nothing over your underwear but a frickin’ long coat? I’ve been with you for four weeks and I’ve never seen you run.”
He was too familiar. Two months in her house seemed to be the lucky time limit for her bodyguards. This one was getting more frustrated by the day.
“I’m not running.”
Of course she was running. Like hell. Like an endangered dinosaur fighting for survival.
She could still feel her body flaming, the heat moving from her thighs, up her abdomen to her breasts and her face, even as she listened to Dyson bitching and moaning. She
felt as though she were on fire, as though nerve endings she had never known she possessed were suddenly coming to full-fledged life.
She had orgasmed.
Shamefully. Without warning. Without control. She had orgasmed in a stranger’s face.
And what a face it had been. The closer she had moved to him, the more starkly sensual it had become. That was a man who made a woman want to get down and dirty. Made her want to show the hidden slut hiding inside.
She almost cringed at the thought. Okay, so for the right man, maybe Cherry was right, she could get down and nasty.
For that man.
Oh man . . . He had been so righteously hot and hard. His abs had rippled beneath his snug T-shirt. His jaw had flexed as she straddled his lap. His expression had gone slack in amazement when he realized what she had done.
Oh God. She had come right there, right in front of his face.
She fanned her own face.
Of course, he hadn’t appeared in the least offended. He had looked . . . hungry. Very hungry. Very stark. Very eatably male. Undeniably male. Getting-ready-to-grab-her-and-do-her male.
He was a one-night stand waiting to happen, because that was not a “happily forever after” type of stud.
She breathed out roughly. It had to have been his resemblance to Kell, that was all there was to it. She hadn’t seen him in years. Her father had sworn he had been part of the group that had rescued her from the Fuentes compound nearly two years before, but she hadn’t seen him. All she had seen were the black masks that covered her rescuers’ faces.
She hadn’t recognized Kell in any of them.
But this man, she could have imagined Kell’s hard jawline. His sharp blade of a nose. Kell’s nose hadn’t been broken that she remembered, but this stranger’s had been.
There was a scar on the stranger’s neck; Kell hadn’t had one. That she remembered. God, it had been so long since she had seen him. Years. Years since she had even thought about him.