Page 7 of Edge of Danger

Pillows went sailing. She clenched the brass spindles in the headboard and his fists closed over hers, gripping tightly, making her his willing captive. He stared down into her eyes and she stared back, holding him in her thrall as surely as he held her in his.

Pressure built to epic proportions inside her and she fought to hold it back. To let it build until its explosion tore her completely apart. And Ian, damn him, did the same. His jaw muscles rippled as he clenched his teeth, visibly fighting against the explosion building inside him.

Quickly, it turned into a contest to see who could last the longest without having a gigantic, soul-destroying orgasm…while at the same time pushing the other person over the edge.

The amusement in his stare faded into determination, and from determination into gluttonous pleasure, and from gluttonous pleasure into mindless delirium. She knew the feeling. Words failed her, and she heard herself panting his name over and over in a bad parody of a porn flick.

She fought to the last inch of her being, but without warning the dam gave way utterly and completely, crashing in on her and deluging her with waves of pleasure so powerful that she was flattened beneath the weight and power of them. The good news was that Ian shouted and let go at nearly the exact same instant.

She collapsed back against the soft cotton sheets while he supported his upper body with his elbows on either side of her head.

“You killed me,” he finally mumbled.

Ditto. Aloud, she managed to breathe, “Wow.”

Gradually she caught her breath, and the heaving of his chest slowed against hers. His heartbeat, frantic against her breast, slowed as well.

With the return of oxygen to her brain came a sudden and alarming burst of sanity. She’d just fallen in the sack and had the hottest sex of her life with a total stranger. She’d had to ask him his name mere seconds before the actual act.

“I won,” she declared.

“Did not. Yousocame first,” he retorted.

Hah. So ithadbeen a contest. “Yeah, but I had the best orgasm,” she replied.

He grinned down at her. “You go ahead and think that if it makes you feel better, honey.”

Eyes narrowing, she purred, “Yes, but I’m ready to go again. Right now.”

He threw his head back and laughed richly. It was an infectious sound and her lips couldn’t help curving up in an answering smile. Until she felt his flesh stirring inside her, though. Her smile faded and she stared up at him in shocked anticipation. Soon, a new erection filled her and he began stroking her lazily into oblivion once more.

“Before I lose the ability to form sentences,” she murmured, “how are we going to define a win, here?”

He studied her thoughtfully.

“Most orgasms? She suggested hopefully.

“Oh, no. You’re not stacking the deck on me like that. Loser’s the first person who can’t stand and walk across the room.”

Oh, my. She hoped she lost.

It took a couple of hours, but she was officially declared the loser when Ian managed to roll out of bed with a groan and shamble into the other room to fetch them bottles of water. The ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, sending sultry air wafting across her flushed skin. It was going to be a month before she could summon the strength to walk again.

He came back and sat down on the edge of the bed, gloriously naked. He was possibly more intimidating without clothes than he was fully decked out in warrior’s gear. Like this, she could see all the layers of rock-hard muscle, the collection of scars that spoke of winning more fights than he’d lost, and the overall toughness of the man beneath the fancy military gear.

His physique was a sharp reminder that she wasnotas well equipped physically as a man to be out here on the edge of Hell all by herself. Of course, she would like to think she compensated for that by being smarter than most of the men gathered in a hellhole like this.

Holding a wad of the top sheet to her chest, she sat up and finally took a good look around his place. It was decorated as hedonistically as any seraglio. Colorful and complicated Turkish rugs covered the floors, and elaborately carved wooden furniture adorned the corners. Low bed surrounded by white gauze curtains, currently pulled back, pile of silk pillows, a tall, brass hookah pipe--it looked like a set straight out of a 1930’s sheikh movie.

“You decorate this place?” she murmured.

He glanced around and snorted. “Not my taste. It came like this. The deal is I keep it from getting looted, and the owner doesn’t tell anyone I’m here.”

Abundant mirrors gave both the bedroom and living area a sense of open space…and reflected her disheveled image from a half-dozen different angles. Her lips looked rosy and swollen and her hair was a wavy mess around her face.

Beyond a doorway obscured with long strings of beads, her gaze lighted on a porcelain toilet and a claw foot bathtub. She threw him a sour glance. “And to think, I’m living in a one-room dump with no running water, an Army cot, and a chamber pot.”

He grinned. “With the sewers destroyed, I have to pay a boy to clean out the septic tank from time to time. But I repaired the rain cistern on the roof. I have running water.” He added slyly, “Late in the afternoon when the sun has heated it, I can take a hot bath.”

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