Nauti Kisses

But she had learned something that night, something about herself at least. She had learned that she wanted more from John than his kisses, his touches. Once, she had thought it would be enough, if that was all she could have. It wouldn’t be, though. He would rip her heart from her chest, leaving her lost and alone. As lost and alone as she had been when she learned he had left Boston.



No, she wanted John’s heart.



“Couch won’t do, baby.” He was shaking his head as he fixed breakfast, his broad back to her.



John had been lean, metro muscular rather than bulky. He had been strong before, but as she watched him move, watched the muscles in his back and shoulders shift, she realized his body had changed more than she had once suspected.



Those muscles were now tight, hard, powerful. She wondered what it would feel like if she ran her hands over them, dug her nails into them.



“You’re making my dick hard staring at me like that,” he stated without turning around.



Sierra almost lost her breath at the husky, controlled lust in his voice.



“What makes you think you’re worth looking at, dummy,” she snapped out angrily.



He chuckled and the sound went straight to her thighs, tightened them, then zipped to her womb with a blast of heat. Damn him, she could feel her juices flooding her pussy, her inner muscles tightening, clenching in hunger.



“I can feel you looking at me. I’ve always been able to feel you looking at me.” By the sound of his voice, it wasn’t an admission he particularly liked.



“It’s called killing looks,” she informed him as she moved to the bar to watch him more closely. “Most of the time I slap you upside the head with something.”



He flashed her a grin. A charming, rakish grin that had the butterflies in her stomach doing cartwheels in arousal.



“That doesn’t explain why it’s always felt like a very intimate stroke, now does it, darlin’? Personally, I think you’ve wanted to be in my bed for years.”



He knew she had.



John turned back to the stove for the simple reason that if he kept looking at her, breakfast would burn and his dick would likely rip right through his jeans.



He should have realized years ago what was going on with her, but he hadn’t. Just as he should have realized what was going on with him.



Half the time he’d either been angry with her, or perplexed by the fact that she affected him. He’d done everything to excuse his arousal around her, from the very convincing lie that she was simply a pretty woman and he was too damned sexual, as most of his lovers accused him of being.



The fact of the matter was, he’d wanted her. She’d been a part of his life since she was little, so admitting it hadn’t been easy. Until the night his pretty little Sierra had rescued him from a life in a frozen marriage with Marlena, he hadn’t wanted to face exactly what she had been doing to him since she hit the tender age of eighteen.



“Personally, I think bumming around in the mountains has rotted what little brains you had left in your head,” she snapped back.



He didn’t have to look at her to realize her gray eyes were lit with equal parts anger and arousal. Hell, he could hear it in her voice, he could feel it flaming in the air around them.



He glanced back at her anyway, and hell, he should have kept his eyes on the food. His gaze was drawn instantly to the small imprint of her nipples beneath her blouse.



She wasn’t wearing a bra.



He’d realized that earlier, and it made sense that she wasn’t. If the bruises were as bad as he’d learned, and he had no doubt they were, then a bra would have been extremely painful.



Without a bra, he could see his effect on her, though, and the thought of getting her nipples in his mouth again had his cock throbbing in response.



He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead as he jerked his gaze back to the bacon frying and almost cursed before flipping it quickly.



Yep, she was going to make him burn her breakfast, and he didn’t want to do that. She needed a good meal and plenty of sleep.



“Don’t you have drugs to take before you eat?” he asked, changing the subject quickly.



“I don’t like taking them.” There was a mutinous tone to her voice. “They make me dopey.”



“They make you heal, now take them.” He wasn’t arguing with her where her health was concerned. “Dad has a doctor lined up for you, he’s a good man. He’ll be here tomorrow afternoon. You can discuss the prescription with him. Until then, take the medicine.”



He laid the bacon out on a plate, slid the skillet back, and turned to look at her.



Her arms were crossed over her breasts, her eyes narrowed.



“You can’t make me,” she informed him, her chin tilted stubbornly.



John sighed at that. “Do you really want this fight, Sierra? Over something as important as your health? Take the pills, or I won’t let up. I’ll harass. I’ll bitch. I’ll call Rowdy, and his dad and stepmother will come to the boat, and trust me, Ray can be a bigger mother hen than Dad is. If that doesn’t work, then I’ll call Rowdy’s cousins and wives in. They’ll bring the babies, and won’t let you hold them. They’ll frown, they’ll advise . . .”



“Stop already!” Her hands went in the air as she turned, stalked to her purse, and pulled out the bottle as he grabbed water from the fridge and set it on the bar for her after opening it.



She was too sore to stomp back, but she tried. She did take her medication, though, glaring at him every second. He could see so much in her expressive face, emotions and needs that infuriated and drew him. Infuriated him because he should have seen them all along.



“I’ll make you pay for this,” she warned him furiously. “See if I don’t.”



“As long as you’re healthy enough to attempt it.” He shrugged with a grin. “Then you have my permission to try.”



“Try to knock some sense in your head,” she muttered as she sat down gingerly on one of the bar stools. “You’re a pain in the ass, John.”



“Not yet,” he promised, and the thought of that sweet ass nearly took his breath. “But I will be. I promise, lollipop. I will be.”



FOUR



Breakfast was eaten in a strained silence. Sierra could almost feel the clock ticking, the knowledge that once the meal was finished, she wouldn’t be able to fight his insistence that she go to bed.



She was so tired, and the medication only made the weariness sink deeper inside her.



The doctor had warned her that she needed to sleep as often as possible, to rest and recuperate. Whoever had attacked her, for whatever reason, had been strong. Strong enough that the blows to her thighs as she fought him had gone incredibly deep, not to mention the hold that had left the prints of his fingers in her flesh.



Her breasts were still so tender she couldn’t bear a bra, and her ribs ached. She hadn’t simply been groped roughly, she’d been struck, gloved fists striking her body as she fought and screamed.



Forcing the memory back wasn’t easy. The pain medication made it harder to do. It was one of the reasons she hated taking it.



“Come on, you’re falling asleep where you’re sitting,” John announced as he rose from his chair and collected her dishes. “You need to rest.”



It was the middle of the morning and she would probably end up sleeping the day away. She hated doing that. The sun was bright, it was warm and clear, and the breeze off the water was invigorating. She would have loved to be able to lie out on the upper deck and soak up the healing rays of the sun.



“Come on, darlin’.” Sierra’s chest clenched at the gentle sound of his voice as he moved to her chair as though he were going to carry her again.



“I wish everyone would just stop trying to tote me around like a damned newborn.” Rising from the chair gingerly, she took a deep breath and would have glared at him if her eyes didn’t feel so heavy. “I’m sore, not broken.”



She hated feeling helpless, and she couldn’t afford to be in his arms again. Being in his arms meant feeling the strength of them, the warmth of them, and remembering too clearly what she had almost had.



“You worry me with your stubbornness, Sierra,” he growled, but he didn’t try to pick her up. Instead he stayed close until she moved for the couch. “Try to lie down on that couch, and I’m going to carry you straight up those stairs anyway. I told you. You’re sleeping with me.”



He hadn’t had a nickel’s worth of sleep since his father had called the day before. He’d lain awake most of the night imagining the horror she must have felt the night she was attacked. It had kept him from sleeping, kept him from enjoying the peace of the summer night.



He wanted her in his arms. Hell, he’d nearly driven to Boston and simply picked her up rather than waiting for his sister to deliver her.



“I’m calling your father,” she muttered, but she turned and headed for the stairs. “I’m going to tell him you’ve turned into a bully.”



“He’ll understand completely,” he assured her, his lips almost twitching at the little feminine snort of displeasure that she gave him.



She made it up the stairs, but by time she walked into the luxurious bedroom, it was obvious she was more exhausted than before.



“Strip.” He could see her intent to lie down in that bed fully clothed.



Moving to the larger-than-king-sized bed, he pulled back the comforter and sheets then turned and looked at her once again.



She was staring at him with wounded gray eyes.



“Why, John?” she sighed. “What does it matter?”



“Because some bastard dared to abuse what I consider mine,” he snarled, surprising himself with the vehemence in his tone. “I want to see what he did, Sierra. I want to know so that when I get my hands on him, I’ll know exactly what I owe him.”



Sierra stared back at him, some hidden, previously unknown part of her soul beginning to relax. She had known John would never hurt her. He would never let anyone else hurt her, but now it seemed something deeper inside her recognized that as well.



Licking her lips, she gripped the hem of her T-shirt and tried not to wince as she drew it over her head. She wore no bra, nothing to hide the bruises that still marked her flesh.



Her flesh marked easily; it always had. And bruises remained for what seemed like forever on her skin. Two weeks, and the black and blue marks still looked almost fresh.



She ignored John, refusing to look into his face as she toed her sneakers from her feet and then slid her jeans from her hips and down her legs.



She wore panties, but the soft, pale cream silk was little protection.



“Someone’s going to die.”



The sound of his voice had her gaze jerking to his face. Violet-blue eyes were raging with fury, his expression dark, forbidding, as Sierra felt tears come to her eyes.



“I fought,” she whispered, suddenly shaking, her voice trembling. “You always told me to fight, John. I fought . . .” She’d fought as hard as she could. She’d screamed, she’d ignored the pain. All she could think was that a stranger was trying to steal from her one of the most vital choices she could make.



“My God! Baby.” A few steps and he was in front of her, lifting her into his arms despite the fact that she had asked him not to carry her.



He had lifted her, only to lay her carefully on the bed before sitting beside her, his hands gently lifting her arms until they were stretched above her head.



John could feel a burning agony tearing through him. He should have never left Boston. Not so soon. He should have forced her to see him, found a way past her stubbornness. He should have been there to protect her.



With the backs of his fingers, he stroked down the underside of her arms and the purple marks that led to her full, hard-tipped breasts. Harsh finger marks marred her flesh, but her nipples, so sweet and tight and hard, were the same tender pink, unbruised and tempting as hell.