Nora Roberts - The Fall Of Shane Mackade

It was laughable, if you looked at it from a little distance. Seeing the cool, sarcastic and quick-witted Dr. Knight wildly drunk was certainly worth the price of a ticket.

He thought about it as he fried up bacon. She'd certainly looked cute, sitting there with her glasses sliding off her nose and that stupid grin on her face. And a man couldn't complain overmuch about having a pretty woman wrap herself around him. No matter how frustrating it had been.

Of course, a different kind of man would have taken advantage of the situation. A different kind of man would have let her pull his clothes off, done the same courtesy for her. A different kind of man would have plowed right into that hot little body, and—

Because he was tormenting himself, he took several long, steadying breaths. She was damn lucky he wasn't a different kind of man. In fact, as he saw it, she owed him. Big.

That made him a bit happier as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

Then again, she was going to suffer plenty. As the smells of breakfast, the zing of caffeine, the simple beauty of the morning, worked on him, he decided he could even feel a little sorry for her.

She was going to wake up with a champion hangover and a lot of blank spaces. He was going to enjoy filling in those blanks, watching her cringe with embarrassment. It would even the scales somewhat. Enough, he thought, so that he could be compassionate. He'd give her some aspirin, along with the MacKade remedy for the morning after.

And if he got a couple of good laughs at her expense, well, she deserved them.

Poor baby, he mused, scrambling eggs briskly. She'd probably sleep until noon, then wake up, pull the covers over her pounding head and pray for a quick, merciful death.

All in all, it was a fair trade for the miserable night he'd spent.

He was very surprised when he turned the burner off under the skillet, reached for a plate and saw her standing in the kitchen doorway.

His brows lifted as he studied her. Definitely pale, he mused, heavy-eyed, still in her robe. Her hair was wet, which meant she'd probably tried to drown herself in the shower.

He grinned, just a little evilly.

"How's it going, Doc?"

Cautiously she cleared her throat. "Fine." She glanced toward the table. The evidence of her crime was still there. The bottle of wine, the glass still holding what she hadn't been able to gulp down. She was going to have to face it. "I guess I got a little carried away."

"You could say that." Looking forward to the next few minutes, he closed the cupboard door, perhaps a bit harder than necessary. She didn't wince at the bang, and that disappointed him. "Around here we'd say you were drunk as a skunk."

She did wince at that. "I'm not much of a drinker, as a rule. It was foolish, on top of an empty stomach. I want to apologize, and to thank you for getting me to bed."

His grin was rapidly fading. She was entirely too composed for his liking. "How's the head?"

"The head. Oh..." She smiled, relieved that he would care enough to ask. "Fine. I don't get hangovers. I must have a good metabolism."

He simply stared at her. Was there no justice? "You don't have a hangover?"

"No, but I could use some coffee."

She walked toward the pot. No stumbling, Shane

noted as his resentment grew. No squinting away

. from the sunlight. Not even one quiet, pitiful moan.

"You drank the best part of a bottle of wine, and you feel fine?"

"Mmm... Hungry." She smiled at him again as she poured coffee. "I really was an idiot last night, and you were very understanding."

"Yeah." He was rapidly losing his appetite. "I was a brick."

He certainly had been, she mused, and he deserved an explanation along with her apology. "You see, I'd had this breakthrough, and..." The expression on his face warned her to fill in those details later. "You're angry with me. You should be. I was awful." She laid a hand on his arm. "Totally out of control. And you were so restrained and sweet."

"Sweet." He spit the word. "You remember what happened?"

"Of course." A bit surprised that he'd think she'd forget, she leaned back against the counter as she sipped her coffee. "I was—well, pawing you is the only way to describe it. Not my usual style. I'm very grateful you understood it was the wine talking. I wouldn't have blamed you for leaving me sprawled on the floor here." Because she was more amused at herself than embarrassed, her eyes laughed over her cup. "I must have been quite a handful. I can't imagine a ridiculously drunk woman is very tempting, but you were very decent, very patient."

She didn't even have the courtesy to be humiliated, he fumed. And, worse—much worse—she had the gall to make him into some sort of saint. "You were obnoxious."

"I know." Then she laughed and cut the last thread of his control. "Still, it was an experience. I've never been so drunk—and don't think I care to be again. I was lucky I did it in private, and it was you who had to deal with me. Can I have a piece of this bacon?"

He was calm, he told himself, listening to the steady, if loud, beating of blood in his head. So he spoke calmly, quietly. "Are you sober now, Rebecca?"

"Asajudge." She nipped at a slice of bacon. "And I'm going to stay that way for a long time."

Slowly, he nodded, his eyes on hers. "Head clear, all your faculties in order?"

She started to answer, but something in his tone tripped a warning bell. Warily she looked over at him. The dark, dangerous gleam in his eyes had her backing up a step. "Shane—"

He yanked her back and sent the coffee cup she still held flying. "So you weren't tempting?" His mouth, full of fury and frustration, crushed down on hers. "I was sweet?" he added, swinging her around until her back rapped into the refrigerator. "Understanding. Patient." Between snapped-off words, he continued to assault her mouth.

"Yes. No." How was she supposed to think, with all the blood roaring in her head?

"You damned near killed me." He jerked up her chin and plundered, shooting vicious spurts of fire into every cell of her body. "You know how much I wanted you? Get the picture?"

He gave her one, a very vivid one of hard, impatient lips, rough, ready hands, a body that was tight with tension and steaming with heat. She fought for breath, fought to stay upright as what was left of her mind went to mush.

She was melting against him again, soft, fragrant wax. His blood pumped in response to those soft, sexy sounds she made in her throat. Eager, helpless sounds that turned frustrated lust into a rage of desperate need.

"That's it," he muttered, and swung her up in his arms.

With a jolt of panic, she pushed a hand against his chest. "Wait."

"The hell I will." His eyes flashed at hers, all but searing her. "You'd better say no, loud and clear, and say it fast, Rebecca. Tell me you don't want me, don't want this. And make damn sure you mean it."

Under her palm she felt the furious beating of his heart, and her hand trembled. She'd thought it was fear, but it wasn't. Oh, no, it wasn't fear. It was longing.

"I can't." She let out a whoosh of breath. "I wouldn't mean it."

Triumph suited him. "I know."

She wanted to remember everything, to seal somehow every moment, every sound, every taste, into her mind and heart. She wanted to be able to recapture this incredible feeling of being carried in strong arms, of being wanted, and wanted with such ferocity, by a beautiful man. Of being sampled every few steps by skilled and hungry lips.

She didn't care if he was gentle or rough, patient or frenzied. As long as he didn't stop wanting her.

Then he paused on the stairs, his mouth swooping down on hers in a way that made any thought of the future float away to make room for the all-encompassing present.

On a moan of sheer delight, she wrapped her arms around him and let her own greedy mouth savor the taste of his face, his neck. The tangy flavor of him poured into her until her head swarmed with sound, revolved with half-formed images. The sheer force of her appetite made her shudder. This, she thought, dizzily, was only the beginning.

It no longer surprised her to find that her fingers were fighting with the buttons of his shirt. She wanted to feel him, touch him, everywhere, all at once.

He was out of breath and laughing by the time he made it to his own bedroom. "This is a lot like last night." He tumbled to the bed with her. On top of her. "Only better."

"Can't you get this thing off?" She was laughing, too, hadn't realized it was possible when desire was squeezing every throbbing inch of her body with sweaty fists.

"Yours is easier." With one expert stroke, he parted her robe. She was milk-pale, narrow of torso. With a low animal sound, he took her breast in his mouth.

The shock of it screamed through her, incited an avalanche of new and unexplored sensations. Even as she struggled to clear her mind to record them, the hands that had been busy on his shirt dropped away to grip frantically at the neat spread beneath.

Each tug, each nip, of his clever and hungry mouth shot arrows of golden heat straight to her center. Each arrow erupted into a dozen more flame-tipped missiles that streaked under her skin, over it, with dizzying speed.

How could anyone survive these sensations? she wondered. How could anyone live without them?

He had her naked in seconds, and feasted on her.

There was panic now—panic at the thought that it was possible to die from pleasure. Her skin was hot and damp, quivering at each pass and stroke of those big, callused hands. Tossed by a tidal wave, she rolled over the bed with him, desperate to keep up.

He couldn't get enough. All that baby-smooth skin, those long, narrow bones, the small, apple-firm breasts. He could smell her shower on her, and simple soap had never been so arousing. He thought he could eat her alive, bite by ravenous bite.

She was writhing under him, wrestling over him, her hands fast and frantic. Those wonderful eyes, the eyes he could never quite seem to get out of his head, were dark as whiskey now, and vividly intense. Everywhere he touched, she responded as though she'd never been touched before. Shuddering, arching, flowing. A purr, a moan, a gasp.

No woman he'd ever known had ever made him feel so powerful, so free, so needy.

"Damn it." Dizzy with desire, he sat up to drag at his boots. She reared up, wrapping that wonderful naked body around his, making his vision waver as she raced hurried kisses over his neck and shoulder.

"Hurry." She pulled up his undershirt and ravished his back. "Oh, I love your body. I just... Mmm..." She slid her breasts over the flesh she'd exposed and drove them both mad.

With an oath, he flipped her over into his lap. His mouth found hers waiting and avid. Her need, as wild as his, poured into him like a shot of raw whiskey.

To please them both, he cupped her, and she was hot and wet. He felt her body stiffen, tasted the warm rush of impact as her breath caught and expelled. She went wild, nails scraping, hips pumping, dazzling him with her unrestricted greed for pleasure.

"I've got to be inside you." His voice was harsh, his body frantic. Near violence, he shoved her back on the bed, yanked at his jeans. He couldn't remember his hands ever fumbling before, but they did now, in his outrageous and overwhelming rush to possess. "I want to fill you. I want to watch you take me."

"Hurry." Her hands were already gripping his hips. Oh, to feel like that again, to know he would send her flying again. "I can't stand it." She arched up to welcome.

He drove inside her, in one hard stroke. And froze. Shock, disbelief, terror, tangled with desperation when she cried out, when he felt himself ram mercilessly through her virginity. The muscles in his arms quivered from the strain, and his eyes, half-blind, locked frantically on hers.

"Rebecca. God. Don't move."

"What?" She was lost, delirious. Oh, the extraordinary feel of him inside her, inside her body, filling her with the sheer glory of invasion. "What?"

"For God's sake, don't move." He said it through gritted teeth as he fumbled for control. His body quivered on the tether he yanked ruthlessly to hold it in place. Sweet God, she was so hot, and tight, and wet.

"I'm not going to hurt you anymore." He couldn't get his breath, simply couldn't pull in enough air. "Just give me a minute."

"What?" she said again. With a primal instinct, she locked her legs around him and rose up.

"Don't-"

The animal took over, clawed aside everything but the urgent need to mate, and leaped free. Helpless to resist, he took her, plunging in deep, driving her to match his frenzied pace until the world seemed to contract to nothing but two bodies, linked. The hard slap of flesh on flesh, the explosive burst of air expelling from labored lungs, the musky smells of sweat and sex, and that glorious sensation of slicked bodies sliding. The dark pleasure swamped him, emptied him.