Heartbreaker by Linda Howard

if her lashes were too heavy for her to hold them open a moment
longer. Let her sleep, he thought. She'd be recovered from the wine by the time
they got home. His loins tightened. He wanted her awake and responsive when he
took her to bed. There was no way he was going to sleep alone tonight. All day
long he'd been fighting the need to touch her, to feel her lying against him.
For ten years she'd been in his mind, and he wanted her. As difficult and
spoiled as she was, he wanted her. Now he understood what made men want to
pamper her, probably from the day she'd been placed in her cradle. He'd just
taken his place in line, and for his reward he'd have her in his bed, her slim,
silky body open for his pleasure. He knew she wanted him; she was resisting him
for some reason he couldn't decipher, perhaps only a woman's instinctive
hesitance.
    Michelle usually didn't sleep well. Her
slumber was frequently disturbed by dreams, and she hadn't been able to nap
with even her father anywhere nearby. Her subconscious refused to relax if any
man was in the vicinity. Roger had once attacked her in the middle of the
night, when she'd been soundly asleep, and the trauma of being jerked from a
deep, peaceful sleep into a nightmare of violence had in some ways been worse
than the pain. Now, just before she slept, she realized with faint surprise
that the old uneasiness wasn't there tonight. Perhaps the time had come to heal
that particular hurt, too, or perhaps it was that she felt so unutterably safe
with John. His coat warmed her; his nearness surrounded her. He had touched her
in passion and in anger, but his touch had never brought pain. He tempered his
great strength to handle a woman's softness, and she slept, secure in the
instinctive knowledge that she was safe.
    His deep, dark-velvet voice woke her.
"We're home, honey. Put your arms around my neck."
    She opened her eyes to see him leaning in the
open door of the car, and she gave him a sleepy smile. "I slept all the
way, didn't I?"
    "Like a baby." He brushed her mouth
with his, a brief, warm caress; then his arms slid behind her neck and under
her thighs. She gasped as he lifted her, grabbing him around the neck as he'd
instructed. It was still raining, but his coat kept most of the dampness from
her as he closed the car door and carried her swiftly through the darkness.
    "I'm awake now; I could've walked,"
she protested, her heart beginning a slow, heavy thumping as she responded to
his nearness. He carried her so easily, leaping up the steps to the porch as if
she weighed no more than a child.
    "I know," he murmured, lifting her
a little so he could bury his face in the curve of her neck. Gently he nuzzled
her jaw, drinking in the sweet, warm fragrance of her skin. "Mmmm, you
smell good. Are you clear from the wine yet?"
    The caress was so tender that it completely
failed to alarm her. Rather, she felt coddled, and the feeling of utter safety
persisted. He shifted her in his arms to open the door, then turned sideways to
carry her through. Had he thought she was drunk? "I was just sleepy, not
tipsy," she clarified.
    "Good," he whispered, pushing the
door closed and blocking out the sound of die light rain, enveloping them in
the dark silence of the house. She couldn't see anything, but he was warm and
solid against her, and it didn't matter that she couldn't see. Then his mouth
was on hers, greedy and demanding, convincing her lips to open and accept the
shape of his, accept the inward thrust of his tongue. He kissed her with
burning male hunger, as if he wanted to draw all the sweetness and breath out
of her to make it his own, as if the need was riding him so hard that he
couldn't get close enough. She couldn't help responding to that need, clinging
to him and kissing him back with a sudden wildness, because the very rawness of
his male hunger called out to everything in her that was female and ignited her
own fires.
    He hit the light switch with his elbow,
throwing on the foyer