Page 27 of Sasha’s Secret

“What do you want, Sasha?” he whispered against her cheek. “Tell me.”

She squirmed against his free hand. “I want you to touch me.”

“I am touching you.”

She whimpered in frustration. “Not where I want you to.”

“Then where do you want me to touch you?”

The primitive male prowling beneath the question tapped into her inner, equally primal female. “Between my legs.”

“Here?”

He wasn’t playing around. Sasha pressed her shoulders against the wall for more leverage as her hips writhed beneath his touch. The moan that escaped her lips could have been one of pain or pleasure—she had no way of knowing. While his thumb punished her clit, his fingers worked inside her, slipping in and out in a punishing rhythm that would drive her insane if he didn’t let her finish.

He didn’t. Without giving her time to think, much less protest, he spun her around so she was facing the wall. He released her long enough to strip her of her top and fling it aside, and yank her yoga pants down to her ankles. Then he resumed his hold on her and trapped her wrists against the wall above her head. In spite of his clothing, the steel bar of his cock digging into her told its own story of carnal desire.

“Sono pazzo di te.”

Even though her Italian was almost nonexistent, she still got the message he was conveying through the low words he ground out against her shoulder. She wasn’t about to break the mood by asking for a translation. Instead, she concentrated on the pressure of his chest against her naked back, the leashed power in his muscles. He was using just enough strength to hold her where he wanted her.

Which was exactly where she wanted to be.

* * *

Just when he’d thought the danger was over.

He should tell her to go, to get out and not come back.

And yet…

She’d come to him.

She wanted him.

His conscience could go to hell, and take his common sense with it.

He loosened his grip on her wrists. She lowered her arms and turned to face him, without even a hint of self-consciousness. There was nothing coy about Sasha Morgan. There was, however, something very, very beautiful. A woman who was as secure in her body as she was should be appreciated as a rare and precious treasure. Rocco appreciated every perfect, stunning inch.

Sasha lifted her chin and flashed a bold, confident smile. “What’s wrong? We’re both adults, and we both know what we want. No harm, no foul. What’s stopping us?”

If only she knew.

To hell with it. At that moment, he didn’t give a flying fuck if he torpedoed his career and ended up as a rent-a-cop in a shopping mall in the ass end of nowhere. Wanting Sasha had been the devil on his shoulder from the day he’d arrived in Texas, and now she was right where he wanted her.

Willingly.

His to take.

And he, it appeared, was where she wanted him. “Get rid of the pants,” he growled.

Her gaze challenged his order for a few seconds, then he was peripherally aware of her toeing off her shoes and pushing them to one side, before doing some fancy footwork to carry out his instruction and shove the offending garment bunched around her ankles in the same direction.

Totally naked now, she was heaven in human form, all lush curves and golden skin. He wanted to strip down and take her there, up against the wall, to drive himself so deeply into her she’d never want any other lover but him. She’d wrap those incredible, long, dancer’s legs around his hips, and once she’d screamed his name as one explosive orgasm after another ripped through her body, he’d empty himself inside her, and she’d be his forever.

“Whatever you’re thinking right now,” she whispered, “hold that thought. There’s something I need before we get down and dirty.”

He almost growled in frustration. “What’s that?”