Free Fury’s Kiss by Nicola R. White Page A

six-foot-something frame towering over my five-foot-five, and it got harder to breathe the longer he eyeballed me. My new and improved hearing picked up a change in his breathing.
    Oh, yeah. He felt it.
    I leaned back against the door for support, all thought of opening it gone. The gun dug into the small of my back, and I absent-mindedly hoped it wouldn’t go off and shoot me again. For some reason, the prospect didn’t alarm me as much as it would have before Jackson’s touch sent an electric charge zipping through me.
    Then Jackson leaned in toward me and I forgot about the gun altogether. I bit my lip hard. This was stupid. So, so stupid. I was supposed to be getting rid of him, not giving in to what felt like a bad case of horny teenage hormones. I looked up at him and opened my mouth to tell him to stop, but the words died in my throat as I inhaled another breath of his clean, male scent.
    He braced himself against the door with one hand and pressed himself against me. He ran his other hand up my thigh and over my hip, stopping at the waistband of my jeans. He was hard all over, especially where he pressed against my belly, long and thick. I reached up and dug my fingers into his shoulders. My head spun, but I didn’t tell him to stop.
    He palmed me through my jeans and lust coiled at my center, hot and wet. He toyed with the zipper of my jeans, teasing me, then swept his hand across my stomach and up my rib cage to the underside of my breast.
    “Something about you…” he murmured, burying his face against my neck. “Wanted you last night. Tried to ignore it, but if you hadn’t gone with…” He didn’t need to finish the sentence. We both knew what he meant.
    His mention of the other man he’d seen me with—the man I’d killed—should have dampened the spark between us. Should have knocked some common sense back into me. But my body didn’t seem to get the memo. As we moved against each other, I only wanted him more desperately.
    I growled in my throat. Now. I wanted him now, regardless of the circumstances.
    I stroked my hands lower to feel the hard muscles of his abdomen and the cut lines at his hips. I undid the top button of his jeans, cursing his button fly, and he lowered the hand braced against the door to caress my neck, then up to my mouth, where I sucked on his fingers. He leaned in to nip at my collarbone and his hand slid up my neck so he could bury his fingers in my hair.
    Then, as he pulled my head back for better access, I flashed back to the night before, to a much rougher hand fisted in my hair. Panic rose in my throat and my breath came in short, harsh gasps as I struggled against the memory. My chest tightened and I began to shake, a cold sweat filming my skin. I pushed Jackson off of me and looked away so he wouldn’t see the fear in my eyes. I forced myself to take deep, steady breaths, confused and embarrassed by my actions—before and after the memory assailed me.
    I kept my eyes averted, as I did up my jeans, shame burning my cheeks. What the hell was wrong with me? Not only had I just thrown myself at a man who had no respect for me, I’d led him on then literally shoved him away. I shuddered at the lingering memory of Miller’s hands on me and wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold. Was this how it was going to be from now on? Was I permanently damaged after what he’d tried to do to me?
    “What just happened?” Jackson’s voice was tight with frustration.
    “What do you mean?” I looked at a point on the wall over his shoulder so I didn’t have to meet his eyes. “You’re an adult. I’m sure you’ve done that before.”
    I knew he was really asking why I had stopped—why I’d encouraged his advances then pushed him away so violently—but I misunderstood him on purpose. I was so not about to pour out my heart to this guy.
    He stared me down until I had no choice but to meet his gaze. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
    I wrapped my arms