Free At Close Range by Marilyn Tracy

His lips were both gentle and rough, more as if he warred with himself than with her. His breathing was steady at first, then ragged as he pulled her even closer.
    When he slid a cold hand onto the curve of her neck, she couldn’t withhold a moan. Her knees threatened to buckle in a purely primal reaction. She clung to his coat as if to a life preserver, feeling she was going down.
    Instead of withdrawing, he plundered, his tongue thrusting into her, demanding, taking. One of his hands tangled in her hair, spilling it free of her loose twist, while the other ran surely down her arm only to plunge into the warmth beneath her duster. His hand against her thin blouse felt as cold as ice, and made her gasp as it slid around her back to pull her even closer to him.
    As though the forceful side of him had won whatever battle he’d waged earlier, he ground her against him, letting her know with absolute certainty how strongly she affected him.
    Corrie’s experience with men had been limited to a few relationships with colleagues in the news business, men who lived for the next story, the next big assignment, and the camera lens or the microphone. As they did in work, they only skimmed the surface of relationships. Their approach to life was that too much information killed a good story; skill, charm and knowing when to wrap things up were all that really mattered. They applied the same reasoning to personal relationships.
    Mack’s passion was the complete antithesis of casual. His breathing was ragged, his body tense and hard. His hands shook with the need that raged through him. And it sparked something in Corrie that she’d never encountered before, an ache that came from her very soul.
    A little voice deep inside her seemed to cry out in relief— “Ah, at last” —and with such desire and sincerity she literally throbbed from it.
    He could have lowered her to the ground beneath them and she wouldn’t have raised a protest. He could have led her to his room and she would have gone willingly.
    Instead, he yanked his head back, as if snapping awake. He held on to her shoulders, keeping her at arm’s length, confusing her, making her want to push back into him.
    â€œYou scared me,” he said.
    If she were Leeza, she might make some quip, like “boo,” and step right back into his embrace. If she were Jeannie, she might try verbally analyzing the reason she’d scared him and why that fear translated intoa kiss of such passion that she was still gasping for breath.
    As it was, she was only Corrie and didn’t know how to ask for more. She never had. So she stood there, an earthquake survivor in the midst of violent aftershocks.
    Mack waited for Corrie to say something, anything that would douse the fire that raged inside him. Instead, she gazed at him with unblinking dark eyes, unreadable in their vulnerability. She could have been outraged, though God knew she’d responded. She could have been hurt, though he could see no pain in her eyes. She might even have laughed it off, but he could detect no sign of humor.
    She looked like a doe caught in the headlights of a speeding car, neither fearful nor alarmed, but rather simply and acutely aware of a certain something about to happen.
    He couldn’t, in all honesty, apologize. He didn’t feel the least sorry for the kiss. In some wholly id-driven portion of his mind, he realized he’d been waiting for this hero’s reward for two long years. Through the long, lonely nights of recovery, listening to her voice over the radio, she’d spoken to the best part of him. That the worst part had wanted to drag her to the ground and tear her clothing free of her glorious body couldn’t pull the apology from a mouth that still could taste her.
    He slowly drew her to him again. She came without the slightest resistance. Her body molded to his. Her hands slid around his waist and held him close. Her breath played