TWICE A HERO By Susan Krinard

Soft. She was so much softer than he’d realized. He kissed her chin, her jaw, the hollow of her cheekbone, the slight arch of her dark brow. She gasped a little when he lifted himself and pulled the buttons of her shirt open with one hand.

“Liam,” she cried. His name from her lips was urgent and sweet. But this was no time for talking. He wanted none of it—only feeling, sensation, taking. Her breast fit perfectly in the palm of his hand. He teased her nipple into a delicate knot and stroked it with his fingertip. Her back arched, pushing the hollow between her thighs against his groin.

It was hot, like the rest of her. He knew she’d be wet, ready for him when he took her. No thinking. No questions. Only this.

The pulse in her neck throbbed under his tongue. He licked the little hollows under her slender collarbones and inched his way down to the exquisite treasures of her breasts. She made little sounds as he tasted one and then the other, lingering until each nipple puckered under the laving of his tongue.

Black, thick lashes shaded her gaze, but he knew she watched him, watched everything he did with fascination. Her breath was rapid and hoarse with excitement, her fingers worked into the cloth of his shirt. Grasping, urging him on.

She was his, completely his, holding nothing back, innocent and wild in a combination like to drive him to madness. Her body was supple as a sleek and exotic animal, taut under silky skin. He pushed her shirt aside and laid his palm on the flatness of her belly. It quivered like the velvet coat of a highbred horse.

The bones of her hips were distinct, but there was a sweet curve to them. He learned her body with his hands, and then with his lips. He unbuttoned her trousers—so loose and oversized around her waist—and eased them down. She helped him, wriggling her body until he thought he would burst the seams of his own pants.

She wore nothing under the trousers. And she was wet. He slid his fingers through the snugly curled hair at the base of her stomach, lower still. Her fingers clenched and unclenched in his shirt like the claws of a sensuous cat being stroked. He accommodated her. She arched again and shuddered under his caresses. And when he tested her with a finger, pushing gently inward…

He stopped. She must be all but a virgin. He could feel her tightness, the subtle resistance. Ready as she was, she had no skill at seduction, or the ease of a woman who’d taken many men into her body.

She had nothing to teach him. He was guide, and master, and teacher.

And protector. She was no innocent, not out here alone in the jungle, but there was an inexperience, an uncertainty that called to the last dwindling spark of reason trapped within his desire. She’s only a woman, and you’re using her, just as they used Siobhan…

No thinking. With fumbling haste he worked open the buttons of his trousers. The release of imprisoned flesh was an ecstasy in itself. He slid against her slick thighs, higher, probing and eager. She’d spread herself for him. Her skin was flushed, her lips parted and glistening. He watched her as he made the first foray, heard her moan in pleasure.

Then he saw her eyes. Wide open now, fixed on him. And under the glaze of excitement and pleasure was something else. It was nothing so simple as fear. It was sudden, overwhelming knowledge of a threshold to be crossed, of life forever changed.

The knowledge Siobhan must have held in her heart when she’d taken her first lover and sold her honor for survival.

The knowledge Liam would see in Caroline’s eyes on their wedding night.

He tensed, holding himself rigid above the woman he had resolved to take with so little thought. The past was there in bed with him, and the future stood watching, ready to condemn.

Condemn Liam O’Shea.

Mac’s face held no condemnation. It was real, warm, trusting, wanting. Asking more than he could ever give.