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He hooked an arm beneath her knee and drew it up, up, until she moaned. “No…I-I didn’t think—”

Sarge cut her off with a hot, openmouthed kiss. He didn’t want to hear how oblivious she was to him. Didn’t want to know the meaning of the song had been lost. Five seconds into their tongues sliding together in a seduction dance, and Jasmine’s nails were biting into the flesh of his ass again, her hips tilting for another thrust of his cock. So he gave it to her good. He gave her another. And another, followed by the slap of his balls on her tight backside, until they were two desperate, groping pleasure slaves trying to rub the right spots that would just please end the pain.

“You feel that part of me smacking you? They’ve been full and hot all fucking day, needing to empty between these legs of yours. Does that make you hot, baby?” His pace was out of control, aggressive and unrelenting. “The way you lap-danced me like a stripper last night made me this way. I could barely think of you today without coming in my jeans again—and I thought of you all day.”

All my life.

The pressure rising, rising in him was undeniable. His breath was coming in quick, dizzying pants, his precipice all the higher for knowing whose body would receive him. Jasmine. God, he’d never prepared for the possessiveness that hooked around his neck with a permanence that didn’t scare him. Not at all. He’d known. Always know she was the ending for him.

Pouty lips parted, Jasmine’s head tossed side to side on the bed. “Oh God, Sarge. This is bad. This is—” Her pussy clenched on a broken moan. “So bad.”

Bad. What did she mean? He knew her body was satisfied, because he could still taste her pleasure. Could feel more on the way. Did she mean bad…because of who he was? Were they back to that? “What’s bad, baby?” he murmured at her throat, taunting, licking the salt from her pulse. “Getting it from a younger man? One who was off-limits to you? Bad girl.”

Her legs were wrapped around his hips like a python, hips lifting to meet his punishing rhythm, but her mouth whispered, “Stop…don’t say those things.”

“Do you mean that? Stop?” No answer, just an exposing of her throat, a biting of her lip, as she twisted beneath him. Jesus, he needed to release soon. Needed it more than food or oxygen. He was ramming his dick into Jasmine’s slick entrance—slap, slap, slap—his body hovering over the promise of relief. It was right there. Right there. But the lines between him and Jasmine were so blurry and needed to be defined, or it would cheapen them. He didn’t want her to see their being together as bad. Needed her to want him again when it was over.

Gritting his teeth on a tortured groan, Sarge fisted the base of his dick and drew it out of her heat. With the most substantial pain in his memory hanging between his thighs, he rolled Jasmine onto her stomach, slid his cock up the crevice of her bottom, then pushed home inside her pussy once again, shaking with the power of being back where he belonged.

“Is this what you need, Jasmine?” Sarge pumped, his sweaty body meeting the underside of her curved ass. Licking perspiration from his lips, he shook out his right hand and accompanied his drives with a slap of her backside. A second and third. “You don’t hand out the punishments anymore, babysitter, in your short, teasing skirts. It’s my turn now.” So close. It hurt. So close. No more waiting, the come was shooting up his cock, gripping his body with near-paralyzing bliss. Sarge fell flush with her body, his hips pistoning out of control, fucking, fucking, fucking. About to explode, he dropped his mouth into her hair. “I might be younger, but I’m not young. I’m a man and I’m fucking you blind. I’m your man. Say it.”

You’re my man,” Jasmine sobbed, her inner walls gripping him as he shot off all his pent-up need into the sweetest spot on earth, reveling in her climaxing for a third time. It went on forever, her milking body leaching him of seed, his hoarse shouts ricocheting off the walls and ceiling. His hands were all over her, stroking her hair, her shoulders, her ass, as the pleasure spiraled through him, rearranging everything in its path. Changing him for good.

Finally spent, he slipped free of her body and fell to the bed, pulling her backward into an unbreakable hold before his worst fear happened and she tried to get away, close herself in the bathroom or somewhere he couldn’t see or touch or talk to her. He wouldn’t deal well with that. At all. Not after what they’d done. Not after she’d engraved her name on his soul. He thought the inscription had already been there, but it was so much more prominent now.

Get her out of his system? Break the curse?

He’d been a blind idiot thinking he could accomplish such a thing. Or to think he’d even want to rid himself of Jasmine’s claim on his being. No. Never. Right now, lying there exposed, the very idea scared him.

“Sarge,” Jasmine said, still sounding out of breath. “I—”

“Shh. I know. You’re going to tell me I’m not your man. Not permanently.” Striving for casual even though his gut was sinking under the weight of her cautious tone, he traced his fingers over her naked hip, up the inside of her arm. “I am tonight, though. I’m your man until further notice. And your man should hold you like you might escape. Because you not being here when he woke up maybe sounds like the worst thing in the world. Okay?”

There was a long pause wherein Sarge could practically hear her pulse skittering and racing and dipping. “Okay.”

His eyelids slid shut, tension fading from his neck. “Thank you.”

He tucked Jasmine’s head beneath his chin and dropped off, dreaming of the color gold.

Chapter Nine

Jasmine shoved a hank of hair out of her face and stumbled into the kitchen.

Jesus H. Christ.

She tightened her short terry cloth robe around her body even though you could probably fry an egg on her backside. Sunlight filled her tiny kitchen, and she squinted into the light, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Behind her in the bedroom, she could hear Sarge’s sturdy frame moving on her creaky bed, probably taking a much-needed breather after…after.

It was safe to say she’d learned one valuable lesson this morning. There were worse ways to wake up than with a gorgeous, naked man whispering a husky prayer against your lady parts. Giving thanks to the Lord above in between drags of his tongue through your hypersensitive flesh.

Dear God, thank you for making this so sweet for me. Thank you for this woman who opens her thighs for my hungry mouth. Thank you…thank you…

Jasmine laid a hand on her forehead. Yeah, there were worse things. After the second time he’d brought her to a bone-melting orgasm with his mouth, she’d begged him to stop the torment, but he’d kept going. And going. True to his word the night before, he hadn’t allowed her to leave bed until her body was covered in sweat, stubbornly refusing to push his ready erection inside her.

She had a good idea what his refusal to finish was about, too. Knew he would torment her all day with the knowledge that he was in need. In need of her. Even now, she could barely stand knowing. This temporary tryst felt the furthest thing from casual, especially after Sarge’s revelation over the song. He’d written a song about her, about something she’d worn one day six years ago. Somewhere in the dark last night, with Sarge’s chest lifting and falling at her back, she’d allowed herself to consider the possibility that Sarge’s feelings ran deeper than she’d originally thought.

If that was the case, she shouldn’t allow this affair to go on. Sarge might have grown up—understatement—but he was still River’s brother. Continuing to sleep with him when buds of feelings were starting to spring up everywhere, leaves pushing open, bright flowers blooming…it was a terrible idea. With a lucrative contract just waiting for his signature, what did she expect him to do? Stay in Hook? In just a few days, she would be a thirty-year-old woman. A woman who’d adjusted her life’s ambitions from singer/songwriter to factory floor manager. She had no business trying to tie down this talented, charismatic—not to mention famous—man who was nursing the residual glow of his first crush.