Lost in the moment, she slipped her hands inside his jacket, sliding her palms over the rough fabric of his vest to feel the hard muscle beneath. She had never touched Al-Nassar, never put her hands on him, the act of caressing Javier resurrecting only good memories. One by one she undid the buttons, sliding off his vest and his jacket with it, the white cloth of his shirt a stark contrast to his dark hair and brown skin.

“I want to undress you,” she whispered against his mouth. “I haven’t touched a man since . . . since you.”

“Come.” He took her hand and led her to her bedroom.

Her heart gave a nervous skip as she turned on her bedside lamp, being in the bedroom more intimidating than the living room. And for a moment she stood with her back to him, trepidation snaking its way up from her belly. She did not want to hurt him, didn’t want to disappoint him.

His hands came to rest on her shoulders, his mouth brushing butterfly kisses against the side of her neck, the sensation making her shiver. She dimmed the light and turned to face him.

He ran a thumb down her cheek, emotion burning in his eyes. “Do whatever you want with me.”

Under the heat of his gaze, she began to unbutton his shirt, the cloth giving off a pleasing starchy smell that mingled enticingly with the scent of his skin—salt and fresh linen. She pushed the shirt over his shoulders and down his arms, letting it fall to the floor, leaving his chest bare.

She stepped back, let her gaze feast on the sight of him, heat flaring to life in her belly. The play of light on his satiny brown skin. The twin bulges of his biceps. The sculpted curves of his shoulders. The slant of his collarbones. The smooth planes of his pecs. The red lines of his scars. The flat brown disks of his nipples. The deep groove that bisected his abdomen. The firm ridges of his six-pack. The angles of his obliques as they sloped toward his groin.

God, he was beautiful.

She reached out with both hands, letting them follow the same path her gaze had taken, indulging in the male feel of him, warm, smooth skin stretched over hard muscle. She heard his quick intake of breath as she ran her thumbs over his nipples, felt his abdomen tense as she grazed it with her fingertips, watched his hands slowly clench as she stroked the length of his obliques.

But she wasn’t finished.

She grasped the waistband of his trousers with trembling hands, struggling with the hidden button. His hands closed over hers and dealt with the button, leaving the zipper to her. She unzipped him, then pushed his trousers away from his narrow hips and down his thighs. He kicked the trousers aside, standing before her wearing nothing but black boxer briefs, the hard ridge of his erection outlined in sharp detail.

The breath left her lungs.

The closest she’d come to sex since her rescue was fantasizing about this body, about Javier, and now here he was, standing before her, ready to do whatever pleased her.

But what was that? She wasn’t sure.

If this had been that weekend in Dubai, he would have already picked her up and laid her down on the bed or pinned her against a wall, his sexual assertiveness like nothing she’d experienced before. But this time he was waiting for her.

Don’t think. Just feel.

Ignoring her fears, she turned her back to him and drew her hair aside. “Unzip me?”

She felt Javier tug at the zipper, felt her gown fall open in the back. He lifted the gown over her head, let it fall to the floor, a finger tracing down her spine, making her gasp and shiver. Wearing only her bra and panties, she turned in his arms, his gaze sliding over her like a caress, the heat that emanated from his body warming her.

She thought he was about to kiss her again. Instead, he slowly sank to his knees, grasped her waist, and pressed his lips to her belly.

Her stretch marks. He was kissing her stretch marks.

Tears stung her eyes, her throat tight, the sweetness of his gesture as overwhelming as it was unexpected, his complete acceptance of her body and what she’d been through feeling like redemption.

* * *

JAVIER WANTED TO take it all away—the pain she’d suffered, the violence, the fear. But he couldn’t. Instead, he kissed the part of her that had been hurt.

He’d always been closer to the Puerto Rican side of the family than the Cherokee side, but his father had taught him when he was still a boy that men should always show respect for women because women carried inside them the place where life began. Laura had been violated, this sacred part of her abused and exploited, the baby she’d been forced to bring into this world stolen from her.

If only he could give back what had been taken and heal that pain . . .

Her fingers curled in his hair as he pressed his lips against the faint silver lines on her skin again and again, her breath catching on a little sob.

But he hadn’t meant to make her cry.

He slid his way up her body, wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs, and kissed her slow and hard and deep. She wrapped her arms around his neck, kissed him as if her life depended on it. And he remembered.

She had asked to touch him.

He stretched out lengthwise on the bed, watching as she crawled onto the bed beside him. She was like a vision from a sailor’s wet dream, her breasts swelling over the cups of her bra, the dark lace making her skin seem impossibly pale. He ached to touch her, to kiss her, but she hadn’t asked him to do either—yet.

He’d rather eat his own balls than ruin this for her.

She knelt beside him and slid her hand slowly over his chest, a look of sensual tension on her face, her hair spilling over one shoulder. “You are so beautiful.”

He was already so turned on that he had no idea how he was going to get through the night without humiliating himself, and her touch only made it harder, need for her drumming in his chest like a heartbeat. Unable to stop himself, he reached out and caught the weight of her hair in one hand. “I’m glad you like what you see.”

But she was the beautiful one.

Holding her hair aside, he watched as she bent over him and began to scatter kisses across his chest, her lips scorching a trail on his skin, the sight every bit as arousing as the sensation. Her hot tongue flicked one of his nipples and then the other, making his breath catch, the lace of her bra abrading his skin where she brushed against him. And the ache in his groin grew sharp.

Staying passive like this was new for him—and it wasn’t easy. Whether it was the old Boricua machismo or the drive that had pushed him up to the top of the enlisted ranks, it was in his nature to take control, to lead. Instinct told him to get her out of her bra and panties, draw her beneath him, and taste every inch of her until she forgot to be afraid. But he willed himself to remain still, yielding control to her. And yet as difficult as it was to surrender, there was something erotic about it, too.

Frustratingly, aggravatingly, maddeningly erotic.

¡Puñeta!

Did she have any idea what she was doing to him?

She nipped the ridge of one of his obliques, making him jerk, her lashes fluttering as she looked up at him, her mouth curving in a teasing smile.

So she did know—and it was clear she was aroused, too, her pupils dilated, her breathing fast, her nipples puckered beneath black lace.

Somehow that made it harder to endure, her kisses more sensual now, her warm tongue sliding over his skin, her teeth nipping him as she kissed her way with unbearable slowness across his belly. He’d been hot for her before she’d kissed him, days and nights of holding her and sleeping beside her fueling his desire. Now his skin was so sensitive that the slightest brush of her fingers made his muscles jerk, his cock straining against his boxer briefs and hard enough to split wood.

She traced the line of body hair that ran southward from his navel, her fingertips teasing the skin at the edge of his boxer briefs. Slowly she drew them down, his cock springing free. “I want to taste you.”

Did she expect him to object?

“Are you sure, bella?” He smoothed her hair back from her face, her lips wet and swollen from kissing him.

“Yeah.” She smiled, a sweet, sexy smile that made his heart skip.

She took him in hand and began to stroke him slowly from root to tip, a look of curious fascination on her face as if he were terrain she was exploring again after a long absence. Her motions were cautious at first, almost awkward. He would have reached down to guide her, but giving a hand job must have been a lot like riding a bike, because she got the hang of it quickly.

Hell, yeah, she did.

Javier found himself holding his breath, his hips rising to meet her strokes as she built up a rhythm, his body already perilously close to orgasm. Then she bent down and took him into the heat of her mouth, and he knew he was in trouble.

¡Diache! Hell!

It felt so damned good, her tongue swirling around the aching head of his cock, her mouth and fist moving in tandem up and down the shaft. He caught her hair with his fists, held it back to give himself a view—and instantly regretted it, the sight of her devouring him bringing him to the brink. He fought to relax, to keep his hips from bucking against her, to enjoy the feel of it for as long as he could—or at least long enough not to embarrass himself.

You’re a SEAL, damn it, not a minuteman.

“You are so good,” he managed to say. “If you don’t stop now . . .”