Play It Safe (The Safe House Series Book 2) Read Online Free PDF
Author: Leslie North
broke contact and drifted slowly away as if she believed that was all to the art of a kiss. In that breath, his decision was made. He would give her the breath-stealing, earth-shattering, scaling-a-mountain-peak kind of kiss that blew apart any hidden fantasy those dirty little rap lyrics germinated in her mind.
Samson slid his palm past her neck and threaded her scalp. He pulled her roughly to him, this time a collision of experience, a tutorial on how to let someone know you want them beyond all reason. His mouth angled over hers in a fevered union of hot exhales and this-side-of-insanity gasps for breath. She opened her lips to him and welcomed him inside the searing, probing, devouring place he created for her to explore, sample, test. The hungry thrust of his tongue surpassed altruism. His body responded wholly and completely, as he would have to any woman who unleashed a rare moment when he could put aside worries and preoccupations with others’ safety and focus on that void inside. She let loose an unrestrained moan deep in her throat that drove him to barely-there oblivion where actions clobbered common sense. The moment his hands snaked down her slight frame and hugged her hips against his jean-clad erection, he knew he had to stop the madness.
He pulled away, his mind as slow to recover as if he had swallowed a narcotic. His exhales rushed past her cheeks, fast and hard. Her lips were swollen and ripe and wet, as pretty as any shade of lip gloss. Her hair had fallen in loose tendrils from the invasion of his hand and that flush he had witnessed twice in the bar had made a grand return. He couldn’t think of a fucking thing to say past an appreciative curse that there was, in fact, an untamed spark within her he longed to ignite into a scorching wildfire.
But her eyes clouded dark. Her blinks came more rapid.
His chest ached. He had seen that look before, out on the lawn. Shit .
“Angela…”
“No, I get it. No man would want to darken my door. Least of all, you.”
She took a step back. Then two. Then five.
He should tell her that he hadn’t wanted to stop, that he found her contradictions fascinating and he longed to find out what other secret pleasures opposed her puritanical exterior, but her protection was more to him than an eighteenth discarded item. Rockwell would never be right about that. Duty always, always , came first. Angela believing the worst of him was best.
She picked up a plate of cold pasta and a fork off the table and padded through the kitchen toward her room. “Thanks for dinner.”
Her voice captured the same, lonely note he had perfected, graveside, for six long years.
He shoved the companion plate aside, a very different kind of hunger much harder to temper.
Chapter Five
Boredom until nightfall, and escape, set in quickly.
Angela had already found an empty combat pack in the closet and stuffed it with clothes and outer-gear and medical supplies she found under the bathroom sink. She wrapped the zucchini bread from dinner in a face towel and packed it beside three bottles of water she had lifted from the fridge when she heard Samson’s shower running.
In a drawer beneath the conquest bras, Angela discovered a stash of Samson’s history—photos of a beautiful brunette in crystal frames and a Polaroid of a young African boy against red, dusty clay, gap-tooth grin, his arm around a crouched Samson in stripped-down military gear. Had Angela not just humiliated herself into a pity kiss, she wouldn’t have thought it possible Samson had as many perfectly-arranged, white teeth as he displayed in the photographs.
She tried not to dissect the kiss but her analytical mind had broken the moment down into three very distinct phases: the phase where she might have cut the embrace short but, instead, studied the sculpted lines of his features and allowed her gaze to trickle down to his firm, sensual lips; the phase where he
Samson slid his palm past her neck and threaded her scalp. He pulled her roughly to him, this time a collision of experience, a tutorial on how to let someone know you want them beyond all reason. His mouth angled over hers in a fevered union of hot exhales and this-side-of-insanity gasps for breath. She opened her lips to him and welcomed him inside the searing, probing, devouring place he created for her to explore, sample, test. The hungry thrust of his tongue surpassed altruism. His body responded wholly and completely, as he would have to any woman who unleashed a rare moment when he could put aside worries and preoccupations with others’ safety and focus on that void inside. She let loose an unrestrained moan deep in her throat that drove him to barely-there oblivion where actions clobbered common sense. The moment his hands snaked down her slight frame and hugged her hips against his jean-clad erection, he knew he had to stop the madness.
He pulled away, his mind as slow to recover as if he had swallowed a narcotic. His exhales rushed past her cheeks, fast and hard. Her lips were swollen and ripe and wet, as pretty as any shade of lip gloss. Her hair had fallen in loose tendrils from the invasion of his hand and that flush he had witnessed twice in the bar had made a grand return. He couldn’t think of a fucking thing to say past an appreciative curse that there was, in fact, an untamed spark within her he longed to ignite into a scorching wildfire.
But her eyes clouded dark. Her blinks came more rapid.
His chest ached. He had seen that look before, out on the lawn. Shit .
“Angela…”
“No, I get it. No man would want to darken my door. Least of all, you.”
She took a step back. Then two. Then five.
He should tell her that he hadn’t wanted to stop, that he found her contradictions fascinating and he longed to find out what other secret pleasures opposed her puritanical exterior, but her protection was more to him than an eighteenth discarded item. Rockwell would never be right about that. Duty always, always , came first. Angela believing the worst of him was best.
She picked up a plate of cold pasta and a fork off the table and padded through the kitchen toward her room. “Thanks for dinner.”
Her voice captured the same, lonely note he had perfected, graveside, for six long years.
He shoved the companion plate aside, a very different kind of hunger much harder to temper.
Chapter Five
Boredom until nightfall, and escape, set in quickly.
Angela had already found an empty combat pack in the closet and stuffed it with clothes and outer-gear and medical supplies she found under the bathroom sink. She wrapped the zucchini bread from dinner in a face towel and packed it beside three bottles of water she had lifted from the fridge when she heard Samson’s shower running.
In a drawer beneath the conquest bras, Angela discovered a stash of Samson’s history—photos of a beautiful brunette in crystal frames and a Polaroid of a young African boy against red, dusty clay, gap-tooth grin, his arm around a crouched Samson in stripped-down military gear. Had Angela not just humiliated herself into a pity kiss, she wouldn’t have thought it possible Samson had as many perfectly-arranged, white teeth as he displayed in the photographs.
She tried not to dissect the kiss but her analytical mind had broken the moment down into three very distinct phases: the phase where she might have cut the embrace short but, instead, studied the sculpted lines of his features and allowed her gaze to trickle down to his firm, sensual lips; the phase where he
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