Molly glanced over at the front bay window as she inserted her key in the lock, surprised that the interior of her home was pitch-dark. Knowing she would face a fifteen-hour day when she’d left at eight that morning, she was positive she’d turned on a lamp on her way out. The porch light was on, so it wasn’t a power outage, probably just a burned out bulb. She walked inside, anticipating a cold glass of wine and a warm bath. She closed the door behind her. An arm wrapped around her middle and pulled her back roughly as a large hand clamped down over her mouth.
“I’ve been waiting an awfully long time for you to get home, sweetheart,” a gruff, baritone voice breathed against her ear.
Molly dropped her purse to the floor. Panic, instant and fierce, welled up in her chest, and adrenaline pumped into her limbs. Frantically, she kicked and writhed while clawing desperately at the hand on her face. The man tightened his muscular arms on her body, locking her in his vise-like grip. He didn’t even flinch as her nails raked his skin. He flexed his hips against her back, and Molly’s groan was barely audible against his palm. The evidence of his arousal was staggering.
“Three years,” he growled, slowly flexing his fingers in the soft flesh of her hip. “Three years since my cock has been buried deep into a woman’s soft, wet heat.”
Molly whimpered when the tip of his tongue laved a trail from her earlobe down the side of her neck.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way, sweetheart, but we most definitely will be doing it.” He nipped at the exposed skin of her shoulder. Molly quit fighting. He moved his hand from her face and down to cup under one heavy breast. He ran the pad of his thumb across her beaded nipple.“Jesus Christ, Matt. What the fuck do you think you’re doing? You scared the crap out of me!” Her breathing was labored, and her voice shook.
In a flash, Matt swung her around and hauled her against his massive frame by grabbing onto both cheeks of her ass. She barely had time to wrap her arms around his neck before his lips crashed down on hers. His tongue surged into her mouth. Like a man on the brink of starvation, he devoured her, consumed her and branded her with his heat and his need. Molly met him with equal fervor, running her tongue along his, glorying in the barely leashed strength and passion that was Matt.
She ran her fingers through his hair, noting that it was soft and shoulder length now, so different than the spiky buzz cut he used to sport. She grabbed two fistfuls and held on. They kissed desperately until the need for oxygen forced them apart.
“You’re a real bastard, Matt McLeod,” she whispered, tugging his T-shirt from the waistband of his jeans.
“I know, sweetheart. Believe me, I know.” He popped the buttons of her blouse and shoved it down her shoulders.
“Six months. You said you’d be back in six months, thirty-six months ago.”