Well, no, that wasn’t completely true. She couldn’t let herself have the real him again—but the fantasy version, the one she kept locked away in her mind and brought out on lonely nights? That version of Jude she’d permit herself. He’d always be there, always be hers, and he was perfect because he never spoke. Never teased. Never infuriated. He was just there to offer pleasure.
She closed her eyes, and as she traced a hand down her body, she pictured him, the Jude she used to know. Younger, his hair shorter in a severe military cut, his body leaner and less muscled. No earring. No tattoos. Same pale blue eyes, quick smile, and talented fingers.
She imagined those fingers now, slick with her desire, parting her folds, finding her clitoris. Her body tightened as pleasure zinged through her, and a low moan escaped her throat. He slid a finger into her, testing her, and she was oh so ready, hanging on by a thread. His thumb tweaked her bundle of nerves, and his lips brushed her neck, traced her jaw.
Come for me, babe. Now. I want you to come for me.
Oh God. Young Jude faded away as the words whispered through her mind and an image of the man sleeping out on the couch took his place.
Come for me.
She was going to, her body trembling on the edge of that abyss. Holy hell, this fantasy was so much more potent. Jude, with his earring and all his tattoos, his wide shoulders and hard body that always crushed her into the mattress with each powerful thrust of his hips. She strained toward climax, begging him to finish it, to take her over into oblivion with his amazing fingers—and still it wasn’t enough.
Dammit. Fantasy wasn’t enough.
Nearly sobbing in frustration, she lifted her hips to meet her hand and squeezed her eyes shut tighter. She needed to come. She needed…
“Jude.” Yes, saying his name helped. He was right there in bed with her, driving her mercilessly toward orgasm, whispering naughty things in her ear. “Jude…” So close, her thighs quivered and her inner muscles clenched around her fingers. But it…wasn’t…enough. “Jude!”
…
At the shout from the bedroom, Jude shot to instant wakefulness and grabbed his firearm from the end table where he’d set it before stretching out for the night.
Something was wrong. Libby wouldn’t call out for him. Not unless something bad was happening.
He didn’t waste time dressing and ghosted toward the bedroom, pushing open the door as silently as possible. If someone was in there with her, he wanted some element of surprise—
He ground to a halt and stared at the bed, his mouth suddenly dry as he engaged his weapon’s safety and placed it on the nearby dresser. Libby lay splayed out on top of the sheets, her nightshirt bunched up around her shoulders, giving him a prime view of her body. Her hand stroked between her legs, her slender fingers sinking in and out of her sex, and she arched with the movement, her eyes screwed shut, her body taut. Struggling for a climax, she needed somebody to give her a little something more, somebody to love her right, to raise her up and over the mental block keeping her from coming.
That someone should be him. Always him. Only him.
Fucking hell.
All the blood drained from his head at that possessive thought, making him dizzy as fuck, and his erection jumped from half-mast to ahoy matey so fast he nearly exploded right then and there. He dipped a hand inside his shorts and gripped himself to stop it from happening, squeezed until the line between pleasure and pain blurred, and a groan rumbled from his chest without his consent.
Libby’s eyes snapped open. “Oh God! What are you doing in here?”
“You called for me.”
“You’re crazy. I wouldn’t—” She started to sit up and withdraw her hand, but Christ, he couldn’t let her. He wanted to watch her pleasure herself more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life.
“Don’t.” His voice was pure gravel, but he didn’t bother clearing his throat. He pumped his hand up and down his shaft in hard strokes. “Let me see you. I need to see you.”
Her gaze drifted down his body, her eyes widening at the sight of his straining cock. After a second that seemed to last for years, she slowly settled back against the pillows and let her knees fall open. Her hand returned to her pretty pink sex, and as he watched her dip her fingers inside herself, his whole body started to tremble.
“I did call for you,” she admitted and dropped her head back to stare at him through heavy-lidded eyes. “I was imaging you doing this, your fingers right here where mine are, stroking me.”
He couldn’t find his voice, couldn’t tear his gaze away from the slow slide of her fingers in and out. Unconsciously, he matched his strokes to her rhythm.
“I want you,” she gasped, and he saw he wasn’t the only one trembling. As her thumb pressed against her clit, her legs shook so hard she vibrated the bed. “I want you, and I know I shouldn’t. I can’t help myself.”
“You want me?” He was panting now, about to go off like a teenager making out in the backseat of his first car. He wanted to be inside her when he did, and it took every ounce of control he could muster not to jump onto that bed and pound into her until they were both screaming. “Say the word, Libs. That’s all you gotta do.”