She moaned in frustration and pleasure, and then just in pleasure as his mouth found her breasts, and his fingers slipped inside where his cock had been and he started the whole cycle again, the teasing of her until she thought she’d die of it.

Johnny… she opened her eyes on a soft breath and threaded her fingers through his silky dark hair, watching him tease her nipples… Johnny.

He was everywhere, skin to skin with her, his hands on her, large and strong, holding her, one on her upper arm, the other under her hips, pulling her tight against him. When his mouth slid even lower, her breath caught in her throat. She wanted his tongue on her, knew how magical that could feel, and he didn’t disappoint her.

With every languorous stroke, she sank deeper into a well of pure sensation, until she couldn’t even think. Her fingers tightened in his hair, holding him to her. She felt the crest of her release rising toward her, and she waited, breath held, loving the soft, wet heat of his tongue, the pressure he applied, and loving it oh, so very, very much when he oh, so very gently… sucked.

The crest inside her rose and crashed, flooding her with the most intense pleasure, moment after endless moment, his tongue still on her as she came, holding her in thrall to his mouth… Johnny.

He’d been so bad, the baddest boy in school, to have turned out so very, very good.

When her hips relaxed back into the bed, he raised his head, and the look in his eyes was almost her undoing. She’d been claimed, the intensity and fierceness of his gaze said it clearly-she’d been claimed, and she was his.

Another, completely different kind of thrill went through her on a deep, visceral level. Without releasing her gaze, he moved up her body and thrust into her again, and the pleasure was so hot and sweet, she felt herself falling into a state of utter and complete acquiescence. She didn’t mistake his action for anything other than what it was-the putting of his mark on her while she was still throbbing from the pleasure he’d given her, no one else, only him.

From the day they’d met, he’d always been there, watching over her, wanting this, to be so close to her, a part of her, and he’d been right to want it, understanding better than her what was possible between them. From the day they’d met, he’d been a constant in her life, never getting too far away, her own guardian angel.

And, oh, God, her angel knew his way around a woman.

Pleasure rolled through her with his every move.

His mouth came down on her cheek, kissing her, and moved to her mouth, consuming her. His hands were in her hair, her bobby pins long gone, and she was coming undone again, her release powered by the force of his body, rock solid and honed.

He tilted her head back and slid his mouth down to the side of her neck, and holding her, his breath echoing harsh and fast in her ear, he came, stiffening above her, his pleasure triggering her own. She was sinking and floating and couldn’t seem to hold him tight enough. Her mouth was open on his shoulder, tasting him. She was filled with the scent of him, with the hard length of him, feeling the strength and heat of his body covering her, and she never wanted it to end.

He was doomed. Johnny had never felt it more surely in his life. When a woman felt this good, a guy was doomed. He’d do anything. He’d seen it before, when his friends had fallen in love, and yes, that was the “L” word. It made men crazy.

But what was a guy going to do? There was no walking away from this, and that meant he wasn’t in charge anymore. It meant this slip of a female with the soft voice, and the soft skin, and the divinely soft piece of heaven between her legs was in charge. It scared the hell out of him. This was more danger than he’d signed on for tonight.

Curiosity had gotten him into this. He’d been as curious as a goddamn tomcat about her, and look where it had led him-straight into Doomsville. Suddenly, he needed her.

He needed the wonder of this, of being inside her, of being so consumed by her. He needed one place where he could let down his guard, one safe place, and he’d found it with her. Carefully, he eased himself free and pulled her close into his arms. Somewhere, though, sometime, somehow, she’d needed the same thing, a safe place, and she hadn’t found it.

Facing her, both of them on their sides, he smoothed his hand gently up her back and over her shoulder. He’d felt the scars while they’d made love. He’d seen them, and he knew exactly what it was he’d seen-a kanji, of all the damn things. Someone had cut a kanji into her shoulder. It was healed, but it was there. Undeniable.

He smoothed his hand over her again and brought it to rest on the scar, then gently ran his fingers down the length of it. A tattoo he would have almost understood, but not scarification, not on Esme Alden, not by choice. No, Easy Alex hadn’t asked for this to be done to her-which begged a whole lot of questions.

“Hero?” he asked. He’d recognized the character, knew it from his friend Skeeter’s artwork.

SDF’s resident kick-ass blonde wrote and illustrated the Japanese-style comic books known as manga, and heroes were always part of her stories.

In his arms, Esme sighed and moved closer, her body softening against his.

“I ran into a woman in Bangkok who had a knife.”

Well, that sent a chill down his spine.

“This is Japanese, not Thai.”

“So is she.” She said it like it was the end of the discussion, but it wasn’t, not by a long shot.

“And she did this to you because?”

The question was met with silence. She was thinking, though, thinking hard. He could almost hear the gears grinding in her head.

“Why don’t you just tell me what happened,” he suggested. “That’ll be the easiest.”

And still she kept thinking, not talking.

Okay, fine. She didn’t need to talk, not really. He was putting it together all on his own, remembering her on the roof of the Wazee Warehouse-so calm, so cool, so skilled.

“It was like at the Oxford, wasn’t it,” he said. “Except things went bad. You were ‘recovering’ something, weren’t you?” She was a damn cat burglar, a thief.

“A fourteenth-century gold Buddha,” she admitted after another long silence. “It was stolen from the ordination hall of the Wat Pho temple in Bangkok. It’s an important piece, a sacred object, and the monks pray every day for its return. They’ve been praying for over twenty years for its return.

Dax and I got a line on it, and figured we could add some actual recovery expertise to their prayers, so we went for it. I just got a little ahead of him, ended up in a tight spot.”

Okay, a legitimate cat burglar.

“What happened to the Buddha?” It was obvious what had happened to her, and the thought of her being in a “tight spot” scared the hell out of him.

“Still missing. I blew that one.”

And gotten herself cut and scarred for life by some psycho Japanese bitch with a knife.

“This business you’re in, this private eye, put your ass in a sling thieving and impersonating god only knows what besides cheap hookers-have you really given this career path the thought it deserves?” He didn’t think so, not really. “Seems to me there’s an awful lot of risk involved.” Too much damn risk. It was crazy. She needed another job.

“I’d say I’d given it about as much thought as you’ve given your job. U.S. Army Ranger seems to have an awful lot of risk involved in it, too.”

Touché.

If anyone had told him back in high school that he and Esme Alden had anything in common besides a lot of unresolved fascination and lust, mostly his, he’d have told them they were nuts. But here they were, both a little battle-hardened, both putting themselves on the line for what they believed in. Of course, he’d take combat over psycho, knife-wielding Japanese women any day of the week.