And good. Definitely good. In fact, he felt better than he could ever remember feeling.

Unexpectedly, Charity turned around, as if she’d suddenly sensed his presence, and smiled at him.

In an instant, that supernatural feeling of well-being disappeared, as if it had never been. Whoosh, gone. In its place came a burning, itching feeling, a drive to touch her, touch that smooth, creamy skin he knew was underneath the soft pink cotton of the track suit. Put his hands on her and never let go.

“Hi, so you’re up…” Her voice trailed off as her gaze dropped and her face went from the slight flush of someone cooking to stoplight red. Charity’s soft pink mouth made an O.

Oh yeah, he was up. Massively. It was as if his cock were trying to stretch its way across the room to her.

It couldn’t, of course, but he could. It took him a second or two to firm up his knees and then he was crossing over to her, eyes never leaving hers. She looked down at him again and heat washed over him, as if he’d walked in front of an open oven door. The heat even pulsed in his veins.

He was clenching his jaws so hard his teeth hurt.

This was sex but it was more than sex. He wasn’t hurting for sex and they’d been at it practically all night. By rights, he should be all fucked out.

Right now, instead, it was as if he’d never fucked before, never even touched a woman in his entire life. This felt urgent, with all the adrenaline of combat in the field, the moves as necessary as ducking under fire or scrambling out of the way of flames or bullets.

This was a place he’d never been in before, a foreign country. Nick didn’t do urgent, pressing desire. He was the Iceman.

Whenever he fucked, a part of him—a big part—remained detached, observing. Sex made men drop their defenses. A lot of guys got offed while boffing. Not Nick. There was no way anyone could get the drop on him during sex because he was always aware of what was going on, always cool. Iceman.

Oh Jesus, he wasn’t Iceman now. He was burning up, breathing hard, focused like a laser beam on Charity.

He wasn’t even thinking about what he was doing. His body had taken over completely.

Moving fast, Nick hooked a chair with his foot and plonked down while reaching out to Charity. Hands a blur, he had her sweats and panties down in a second, positioned her over him, opened her with his fingers and thrust. Straight up into her soft little cunt.

Ahhh! Christ!

Sweat beaded on his face, a drop trickling down the side of his face and dropping onto her shoulder. He was holding her so tightly she was probably having trouble breathing but he couldn’t seem to let her go, or even relax his death grip. He was holding on to her like you held on to a lifeline, not to a beautiful woman.

He leaned his forehead against hers, eyes closed tight. “Sorry,” he whispered roughly.

Fuck. She was dry, not ready for penetration, wriggling a little to find a comfortable position, to adjust herself to him. Her toes barely reached the ground, so almost the full weight of her body anchored her to him. Shit, he hoped he wasn’t hurting her, but he wouldn’t take bets on it.

“No you’re not,” she whispered back. “You’re not sorry at all.”

His eyes opened. He’d kept his eyes screwed shut because what was happening inside him was overwhelming, but also because what he had left of his brains told him she’d be furious. You don’t jump a woman, strip her, and shove your cock in without even a second’s foreplay. He was half expecting her to tell him to fuck off.

But no—wow—against all the odds, she wasn’t angry. How did that happen? When his eyes opened, they were an inch from hers. He stared into those eyes, mesmerized. That clear, crystal gray, like an early morning sky. There were slight crinkles around her eyes as if she were smiling. Yes, thank you, God. Nick’s gaze dropped to her mouth, slightly uptilted. That was definitely a smile. Oh yeah.

He kissed her, a long, deep plunge into that smile. When his tongue stroked hers, she clenched around him, gasping into his mouth.

She wasn’t furious at being manhandled, at the suddenness with which he’d grabbed her, at being held ferociously tight.

“No, you’re right, I’m not,” he croaked back when he came up for air. Hell no, he wasn’t sorry. He’d kill to remain right where he was, naked on a wooden chair with his cock buried in the most delightful woman he’d ever met.

Nick smiled back. Or tried to. His mouth couldn’t make the right moves. How could he smile when every atom in his body was concentrated on her, the feel of her against him and above all, the tight, warm feel of her cunt around his cock?

There was something about that thought that rang a warning bell somewhere far away in his head. Something about the feel of her…tight and just a little wetter now and warm…

Something about that didn’t feel right. Or rather, felt all too good. Better than anything had ever felt before…

Fuck.

He wasn’t wearing a rubber.

His head nearly exploded.

This was impossible. Nick never fucked without a rubber, never. Never ever, ever. He knew exactly what was out there and though he expected to die young, he wanted to go out like a man from a bullet or a knife to the heart and not hooked up to machines in a hospital. Gah. Better a bullet than disease. No question.

Suiting up was second nature, simply part of the sexual act. As natural as brushing his teeth. He never went anywhere without rubbers and had even brought them with him to Afghanistan, not that there’d been any chance of using them in that hellhole. They’d expired in his pocket and were probably dust now in his flak jacket in the basement of his condo.

But right now, in his pants pocket on the floor of her bedroom were several packets of brand-new top-of-the-line rubbers, just waiting for him.

They might as well have been on Mars for all the good they were doing him there. The normal way to go get them would be to withdraw from Charity, get up and walk over there, but every cell in his body rejected the notion. He couldn’t pull out of her if they put a gun to his head.

Not to mention the biggie—he was on a hair trigger here. Yep. Nick Ireland, Mr. Cool, Iceman himself, who had fucked Consuelo for hours while calculating probabilities that her dick-wad brother was changing lieutenants, was about ready to blow.

He could feel it, a volcanic pressure rising from his loins, the little electric tingle along his spine, all telltales he was familiar with. Just Charity breathing caused a little rustle in his system, bringing him that much closer to shooting his wad. Any movement, any at all, would just push him over the edge.

Pulling out would mean friction, sliding out of those smooth, soft, warm walls…

Oh God. He had to tighten his groin to keep from coming at the thought. If he pulled out he’d embarrass himself by spurting into the air. Or worse—into her.

He stared into her eyes, shaking slightly from the effort of not coming.

“I’m not wearing a ru—a condom.” His voice was hoarse, as if he’d spent hours screaming. His throat was tight. Huge steel bands were gripping his chest. “I’m really sorry about that.”

If she wanted to haul off and hit him, she’d have every right. He couldn’t even flinch because any movement was a no-no. All he could do was stare in the eyes and take it like a man.

Charity was silent.

“Sorry,” he said again. It came out a wheeze. With every second that passed everything in him wound tighter. His cock in her lengthened, thickened, and then—whoa—she clenched around him. His cock responded immediately with a strong ripple. He bit his back teeth together so hard it was a surprise he didn’t crack a tooth.

His head was going to explode. And right after that, his cock.

He was shaking, trying to rein himself in. “God, Charity, I’m going to—”