“Here?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to remember this place for the rest of my life as the scene of the rape. Whenever I do, all the degradation and anger comes back. I want to remember it while it’s warm, and the sun is shining, and I’m with the man I love.”
He pushed his fingers up into her hair. “I want you to love me. But are you sure it’s me you love, and not what I did for you?”
“I started loving you when I thought I could never express it. And if I never could have, I still would have loved you.” She laid her hands on his cheeks. “I love you. The love-making is a bonus.”
Sighing her name, he pulled her against him. His arms went around her, strong and embracing. Their mouths came together in a passionate exchange of physical desire and soul-bursting love. They undressed each other, dropping articles of clothing into the grass. Their hands rediscovered and aroused. He lifted her breasts to his mouth and left their centers raised and flushed. She fondled the warm heaviness of his sex.
Jade lay down in the grass and pulled him down beside her. “This way.”
He knelt between her thighs and gradually lowered himself on top of her. “If you don’t like it, tell me to stop,” he whispered.
“Love me, Dillon.”
He entered slowly, sinking into her by measured degrees. He made each stroke an individual act of love, almost withdrawing before burying himself inside her again. Each time he filled her was so thrilling, she began raising her hips to meet his slow thrusts. He escalated the tempo. Instinctively, Jade repositioned her legs. Her hands smoothed over his back to his buttocks and drew him closer, tighter, deeper.
When they climaxed, Jade arched her back and neck, exposing them to his lips and his hoarsely whispered vows of love and commitment.
She drew his beloved face into the hollow of her neck. Stroking his hair, she looked through cleansing tears into the sun and felt its warm rays on her smile.
About the Author
Sandra Brown is the author of over sixty New York Times bestsellers, including most recently Low Pressure; Lethal; Rainwater; Tough Customer; Smash Cut; Smoke Screen; Play Dirty; Ricochet; Chill Factor; White Hot; Hello, Darkness; The Crush; Envy; The Switch; The Alibi; Unspeakable; and Fat Tuesday, all of which jumped onto the New York Times list in the numbers one to five spots. There are over eighty million copies of Sandra Brown’s books in print worldwide and her work has been translated into thirty-four languages. In 2008, Brown was named Thriller Master by the International Thriller Writers Association, the organization’s top honor. She currently lives in Texas. For more information you can visit www.SandraBrown.net.
Bellamy Lyston Price was just twelve years old when her sister was murdered on a stormy Memorial Day.
Eighteen years later, she writes a novel about the horrific experience—and a new nightmare begins…
Please see the next page for a preview of
Low Pressure
Prologue
The rat was dead, but no less horrifying than if it had been alive.
Bellamy Price trapped a scream behind her hands and, holding them clamped against her mouth, backed away from the gift box of glossy wrapping paper and satin ribbon. The animal lay on a bed of silver tissue paper, its long pink tail curled against the fat body.
When she came up against the wall, she slid down it until her bottom reached the floor. Slumping forward, she removed her hands from her mouth and covered her eyes. But she was too horror-stricken even to cry. Her sobs were dry and hoarse.
Who would have played such a vicious prank? Who? And why?
The events of the day began to replay in her mind like a recording on fast-forward.
* * *
“You were terrific!”
“Thank you.” Bellamy tried to maintain the rapid pace set by the publicist for the publishing house, who functioned as though her breakfast cereal had been laced with speed.
“This show is number one in its time slot.” Her rapid-fire speech kept time with the click of her stilettos. “Miles ahead of its competition. We’re talking over five million viewers. You just got some great national exposure.”
Which was exactly what Bellamy wished to avoid. But she didn’t waste her breath on saying so. Again. For the umpteenth time. Neither the publicist nor her agent, Dexter Gray, understood her desire to direct the publicity to her best-selling book, not to herself.