"Are you trying to make yourself pass out?"
Mac's deep voice, quiet as a whisper, startled her. She sucked in a deep breath, the noise somehow too loud, then rolled to her back. "What are you talking about?"
"You were holding your breath."
"No I wasn't. I was asleep."
"You were—until I sat on the bed." He shifted, the bed moving under him. "I didn't mean to wake you up."
"You didn't—"
"Liar." He shifted again, adjusting the pillow under his head. "Go back to sleep."
And just like that, she was second-guessing herself again. Had she imagined the attraction? As impossible as it seemed, she must have. If she hadn't, wouldn't Mac make some kind of move? Something small, something she'd have to really look for because this was Mac. She knew him, for reasons she still didn't quite understand. He'd be afraid of coming on too strong, afraid of scaring her. Of overwhelming her. So yes, he'd be subtle—
Except TR didn't do subtle. She never had. She didn't understand subtle. It was too easy to misunderstand the signs, to misinterpret the silent signals. Give her straightforward any day. Straightforward, she understood. Everything else...not so much.
She rolled to her side, facing Mac this time. Not that she could see him—the bedroom door was closed, the curtains pulled tight against the cold night outside. There was no light at all, except for the very faint glow coming from the small alarm clock. But she could still make out the silhouette of his body under the covers, could feel the wash of heat from his legs as he shifted once more.
Could hear his low growl when he lifted his head then punched the pillow.
"Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Fine. Go to sleep."
TR bit back a smile at the gruffness of his voice. "You sure about that?"
"Yeah. Positive."
"You don't sound positive."
A small sigh, followed by the feel of the bed dipping as he rolled over. "I thought you were tired."
"I was."
"Then go to sleep."
"Okay." She waited a few seconds then propped her head in her hand. "Are you sure everything's fine?"
"TR—"
"I mean, you just seem, I don't know. Out of sorts or something."
A few seconds of silence, followed by a soft sigh that might have been a growl. "I'm not used to sleeping on this side of the bed."
"Then switch."
"No, this is fine—"
TR didn't let him finish. She simply rolled across the bed and crawled on top of him—then froze. It wasn't deliberate—at least, not consciously. Subconsciously was a different story but who was she to argue with her subconscious? She straddled him, one arm braced on either side of his chest, frozen in place by the sheer enormity of his size. By the heat of his body washing over her. By the feel of rock-hard thighs pressed between her legs. By—
She swallowed, held herself still, afraid to move. Needing to move.
Not away from him, but against him.
TR slowly released the breath she'd been holding, allowed herself to relax against him. Allowed her hips to move just the slightest bit, to rock against him—
His hands closed over her hips, stopping her. Not pushing her away, but not pulling her closer, either. "TR—"
"Mac." She said his name in a clear voice, silently daring him to argue. She heard him grunt in frustration, wondered if he could tell she was smiling.
"This isn't a good idea."
"Why?"
"It's not. I...You—it just isn't."
TR pressed her hips against his, swallowed a sigh of need at the feel of his hard length brushing against her. She rocked her hips against him, liquid heat pooling between her legs with each movement. Once. Twice. Once more.
"Why isn't it?" Her voice was a ragged whisper, the words filled with need. She didn't wait for his answer, didn't wait for whatever excuse he'd try to give her. She sat back on her heels, rocked against him again, harder this time. Then she ran her hands down his sides, dipped her fingers under his shirt and gently eased it up. Her palms grazed the flat of his stomach, tingled at the expanse of hot, hard skin under them. God, he was so hard, every ridge of his abdomen defined as if he'd been carved from stone.
No, not stone. Stone was cold. Impersonal. And Mac was—he was everything. Hot and hard and alive. And she wanted him. Wanted him like she'd never wanted anything or anyone else before.
She trailed her hands higher, to the broad expanse of his chest. His breath hitched and caught, released in a low growl as he closed his own hands around her wrists.
"TR..."
That was it, just her name, uttered in a hoarse whisper, his rough voice filled with warning.
With need.
She leaned forward, pressed a kiss against the warm flesh of his stomach as she rocked her hips against him once more. Long. Hard. Slow. "Do you want me to stop?"
"We shouldn't—"
"Yes or no."
"This...isn't a good idea."
TR pressed another kiss against his hot flesh, lower this time, near the indentation of his hip. She heard the hiss of his breath, felt the way his stomach muscles clenched by her cheek. "That wasn't an answer Mr. MacGregor. Yes or no."
"I—" He sucked in another breath when she gently nipped the firm flesh by his hipbone. His hands tightened around her wrists, pressed her palms flat against his chest. "What was the question?"
TR smiled and eased one hand from his grip, trailed it down along the ridges of his abdomen. Lower. Lower still until she reached between them and traced the hard length of his thick erection. "Do you want me to stop?"
"No. Fuck, no." He jackknifed to a sitting position, startling her with his speed. One arm wrapped around her waist, holding her against him as he used his free hand to yank his shirt off. Her hands closed over his shoulders, her fingers digging into hard flesh as she wrapped her legs around him. Then his mouth captured hers. Hard. Hot. Wet.
There was nothing gentle about this kiss. Nothing tame or teasing. Her mouth parted on a sigh and he ruthlessly took advantage, sweeping his tongue inside to dance with hers.
Hunger and need spiraled within her, growing, consuming. She trailed her hands along his shoulders. His arms. His chest. She needed to feel him. Touch him. Taste him. All of him.
Now.
He reached between them, grabbed the hem of her shirt and pulled it up. Large hands cupped her breasts. Squeezing. Kneading. She moaned, broke the kiss and leaned back, braced her hands against his heavy thighs.
"Please..." She didn't know what she was begging for. Him. Her. Them. The feel of his hot mouth on her, the feel of his thick length inside her. All of it. More.
Mac tugged the shirt higher, pulled it over her head and tossed it to the side. Then his mouth was on her breast, hot and needy, his tongue laving the hard point of one nipple. Nipping. Sucking.
She dug her fingers into his rock-hard thighs, pressed her hips against his. Rocking. Grinding. Hard. Fast. Needing...
He reached between them, grabbed the waistband of her sleep shorts and pulled them down as far as her spread thighs would allow. He pressed his palm against her, slid one long finger along her wet clit and stroked.
A ragged cry escaped her as she rocked against him, needing more. Always more...But his hand was gone. He was gone. His mouth, his touch—
She was weightless, the room spinning for a dizzying second and then she was suddenly on her back. Mac yanked the shorts down her legs, moved between her spread thighs then leaned down, his mouth claiming hers once more.
No, not claiming.
Conquering.
She moaned when he ended the kiss, sucked in a sharp breath when he pressed his hot mouth against her ear. "Time to see if your pussy tastes as sweet as I've been dreaming about."
Her eyes flew open and she had just enough time to register the surprise that those words had come from Mac—quiet, reserved Mac—and then his mouth closed over her and she could think no more.
She
didn't want to think. Couldn't think. Thinking was overrated. It was impossible to think with Mac's tongue working magic against her sensitive flesh. Stroking. Nipping. Making her feel...everything.
She fisted her hands into the thick comforter. Dug her heels against the mattress, her back arching as liquid heat pooled between her legs. Hot. Hotter. God, so hot. Her muscles quivered, tightened. Tighter, tighter still as sensation built, as nerve-endings sparked and flamed, as her entire body soared. High, higher, release finally exploding in a ball of white light that left her blind and breathless.
She screamed Mac's name—out loud or in her mind, she didn't know. But she needed him. Now. Now, even though he was already pulling away. She heard the rustle of foil. Then a whimper, realized it came from her, tried to open her eyes and couldn't. And then it didn't matter because he was back. Mac, hot and hard and larger than life, stretched out on top of her. He placed a knee between her thighs, nudged her legs further apart, the heavy weight of his erection brushing against her sensitive clit. And then he was there, pushing inside her. Deep and hot and thick and oh God, she was ready to explode again, just from the slow slide of him entering her.
She reached for him, her hands closing over his arms, her fingers digging into hard biceps. "Mac—"
"I'm here, babe. Right here." He claimed her mouth, the kiss deep and somehow tender. His hand closed around her leg, dragged it up and off to the side, opening her even more as he slid deeper inside. Deeper still. In, then out, slow strokes that sent her to the edge and kept her there. Teasing. Taunting. The breath left her lungs in short gasps. Need coiled tight inside her, tighter with each slow, deep stroke.
She whispered his name, silently begging for release. Now. She needed...now.
Then she was flying again, once more spinning as Mac shifted positions. His large hands settled her hips over his, held her in place as he pushed up. She gasped, closed her hands over his wrists as her lids fluttered open.
Mac was nothing more than a shadow but she could feel his gaze on her, knew that—somehow—he could see her, that she was more than just a shadow to him. He released his grip on her waist, stretched his arms over his head.
"Show me, babe. Show me what you want."
She hesitated then braced her hands behind her, against his legs. Then she rocked her hips, grinding against him. Raised up, her breath held as her muscles gripped his thick length. Lowered her hips, gasped as she took all of him in. Over and over. Up, down. Riding him. Harder. Faster. Harder still until her muscles contracted, tighter, tighter, finally exploding in deep spasms that stole her breath, her strength.
Hands closed over her hips, bracing her as Mac drove into her, sending her flying even higher. Again. Harder. Faster, until his own body stiffened and shuddered with his release.
TR collapsed on top of him, her chest heaving as she fought to catch her breath. Strong arms closed around her and a rough voice whispered words of reassurance in her ear. Words she couldn't hear, words she didn't understand.
It didn't matter. She was safe. She was with Mac.
Right where she wanted to be.
# #
The man stood at the edge of the road across from the long driveway, hidden in the thick trees that lined the rough and narrow back road. It had taken him longer than he'd expected to find this place—but he had found it.
Just as he knew he would.
The night sky was dark, with little more than a pale sliver of moon above him. The house—nothing more than a shadow in the night—sat back from the road, hidden by old trees, their gnarled limbs reaching skyward.
His excitement over meeting someone worthy of his time and talent faded. How utterly foolish of Gordon MacGregor. Did he honestly think seclusion would guarantee the woman's safety? His safety?
The man shook his head. Had he overestimated his prey?
Yes, he had. The seclusion of the dark house was proof of that. It would be so very easy to make his way up the narrow, rutted drive. So very easy to slip inside, unseen and unheard.
So very easy to end the two lives within.
Were they with each other now? Together? Carelessly ignoring his threat while they feasted on the sins of the flesh?
How disappointing. But he shouldn't be surprised, not when he was coming to realize that MacGregor wasn't the worthy opponent he had first thought.
Who should he remove first? MacGregor? Or the woman?
He closed his eyes, sighing in pleasure as he imagined the woman's warm blood flowing over his hands as he used his knife on her.
Yes. The woman first, while MacGregor watched. Incompetent. Helpless.
Terrified.
He would use the woman's blood to anoint his flesh, to purify himself. And then...then he would go after MacGregor. End his life. Absorb his power and take it for his own.
But not yet. Not now.
Not tonight.
He had his orders—orders which must be carried out first, lest both his patron and his client become suspicious. A few more days, that was all. Just a few more days before the men who thought to control him learned that he was the one in control.
He had always been in control.
The man turned and made his way back through the trees, silent as the cold night around him.
Soon.
Very soon.
# #
Mac's eyes shot open, every instinct on alert. The rhythm of his breathing remained the same: steady, deep, calm. A lifetime of training kept his body still as his mind searched for whatever had awakened him.
An unusual sound? No, nothing like that. No creak of a floorboard, no click of a door opening or closing. The only sound was the soft breathing coming from the woman curled next to him, her head cradled on his chest.
No, it wasn't a sound that had disturbed him, it was something else. A feeling of...of being watched. Studied. Hunted.
Mac eased away from TR, careful not to wake her. There was no immediate danger, not now. Whatever had caused that odd feeling of being watched was gone now, of that he was certain.
But he was still going to check.
He moved the corner of the comforter over TR's bare shoulders and slipped out of bed, his hand already curled around the grip of the handgun he kept secured at the base of the headboard.
Mac moved across the room, his bare feet soundless against the plank flooring. His hand closed over the doorknob, slowly turned it without a sound, then eased the door open. Slow, an inch at a time, knowing exactly when the door would squeak, knowing exactly how to avoid it.
He paused at each closed door upstairs, his head tilted to the side, listening for some sound that didn't belong—a creak, a sigh, anything.
But there was nothing.
He moved to the top of the stairs, waiting and listening before slowly descending. Careful, soundless, one step at a time, knowing where to place his weight and which steps to avoid.
He repeated the maneuver throughout the house, checking each bare room as he made his way to the back.
Nothing.
Mac finally relaxed, allowed the tension to drain from his shoulders even though his grip on the Glock never wavered.
What the fuck had he heard? What had pulled him from the soundest fucking sleep he'd had in longer than he could remember? He didn't know and that worried him more than he cared to admit.
He made his way to the den, closed the door and moved to the hidden camera system tucked behind his desk. Nothing. No alarm had been tripped anywhere around the property, nothing showed on any of the footage he reviewed.
Was he missing something? Was it nothing more than his imagination, brought on by the stress of the last thirty-six hours? Brought on by his worry over TR?
If he'd been a laughing man, he would have snorted in disbelief. He didn't get stressed and no amount of worry would cause him to imagine anything. He was too well-trained for that, too attuned to his surroundings.
So what the fuck was it?
He shook his head, wished
he could shake off the gut feeling that he had missed something—something he should have seen, should have noticed. The feeling followed him back to bed, stayed with him when he crawled back under the covers and stretched out beside TR. She rolled toward him, settled against him with a sleepy sigh, and snuggled closer.
He draped his arm around her and gently ran the tips of his fingers up and down her arm, marveling at the feel of her soft, warm skin.
Marveling that she was actually here. With him. That she wanted to be here with him, in his bed.
He'd been a fool a year ago when he'd turned her down, a fool to waste all that time simply because he'd been certain he knew what was best for her. She deserved more—one hell of a lot more. He had nothing to offer her, nothing except a scarred body that had stood on the edges of hell more times than he cared to count.
Yes, TR deserved more—only she didn't see it that way. She didn't see him that way. She didn't see him for what he really was: a scarred, battle-worn soldier who was too rough around the edges for civilian life, a soldier who had left chunks of his soul in hell. Or maybe she did see him for what he was and simply didn't care.
Either way, she was here now. With him. In spite of him. And now that she was, Mac had no plans of letting her go anytime soon.
And he'd do anything to keep her safe.
No matter what.
It was a long time before he finally let himself drift back to sleep.
Chapter Ten
"Can you access your email from your laptop?"
TR looked up from the coffee she'd been sipping, raised one eyebrow in question, then lowered the cup. "Yeah. Why?"
Mac straddled the bench across from her and braced his elbows on the table. She tried to keep her gaze on his, really tried not to let her eyes wander over the expanse of his bare chest, but she failed. Miserably. For her own sanity, she should probably ask him to put on a shirt.
She'd rather go insane than do such an idiotic thing.
She'd known he was well-built. Thick and broad and hard. She'd been able to see that much whenever she saw him in one of his usual black t-shirts, had been able to tell that much even when he wore a baggy sweatshirt—and she had certainly felt it for herself last night, when her hands had explored every inch of his body. But that had been last night, in the dark, when she could only feel. And feeling had been...exquisite. Beyond even her wildest imagination—and she had imagined quite a bit about Mac over the last year.
The Protector: MAC: A Cover Six Security Novel Page 7