The Sabrina Vaughn series Set 2

by Maegan Beaumont

  Michael let himself in quietly, pressing his thumb against the small, square screen outside the door. The lock popped, just like Miss Ettie’s, and he pushed his way inside. He’d expected to find her dog guarding the door, all teeth and snarl, waiting to rip his throat out. Instead he found her alone, sitting in the ladder-back chair next to the window. The one he’d sat in that first night, watching over her while she slept. The night he’d realized that he was lost when it came to her and no matter how hard he tried, there was no hope of ever finding his way back.

  She knew he was there but didn’t turn, just kept staring out the window, bare feet pulled up, heels tucked snugly against her ass, chin propped on top of her knees. She wore nothing but a tank and boy shorts, a heavy ceramic mug in her hand. A police scanner sitting next to a baby monitor on her nightstand.

  She lifted it to her mouth, the faint smell of it drifting over to him. Something light, delicate… almost floral. Tea.

  He stood stock still for a moment, staring at her. Waiting for her to turn. To look at him, say something. The sounds of SFPD dispatch and soft, even breathing filled the space between them and he was suddenly sure she knew what he’d done.

  He waited a few more seconds, her refusal to acknowledge him feeding his anger, somehow making it easier to do what he came to do. “Okay,” he said, his tone low and even. “That’s how you want to play it…” He hooked his thumb into the hem of his blood-splattered shirt and pulled it up, over his head, tossing it on the floor.

  She looked at him then, tipping her face toward him to rest her cheek against her knee. Her eyes on him, roving over the scars and wounds that chronicled his life, felt like a confession. He let her look, let her see what he really was a moment longer before he circled around to the far side of the bed and sat down, giving her his back while he unlaced his boots.

  He could hear her behind him. The creak of the chair as she stood. The quiet click of her cup when she set it down on the crowded nightstand. The click of one monitor and then another—plunging them into silence. From the corner of his eye, he could see her move around the bed, disappearing into the bathroom.

  He didn’t look at her. That ugly thing he carried around with him, that tangled knot of selfish need, wound tight against his gut. He shouldn’t be here. He knew that and if he were better—cleaner—he wouldn’t be. If he really loved her he would leave her alone but he didn’t. Couldn’t. Just concentrated on his boots until they were undone and on the floor beside him.

  Now the soft rush of water, another click followed by a wash of dark as she shut off the bathroom light. Then she was kneeling in front of him, reaching for his hands. He pulled away from her. Didn’t want her to touch what covered them. She leveled a look at him, one that said more than words ever could. This time when she reached for him, he let her.

  He watched her clean the blood off his hands, her head bent—the dim glow of the bedside lamp setting a burnish glimmer to her dark auburn hair. He was hit with the sudden memory of doing almost the exact same thing for her, not so long ago.

  “Have you been drinking?” she said quietly, drawing the washcloth down the length of his arm, the sickly sweet smell of booze rising off his skin.

  He almost lied to her, told her that he had. That he was drunk and that it was the only reason he was here but in the end he shook his head. “No. I gave myself Jack Daniels sponge bath. Men like the ones belonging to Reyes don’t feel threatened by drunk white guys with broken arms.” He waited for her to ask what he meant by that but she didn’t and he could feel his anger flare again. “Don’t you want to know what I did?” he said quietly, while she scrubbed at his hands, taking great care to run the cloth over each separate finger, the callused pad of his palms. His bruised knuckles. “Who I did it to?”

  She finished cleaning off one hand and reached for the other. “You did what you always do.” She looked him in the eye. “What needed to be done,” she said, handing his earlier words back to him. She rocked back on her heels, dropping the washcloth. “Beyond that, I don’t care.” He looked down at the hand she still held. The blood was gone or maybe it had just seeped beneath his skin, to a place he could never reach it.

  He barked out a hollow-sounding laugh, pulling his hand out of her grasp, lunging forward to clamp both around her arms, tight enough to cast shadows in her eyes. “I liked it. Enjoyed every fucking second of it. That’s the kind of man I am, Sabrina—do you care about that?” That dirty knot suddenly pulled straight, wound itself around his throat, tighter and tighter, until he couldn’t breathe. He swallowed hard against the strangling length of it but forced himself to keep talking. To make her see him. Not the heroic version she stubbornly clung to, but the real him. “I keep trying to tell you. Keep trying to show you but you’re either too stupid or too fucked in the head to get it.” He glared down at her. Could feel his rough fingers digging into the tense muscles of her biceps and fought against the urge to soften his grip. “This isn’t going to work, you and me,” he said, forcing as much scorn and anger into his tone as he could find. “Not ever. I need you to tell me you understand that.”

  She glared back at him, dark blue shards of glass that cut him to the bone. “If that’s true, then why are you here?” She leaned in or maybe he pulled her to him, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that she suddenly surrounded him, so close it made him dizzy. “Tell me…” She craned her neck, bring her mouth as close to his ear as his hold on her would allow. “Why did you come here?” she whispered, her words skating along his collarbone, the warmth of them spreading around his ribs to run a trail of sensation along his spine that murdered every lie he had lined up, leaving him nothing more to offer but the truth.

  “Because I’m selfish,” he said quietly. “Because when it comes to you I can’t make myself do the right thing. I can’t make myself walk away. I just… can’t. I never could.”

  “Then stop trying.” Her face softened, her gaze losing its sharp edges. “It doesn’t matter. All I care about is that you’re here with me now.”

  “Say it again. What you said to me earlier, in the street…” He let his gaze drift down so he could watch her mouth form the words. “Say it…” he whispered, suddenly desperate to hear it, even if it was a lie. Even if she had no idea who or what she was really saying it to.

  “You’re a good man, Michael.” Her hand slipped between them, lifting to cup his face, her fingers brushing along his brow and he realized he was frowning, instantly rejecting the words she spoke. “Even if you can’t see it. Even if you can’t believe it—I can… because I love you.” He raised his gaze to hers and found something that rattled the very foundation he’d built his life on.

  Truth.

  I love you. That was all it took, three simple words to snap the last of his self-control. He relaxed his hold on her arms, allowing her to press herself against him, her mouth rushing up to meet his, soft and wet, opening to invite him inside.

  She kept moving, pushing against him until he was reclining on the bed. She followed, keeping their mouths locked together, fisting her hands in the sheets, pulling herself onto the bed as he fell, drawing her knees up, straddling him, grinding her hips into the erection that suddenly pushed into the junction of her thighs. He gripped her thighs, pressing himself against her, doing his damnedest to control the frenzy of need that broke out beneath his skin.

  “Sabrina…” the voice that said her name was little more than a strangled croak and it took him a second to realize that desperate sound had come from him.

  She broke away, rearing up to look down at him. Her hips went still beneath his hands, her gaze and fingers trailing the loops and whorls of the tattoo that splayed across his chest and for an instant he was sure she could see them—the names of his dead—trapped under the surface of his skin, hidden beneath dark ribbons of ink. Her fingers continued across his stomach until they found the button of his cargos, lifting herself onto her knees in order to give herself room to free it from its loop and wo
rk his pants down until they hit the floor.

  Cool fingers wrapped around his cock, pulling another sound from him, this one more guttural, ending on a harsh expel of breath as her hand slid down the hard length of him. She leaned into him again until they were face to face, her long dark hair forming a curtain between them and the outside world, her hand and hips working him in perfect rhythm with her mouth.

  Naked. He wanted her naked. That was all he could think about. All that mattered. Without thinking, he reached up and caught the bottom of her tank, moving to pull it off. Her hands followed his, covering them, her gaze instantly wild and unsure. She never took her shirt off. He knew that and he was suddenly sure he’d pushed her too far. Asked for too much but it was too late to take it back and he was too far beyond caring. He tightened his grip on the hem of her tank, his gaze nailed to hers and continued dragging it upward, following the lean lines of her arms and she let him until it was nothing more than a wad of fabric in his hands. She stayed where she was for a moment, parted mouth hovering above his, exposed breasts pressed against his bare chest. She reared up, her long, dark hair catching fire as it tumbled across her shoulders, the strands of it shifting from brown to red with each breath she took.

  She had nearly as many scars as he did. Slashes and burns. Bumps and cuts. Each one a memory of what had been done to her. A tangible badge, announcing her strength. Declaring her survival. Jaw set, chin held at an almost defiant angle, she let him look, her eyes hot and dry as she accepted his gaze on her and in that moment he’d never seen anything more fiercely beautiful.

  He gathered up her hair, moving it to the side so he could see all of her. The hard knot of scar tissue at the top of her thigh. Another at the inside of her arm… the ropy scatter of them across her belly. He could still see her face the night she’d brought his hand against her stomach, the way she pressed his fingers into them while she looked at him, telling him what they were.

  They spell out the word mine…

  He pushed the memory away. Used that self-control he was so proud of to lock it down. To concentrate on the only thing that mattered. Now. “You’re beautiful…” He trailed a hand down the length of her, mesmerized by the feel of her skin, the way it slid and shifted beneath his. He cupped her breasts, brushed his thumbs across her nipples, the blood rushing from his brain as they instantly tightened beneath his touch. She arched back slightly, eyes closed. Offering him more—anything he wanted.

  Settling a hand on the top of her leg, gripping her hip; he let his thumb cruise along the snug hem of her underwear, following it around to the junction of her thighs, running it lightly over the small swatch of fabric that covered her. She caught her breath as he slipped beneath it, running the pad of his thumb along her silky, wet cleft.

  She moaned, the sound getting caught in her throat as her hips pushed against his hand, his thumb sinking in deeper and deeper until it settled on her core and she rode it, grinding herself against him, her breath coming in short, soft pants, setting him on fire, pulling him apart until he couldn’t think straight. Lost, he reared up and turned, covering her with his body, settling his hips into the cradle of her thighs, his erection pushed against her, nothing between them but the thin cotton barrier of her panties.

  She went still again, her chest pumping against his with an unsteady rhythm, her wide-eyed gaze telling him she was fighting for control and he realized too late what he’d done. What kind of memories his weight on top of her would insight. He raised himself instantly, started to pull back but she shifted her hips again, fitting her knees against his ribcage, locking her ankles around his hips.

  “It’s okay… it’s okay…” She said it softly, over and over, glazed eyes locked on his mouth and he wasn’t sure who she was talking to—herself or to him. “It’s okay… don’t stop,” she said, focusing on his face. “Just… don’t stop.”

  He took her at her word, kept his eyes locked on her face as he dipped his head to run his tongue along the swell of her breast, the slight salty taste of her like a fist in the gut, leaving him breathless and dizzy. He drew her nipple into his mouth, relishing the way it went taut against his tongue when he sucked, softly at first but then grazing it with his teeth, causing her breath to catch in the back of her throat. Her arms came up and for a split second he was sure she’d push him away or maybe break his neck… but then her fingers delved into his hair, gripping it tightly. Pulling him closer. Offering him more.

  He shifted to the side, ignoring the pounding pulse of his erection as he worked his hand between them again, cupping his hand against her to work the heel of his palm against the top of her cleft. Raising himself up, he looked down at her, skimming his fingertips along the thin stretch of cotton between them. “Is this okay?” he whispered between delivering feather-light kisses to her jawline, running the tip of his tongue along the taunt column of her neck. His mouth on her breast again, his tongue skimming along the swell of it before he pressed a kiss to her sternum. “Are you okay?”

  She gave him a jerky nod. “Yes… it’s okay,” she said, pushing her hips against his hand, her breath catching, coming short and soft as he traced his tongue down her stomach, right to the center of her. “Take them off…” Her hands left his hair, began pushing at the last barrier between them, trying to pull her boy shorts down her hips. “Please, Michael… take them off…”

  He jacked up off the bed, her pleas instantly whipping that frenzy of need that crawled beneath his skin into a raging hornets’ nest of mindless desperation. He got them off, though he wasn’t sure how and he lunged at her again just as she pushed her hips forward, wasn’t even aware of what was happening until it was done. Until he was buried inside her, so deep that stars exploded in front of his eyes and the breath he’d been holding, came out in a sharp exhale, like he’d been kicked in the gut.

  He buried his face in her neck, fists caught up in the sheets beneath her head, eyes squeezed tight as he tried to remember how to breathe, tried not to move but she wasn’t having any of it. She pulled her knees even higher, widening the cradle of her hips.

  “I can’t—I can’t…” He had no idea what he was saying, only knew that every time she rocked herself against him, felt the soft, wet slide of her around his cock, he fell a little deeper. Was pulled under with each and every roll of her hips until he was drowning.

  Her tongue licked its way to his ear, her fingers trailing down his spine to grip his ass. “Then stop trying, Michael,” she whispered, her teeth nipping the side of his jaw. “Stop trying and just… let go.”

  He did as she said. He let go of it all. Focused all of his senses on this single point in time until there was only now. The way she felt, stretched and wrapped around him, the way her breath caught every time he flexed his hips against hers. The taste of her against his tongue, the way it slid down his throat, salty and sweet. He loved her until everything else faded away. Until nothing else mattered.

  Until he was able to convince himself, at least for a while, that nothing else ever would.

  48

  She was sleeping when the phone rang, its muted beeps originating from one of the pockets on his discarded pants. Michael reached down and found it, swiping his finger across its screen to silence it.

  “Hello, Alberto,” he said, affecting a lazy tone.

  “Cartero… it’s been a long time.” The voice on the other end of the line delivered the words smoothly. “I trust you’re well.”

  “Better than Hector,” he said, standing carefully so he didn’t wake her.

  “Ah, yes—Hector… Esteban told me,” Reyes said as if he’d broken a wine glass instead of tortured and killed a man who’d served him for the better part of a decade.

  “Sorry about your warehouse.”

  “You are only sorry that I was not inside it when you struck the match.” He could hear amusement in Reyes’ voice when he spoke.

  He eased out of bed to stand at the window. “When I kill you, it’s going to be a little m
ore hands-on than arson,” he said quietly, watching the darkness beyond the glass. “Hector told me everything.”

  Reyes chuckled. “And what is everything?”

  “That you kidnapped the grandson of a U.S. senator… and that you did it for Livingston Shaw.” It was lie but the silence that greeted him from the other end of the phone line told him he was right.

  “Hector has always been weak,” Reyes said, his tone hard and even. “I supposed I should pay you for killing him.”

  He smiled, the flash of white reflected back to him by the smooth black glass he stood in front of. “Or you could just tell me what Esteban is doing here and we can call it square.”

  “His job. My little squabble with Jorge Cordova has finally come to an end. My west coast foothold has been precarious of late but now that he’s dead, Estefan is securing my interests there,” Reyes said, he tone heavy with satisfaction. “Thank you for that, by the way.”

  It was the way he said it that told him the truth—Michael may have killed Cordova on Livingston Shaw’s orders but he’d pulled the trigger for Reyes all the same. He clamped his jaw shut, took more than a few calming breaths so that he didn’t scream loud enough to wake the dead.

  “Are you still there, Cartero?” Reyes laughed. “You seem to have lost your tongue.”

  “Leo Maddox. I know Estefan’s crew snatched him and I’m pretty sure it was done under your orders, so…”

  “You haven’t even asked about Christina. Have you forgotten her so quickly?” Reyes countered quietly, the threat so vague no one but him would even know it was there.

  “She’s your daughter, not mine,” he said, the words tightening around his throat.

  Reyes kept talking like he hadn’t said a word. “For so long, she actually believed you would keep your promise. She’s always thought you were some great hero but Lydia… in the end, she knew better, didn’t she?”