Cliff's Edge

by Meg Tilly

  The matrix had shifted, and he must shift with it.

  Then, like a sign from heaven, the final light in their motel room was extinguished.

  It was time.

  She wasn’t coming out, so he would retrieve her.

  If things had gone according to plan and he’d been able to intersect with her outside the motel, he would’ve used the knife to obtain her cooperation. That way, if punishments needed to be doled out for bad behavior, it could be done quickly and effectively without irreparable damage.

  However, since she was in the room and there was a man in the equation needing to be neutralized, he would start off the party with his Walther P22. He returned to his vehicle, opened the trunk, and removed old Walt from its case, then screwed on the gorgeous suppressor he’d special ordered from Finland. He didn’t remove his satchel, however. Best to be prepared for all eventualities.

  A couple of minutes later he was standing before their motel room. A worn Do Not Disturb sign was dangling from the doorknob. He smirked. Ah, well, needs must.

  He tapped on the door.

  No answer.

  He knocked a little louder. “Front desk. It’s essential I speak with you, please,” he called. He could hear movement inside, feet hitting the ground, a few choice curse words through the paper-thin door. The door opened a crack. The security chain was on.

  “What the fuck?”

  “So sorry to disturb you,” he said, keeping his tone mild-mannered and unassuming. Shoulders rounded, eyes down and apologetic, making sure to keep old Walt out of the guy’s sight line. “There’s a problem with your credit card. Probably just a computer glitch, but the main office has requested that I run it through again. I’ve brought up a machine for your convenience.”

  “Jesus Christ.” The guy fumbled with the chain, and the door swung open.

  Eve wasn’t in the bed. In the bathroom maybe, hiding. Perhaps feeling shy.

  “I’ll get my card,” the guy said, flipping on the overhead light and turning away.

  He shut the door silently, waited until the prey had crossed the room. No need to get blood splatters on his shoes.

  The guy was reaching for his wallet on the bedside table when he pulled the trigger. Once. Twice.

  The guy made an “ugnuh” noise, turned, a stunned look in his eyes. Childlike almost. Confused. “Why did you do that?” he croaked, hand rising to the newly acquired hole in his chest, crimson blooming outward.

  He fired again.

  Watched the bullet rip through the forehead, the head jerk back.

  “You shithead,” the guy managed to get out, a trickle of blood escaping the corner of his mouth. Then he crumpled to the ground as if he were a puppet whose strings had been cut.

  Thirty-seven

  EVE WAS HAVING a marvelous dream. She was in a warm hammock. Swaying slightly. It reminded her of something. What was it? Oh yes, that summer when she was nine, getting up while it was still dark outside to go fishing with her dad. The rock of the boat after the motor had been shut off. Bobbing on the waves. “Mm . . .” The hammock smelled good, clean and male. “Delicious,” she murmured, opening her eyes at the sound of her own voice.

  Hmm . . . not a dream. She was in Rhys’s arms, nestled against his gorgeous mouthwatering bod as he carried her down the hall toward her bedroom. The man’s muscles clearly weren’t just for decoration. His chest and shoulders were rock-hard, and he didn’t seem to be winded in the slightest. Should probably let him know I’m awake and can make the journey to my bedroom on my own two feet. But being carried by him, surrounded by his arms and his masculine scent, was just too delicious. When does this kind of thing happen? Only in the movies. No need to truncate this once-in-a-lifetime experience.

  Decision made, she quickly shut her eyes, feeling a tiny bit guilty, which added to the fun.

  He grunted slightly as he shifted her weight so he could open the door to her room. So, maybe he is feeling the burn a little, she thought, biting her lip to keep her smile from taking over her face.

  She could hear the door swing open, felt him move to the bed.

  He paused.

  She could feel him problem solving. She lifted her eyelids a fraction, so she could watch him through her lashes. His face had a wide-open sweetness that she hadn’t seen before, all the harsh angles softened somehow. He was chewing the inside of his cheek, deep in thought. Then his face lightened. He bent slightly and used his knee to push the covers back. The gentle tenderness with which he carefully lowered her to the bed caused something to shift inside of her, as if a shard of glass, embedded in her heart throughout her twenties, had just dislodged and was dissolving in the bath of his kindness.

  He slowly eased his arms out from underneath her, then pulled the covers up to her chin. He smoothed a strand of hair away from her face. “Sweet dreams, my love,” he whispered, a barely there kiss alighting on her forehead.

  His love? Surely he was just using that word. He was from Hollywood after all. It was probably an affectation, but still . . .

  She could hear his body shift, turn to go.

  Her eyes flew open as she captured his hand. “Stay,” she said, her heart brimming to overflowing with emotion.

  He turned, sleepy surprise on his face.

  “I had a nap,” he said, clearly wrestling with his better intentions, because she could see the ridged outline of his swollen boner pressing insistently against the fabric of his jeans. “You only got a couple hours of sleep last night. Been on your feet—”

  “I don’t care about sleep,” she said, sitting up, her other hand joining the first and tugging him toward her. “I need you. Tonight. Naked in my bed.”

  His eyes darkened as the flickers of hunger flared into flames. His strong, calloused hand slid behind her neck, cradling the back of her head and tilting it so his mouth swooping down could claim hers.

  Yikes! She’d just eaten a huge honking bowl of French onion soup. What if my breath stinks?

  “Wait!” Her hand flew to his chest, stopping his descent. “I’ve gotta brush my teeth, take a quick shower. I’ll be super fast. A couple minutes tops.” She scrambled out of bed and slipped past him. “Be right back!” she said apologetically and shut the bathroom door behind her.

  * * *

  • • •

  SHE BRUSHED HER teeth and stripped off her clothes in record time. Turned on the shower, bundled her long hair on top of her head and secured it with a tortoiseshell clip, then stepped inside. The water wasn’t fully heated yet. Didn’t matter. Liquid heat was coursing through every molecule of her body. The lukewarm water pounding down on her highly sensitized skin acted as an aphrodisiac, causing her nipples to tighten and jut out. Washing her skin, her fingertips encountered a different kind of wet as they slid between the sensitive folds nestled between her legs.

  She heard a husky groan over the running water and whirled.

  Rhys was standing in the bathroom, towel in hand, staring at her hand. His gaze traveled upward to lock with her eyes, a savage, almost feral expression on his face.

  “I was going to dry you off,” he growled.

  “Better yet,” she said, swinging the glass shower door ajar, “you could join me.”

  The towel plummeted to the white marble floor. He yanked his T-shirt over his head and dropped that as well. The man is fucking gorgeous, she thought, licking water droplets off her lips, her fingers itching to explore every millimeter of his beautiful body. “My God,” she murmured, needing to place a hand against the shower wall. The sheer beauty of Rhys’s near-naked form was making her dizzy with longing and lust.

  He unfastened his jeans, removed a condom from his pocket, and held it between his two fingers like an unlit cigarette. Then he latched his thumbs under the waistband of his jeans and briefs and tugged them downward. Her breath caught in her throat as her gaze fol
lowed the slow, tantalizing descent. His swollen cock snagged on the fabric momentarily and then bobbed free, his long, lean muscles rippling as he moved.

  He bent over, stepping out of his garments, giving her an excellent view of his gorgeous, muscular ass. Her knees suddenly felt as if they’d been pumped full of Jell-O.

  She blew out a shaky breath. This was actually going to happen. She was nervous, but greedy, too. She was starved for him, for his body to meld with hers and fill all the lonely, empty spaces.

  It’d been a couple of years since anyone had caught her eye. She talked a big game, but she didn’t actually do short-term flings. Sure, there was the disastrous one-night stand she’d had last winter when an old friend from New York had arrived on her doorstep. He’d spent most of the weekend a broken wreck, weeping because his girlfriend had left him for her best friend. His self-esteem had been at rock bottom. On the final night of his visit he’d made a pass at her, and she hadn’t had the heart to turn him down. It was her first—and last—mercy fuck.

  Yes, this is short-term, Eve thought with a satisfied grin, but it sure as hell ain’t no mercy fuck. Rhys straightened, and her gaze was drawn back to his cock, huge, thick, and proud, arching upward as if it were attempting to caress his beautifully defined washboard abs. This is going to be totally worth it. Heartache probably lurks on the horizon, but I don’t care, because this is going to be an experience I will remember until my dying day.

  Then there was no time for thoughts. He’d bridged the distance between them, dropping the condom on the soap rack, and she was in his arms. She heard the clatter as her clip hit the shower floor. Her hair tumbled down, Rhys grabbing fistfuls to angle her head upward.

  His mouth descended on hers, demanding a response, their tongues tangling as their kisses turned wild. Ferocious. She bit down on his sinfully decadent lower lip, tugging it gently with her teeth, her tongue gliding along the captured portion in her mouth. His groan reverberated off the tiles.

  The heat and the weight of his erection against her belly was driving her insane.

  His hands, slick on her body, glided over her rib cage, cupped her breasts. His thumbs circled, teasing her nipples, his head bending so his hot mouth could worship them, too.

  “I need . . .” She moaned, undulating against him, wet, so slippery wet and ready. She wrapped her leg around his thigh. “Oh God . . .” The texture of his legs against her smooth ones was a glorious undernote of sensation, a bass cello, giving weight and strength to the lighter string instruments. Skin against skin, the water, piping hot now, was raining down on them, steam rising and fogging the glass. “Rhys . . .” She dragged her teeth along the muscle at the base of his neck, leaving a red mark in their wake. “I . . . can’t wait. I want . . . I need you.”

  “Eve,” he said, his voice a harsh rasp as he grabbed the condom, the bottle of shampoo crashing to the shower floor. He ripped open the foil packet with his teeth, his hands shaking.

  “Let me,” she murmured, kissing the inside of his wrist. Then the tip of her tongue traveled upward until it reached the packet. “Thank you,” she whispered as she removed the condom from his fingers and sank to her knees. She unrolled it over his stiff, jutting cock using her mouth, her lips and tongue slipping and sliding, enjoying every millimeter of the journey. Enjoying even more the desperate groans that she lured from his throat.

  “Good God, woman,” he groaned, pulling her to standing. His large, sure hands spanned her waist, hoisting her into the air as if she weighed nothing. She wrapped her legs around his waist, his hands sliding to her ass, holding her aloft. She wrapped her fingers around his thick, hot cock, positioning the head of it at her wet, slick entrance. Steaming water beat down on them as she slowly, slowly sank down until his cock was embedded deep inside her, stretching, filling her completely.

  “So good.” His voice was a strangled flash flood of need. He dropped his forehead to hers, breath dragging in and out of his lungs like a bellows. “So hot and tight,” he groaned, as if the sensation of being inside her was almost more than he could handle.

  She shifted.

  He gripped her hips. “Hold on . . .” he choked out. “Please . . . Don’t move. I gotta—” His jaw clenched. “Don’t want to finish too soon.” He huffed out a breath. “You’re so damn sexy, Eve . . . I can’t take it.”

  The fact that Rhys needed all movement to cease and was struggling for control made Eve feel powerful. As if she were channeling a magnificent sex goddess from ancient times.

  “Don’t stop,” she ordered. “Fuck me.” Her arms entwined around his neck, she pounded her fist against his taut back. “Deep and hard.”

  “Oh God, woman,” he groaned. He took a deep breath, then shifted their bodies so she was pressed against the cool marble wall. He braced her against it, then withdrew slowly, teeth gritted, and thrust deep.

  “Yes.” She moaned. He felt so damned good. “Like that.” Hot water cascaded over them, a counterpoint to the coldness against her back.

  She fisted her hands in his hair, pushed his head downward, forcing his mouth to meet hers. Tongues met and danced, tasting each other, as his thick cock drove into her again and again. He cradled her in one arm as his free hand slid between them, started stoking her there, circling her wet clit in the most delicious way, while everything in her tightened around him. She was moaning now, panting, as he spiraled her higher and higher. His knowing fingers, his hard cock driving in and out . . . in and out . . . The tingling, edgy tension, the voracious need, was building and building.

  His mouth left hers, his tongue tasting its way down her neck. He fucked her hard while he placed a gentle kiss at the base of her neck. The kiss morphed into a light bite, and then his mouth latched on, sending an intoxicating mixture of pleasure and pain swirling through her. He’s marking me as his. Everyone will be able to see what he’s done. And the thought of this drove the tsunami of pleasure that was building inside her to peak. Energy flew outward from her core in a million shimmering pieces, as wave after wave undulated through her.

  Tremors of the earth-shattering orgasm were still coursing through her body when Rhys thrust into her one final time, his face strained, neck arched, teeth bared. Untethered, undone, his fingers dug into her buttocks. Her name burst forth from his lips, an exultant roar dragged from the very depths of his being.

  Thirty-eight

  THE OLD BAT is sure to be asleep, but no need to court trouble. Once the car had climbed over the hump, he switched off his headlights, cut the engine, and coasted the final thirty yards down the driveway. He tapped his brakes lightly to keep from picking up speed on the slight descent, then slowly eased to a stop by the darkened house. His hands glistened in the moonlight, slippery, sticky wet. Reminded him of gutting and scaling fish with his dad, the coppery smell of fresh blood. He missed his father—the quintessential man’s man—missed the camaraderie, the hunting, fishing, visiting whores.

  His dad probably would have enjoyed this little undertaking of his.

  Too bad he wasn’t here.

  Although, then he would’ve had to share. Dad always got first dibs and he got the leavings.

  A surge of long-buried anger erupted like a volcano, causing his vision to blur. “It’s good that he’s dead.” Dead and buried in an unmarked grave. “Gone, gone, gone,” he sang, because truly, his dad had deserved it.

  The vehicle lurched. “Whoopsie.” He laughed softly, yanking hard to get the right tires out of the shallow ditch and back onto the asphalt drive. “You gotta focus, man. Keep a grip on that steering wheel, or it’ll get away from you.” The lurch was a wake-up call that brought him back to the present. For it was his show now. He was in charge.

  He eased the vehicle alongside the house and set the parking brake, leaving the door slightly ajar. He’d return, silent as a ninja, to wipe down the steering wheel, the door handle, and gearshift with his special solution
.

  * * *

  • • •

  IT WASN’T UNTIL he switched on the light in his underground bunker that he realized what a messy boy he had been. Discovering his ladylove wasn’t cowering under the bed or hiding in the closet or bathroom had been a trifle disappointing, to say the least. Perhaps he’d been overzealous in his impromptu dismembering of the body, but boys will be boys, sometimes rough in their play.

  It had helped alleviate a modicum of his frustration.

  “Ah well,” he said, his voice bouncing off the concrete walls. “Better clean up.”

  He laid the ukulele on the floor and started to strip. Everything was soaked from the rain and blood. He lifted his arm and sniffed. Perhaps the contents of a few intestines were also included in the mix. He had been rather . . . vigorous. Unschooled. Naughty boy.

  He giggled. Even his toes inside his shoes were slipping around in the muck.

  Once he had stripped down, he gathered his clothes and stepped into his gum boots to protect his feet. He picked up the red plastic gas can and lighter and headed aboveground.

  * * *

  • • •

  DOUSE ANYTHING IN enough gasoline and it will burn, he thought, enjoying the heat and the merry glow of the orange and yellow flames leaping and dancing in his rusty burn barrel.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  He whirled to face her, startled. Torn from a daydream of Eve and him whiling away the blissful hours, him strumming his newly acquired instrument, her serenading him with her dulcet tones.

  There was a crease along the old bat’s right cheek, an impression from her pillowcase. She looked sleepy, a little angry, but mostly scared.

  Scared was good. “None of your business,” he said, making his voice cold and dismissive. “Go back to bed.”