Solid Heart (Unseen Enemy Book 7)

by Marysol James

  Slowly, her body sank down to the mattress. Her fingers released their grip on his head. Her legs relaxed, fell open. Her breath came in gasps, in pants, and her eyes were closed.

  Slowly, tenderly, he kissed his way back up her body, just like she’d done for him. Her full thighs, her curved stomach, her flared hips, her perfect breasts. He licked her throat, tasting her sweat; he stroked her hair back from her flushed face. Held her close, waited for her to recover.

  “My God, babe,” he said gruffly. “You are something else.”

  When her eyes opened and she gazed at him, Mark smiled at the look in those blue depths. Now this was one satisfied lady, and he gave her a slow, sweet kiss.

  “Mark…”

  “Right here,” he said softly. “You OK?”

  “I want more.”

  He felt his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “More of that?”

  “No.” Francine reached between them, gently grasped his cock. He was hard again, and she stroked his length slowly. “More of this. All of this. Inside me.”

  He huffed out a surprised breath. “You don’t want to have a rest?”

  “Why?” she said pertly. “You feeling tired, old man?”

  “Hey,” he growled again. “I ain’t old.”

  “You’re pushing forty.” She slid her hands around his muscled abs, grasped his firm ass. “Maybe you need a nap before we carry on?”

  “I won’t be forty for a few more months, and you know that damn good and well. Just because you’re closer to thirty than forty, babe, don’t think that I can’t keep up with you.”

  “Huh.” She rolled her hips, watched his eyes flare. “So, show me.”

  “You got it, spring chicken.”

  Proving yet again that he was the master of the sneak attack, Mark sat up without a word, grabbed her around the waist. She’d barely inhaled a shocked breath when she found herself in his lap. Her legs were spread wide, his cock was pressed in to her stomach, and his hands were holding her ass tight.

  “Oh,” she exhaled. “Mark…”

  “Damn, yes.” He pushed up gently, his erection throbbing, felt her juices on his thighs. “I can feel how much you want me.”

  “I do.” She kissed him, putting all her need in the words and the kiss. “I so do.”

  He reached out, yanked open the drawer on the bedside table. He ripped open the condom wrapper, lifted her slightly so he could roll it on. Up on her knees, she rubbed her breasts against his muscular chest, teasing him a bit. He responded by taking her right nipple in his mouth, nipping and licking, then moving to the next one. His mouth was rough, demanding, and her whole body opened to him.

  Slowly, he laid back, holding her eyes. She smiled down at him, traced his stunning face with her fingers.

  “You ready for me?” he asked, stroking her lower lips with the tip of his cock.

  “Oh, yeah.” She planted her palms on his chest, lifted her hips to give him easier access. “So ready. Mark, please. Please take me.”

  His one arm wrapped around her waist, raising her higher; his other hand moved his hardness to her heat. She froze, so damn desperate to finally feel him where she needed him the most. Her body yearned for this connection, hungered for him to be inside her at long last.

  When he slid in, so slow and careful, she moaned. Wild with impatience, needing him now, Francine pushed down to meet him. And in one smooth, strong stroke, they were totally joined – as deep and close as humanly possible.

  “Fuck,” he said, his voice almost awed. “Oh, fuck… you feel good.”

  He started to move, deep and slow, and she threw her head back. His hand reached up, though, fisted in her long hair, slid to her neck. He tugged her head back down, brought her eyes back to his.

  “Nuh-uh,” he said fiercely. “Here, sugar. Here with me.”

  “Oh.” She whispered it, already lost in that green stare. “Oh.”

  “Ride me.” His voice was a rasp. “I want to see your sweet pussy taking me inside.”

  Mindless now, unable to deny the man anything, she did as he told her. She rode him, watching him watch where their bodies were connected. God, his eyes were nothing but green fire, and when he finally moved them back to her face, she felt that intense stare all the way to her soul.

  “I’m so damn close, sugar,” he muttered. “So I think I need to go back to that spot, huh?”

  Before she’d even had time to murmur yes, he’d grabbed her, yanked her down on top of him tight. He had her arms trapped behind her back in one strong hand, the other still in her hair, holding her face to the side of his corded neck. She was clasped to his chest, his arms holding her in place as he pounded in to her. Deep, hard, unrelenting. And when he hit the spot, she bit down on his shoulder, dizzy with the force of the pleasure.

  “Found it, huh?” He moved faster. “Tell me, babe.”

  “Yes,” she moaned in to his shoulder. “Yes, yes, yes…”

  “You gonna come?”

  “Yes. Oh, God, yes.”

  “Good.” His hips were moving in ever-more-powerful strokes, his arms and hands holding her where he wanted her. She was trapped, trapped in the best possible way, and she loved it. “Now come for me. Come on, babe.”

  Francine’s cry of release was wrenched from a place that she didn’t even know that she had… someplace so primal, so sexual, that she didn’t even recognize her own voice. But as unexplored as this place was, it was also right, so fucking right. It was what she felt for Mark, after all: it was all hot sex and dark need, mixed in with sweet, tender passion and pleasure. Giving and taking, reaching and holding.

  Lovemaking. Love in the making.

  Francine finished, her whole body clenching and convulsing around Mark, and now he let himself go. He thrust inside her shaking body, as deep as he could, and held himself there. His orgasm was long and hard, and he just clutched her to him, his groans muffled in her throat.

  He came down slowly, feeling like he’d just been bashed over the head with a shovel. She was so soft and warm, and he relaxed his grip on her arms, set her free. When she raised her head from his throat, he tightened his fingers still tangled in her hair, pulled her forehead down to his.

  “You good?” he asked softly against her parted lips. “Not too rough?”

  She gave a small laugh, her hands moving to his upper arms now. “No. Just rough enough.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Mmm-hmmm.”

  “Good. Now hang on.” He rolled them, rolled so that he was on his side facing her, still buried inside her body. “Stay here, babe. Just for a minute.”

  “No problem.” She snuggled down, just huddled on in to him. “I like it here.”

  “Yeah. Me too.” His hand was stroking the curve of her hip, loving the silky skin under his touch. “So. How’d I do? For an old man, I mean?”

  “Oh.” She gave him a lazy kiss to his chest. “I’d say that my thirty-three-year-old ass was satisfied.”

  He snorted, slid his hand to her pussy. “I’d say that it wasn’t your ass that I satisfied.”

  She laughed again. “I’d say that you’re right.”

  **

  Twenty minutes later, Francine lay in Mark’s strong arms, all curled up and held close. Nothing had ever felt better; nothing ever could feel better.

  He stroked her back, lazily, slowly, his touch so light, it felt like a breath. And yeah, she did actually know how his breath felt as it wafted across her skin. Warm, hot, sweet. Decadent, almost, and totally damn addictive.

  It felt like this.

  “Babe?”

  Francine lifted her head from his chest. “Oui, mon loup?”

  Mark paused. “‘Mon loup’?” he repeated, amused. “I hope you ain’t cursing at me.”

  She giggled, so light with happiness, she was almost flyin
g. “Nope, never. It means ‘my wolf’.”

  “Again with the wolf thing, huh?” he teased.

  “In French, it’s a term of endearment, I promise you.”

  “Yeah?” He liked that; he liked that a hell of a lot. “Sounds way cuter in French, I gotta admit.”

  “Right?” She pressed a sweet, open-mouthed kiss to his muscled shoulder. “So what were you going to say?”

  “Uh.” He scrambled to recall, but it was difficult. That tiny kiss had killed all brain function, sent all his blood rushing south, leaving nothing much for his big head. “Well, nothing, really. Just checking in. Making sure you’re alright.”

  “No need to check in, Mark. I’m good.”

  “Yeah?”

  “So yeah.”

  His hands were moving now, moving up to her shining hair. Carefully, he wound his fingers through it again, making it even messier. She didn’t mind, though: she’d taken a quick look in the bathroom mirror a few minutes earlier, and she’d grinned at her own reflection. She’d never looked so… fucked. She decided that it was a look that totally suited her – but only if Mark was the one who’d put it on her face.

  He drew her to him, tenderly took her mouth. She responded, just let her desire for this man start to build, to carry her away. Time stopped when Mark kissed her, and in these frozen moments, Francine didn’t give a damn if she ever rejoined the world. She’d stay right here, in this little cocoon, and just kiss him.

  Far too soon, he pulled back, gently pressed her head back to his broad chest. She eyed his tattoo again, traced it with her fingers.

  “What does it mean?” she asked quietly. Tattoos and scars were damn personal, she knew, and not everyone wanted to share. “You want to tell me?”

  “Sure I do.” He ran his knuckles down her cheek, stopped on the side of her throat. “It’s my Dad’s name in Swahili.”

  “Swahili?”

  “Yep. He was from the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and although his first language was French since he used it at school, he spoke Swahili at home with his parents.”

  “He never taught you French?”

  “He tried.” Mark grinned. “I ain’t great at languages, babe. Sorry. I’m better at human anatomy.”

  “Oh, I know you are.”

  They shared a smile, then she touched the tattoo again. “His name was Siwatu? Is that a first name?”

  “Yes. Means ‘born in a time of great conflict’… and he was.”

  “The never-ending civil wars.”

  “Uh-huh. Hundreds of years of them, really.” Mark ran his fingers through her hair again, pushing it back and off her face. “That’s why he came to the U.S. He got a scholarship, saved up some money, got on a plane. He met my Mom here, they fell in love and got married, had me and my two brothers. Dad started a whole new life in the States, but he never, ever forgot his roots. Made sure I never forget ‘em, too.”

  “What happened to him?” she asked. It hadn’t escaped her notice, of course, that Mark was referring to his Dad in the past tense.

  “He died of a heart attack when I was sixteen.”

  “Oh, God. I’m sorry.”

  “Me too. He was a great man, and I’m not just saying that. He was so hard-working and strong, it always amazed me. Even as a kid, I knew he was the epitome of a man with a dedicated work ethic, and he expected the same from me.” He looked down at the tattoo on his chest, just above his heart. “I carry him with me, to remind myself to be the best man that I can.”

  “Well, you certainly achieved that. I know he’d be proud of you.” She kissed his chest, so sweet and soft. “And your Mom? Your brothers?”

  “All alive and kicking and raising hell in Nevada. Especially Mom.”

  She laughed. “Good to hear.”

  “What about you?” He stroked her cheek, kept his voice level. Over dinner one night, she’d mentioned that she’d been raised by her maternal grandmother, and when he’d asked about it, she’d shut down a bit. He hadn’t wanted to push, so he’d dropped it. “Siblings?”

  “No. I’m an only child, and you know that I have no parents. Not anymore.”

  “You want to talk about them?” he said.

  She shifted a bit, already uncomfortable with the whole topic. But this was Mark, and she trusted him. “They died in a house fire when I was twelve.”

  “Oh.” He sighed. “Oh, babe. I’m sorry.”

  She nodded quietly, accepting his comfort. “Mom died in the fire, but Dad lived for two days after. He was in so much pain, Mark, and he was so badly burned, but he was strong. It was… it was a relief when he finally went. You know? It was peace for him, at last.”

  “You were there?”

  “When he died? Yes. I was holding his hand.” She paused. “Well, I was holding a thick bandage, with his hand underneath it.”

  Mark winced.

  “It was the least I could do.” She spoke softly. “Seeing as the reason that he’d been so badly hurt was because he refused to leave the house without me.”

  “Wait.” He froze, stared down at her. “You think that he got hurt because of you? Because he went back for you?”

  She hesitated. “Well… I know that he was my father, and he loved me, so of course he wasn’t going to save himself and leave me behind. He tried to save us both, me and maman, but in the end, he only had the time and strength to carry one of us out. He chose me, and he made that choice willingly. He also chose to go back to get my mother. I know all of that intellectually.”

  “But emotionally?”

  Francine sighed. “Sometimes, I still blame myself for him dying… for both of them dying.”

  “Survivor’s guilt?”

  “Textbook case,” she said, trying for levity. “I know what it is, and I know how ridiculous it is, but still – it’s there.”

  “I’m sorry, sugar.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  Mark paused. “Is that why you decided to become a psychologist? Because of losing your parents that way, and your own feelings about it?”

  “Actually, no. I got in to psychology and therapy as a career because of my grandmother.”

  “Your maternal grandmother? The woman who took you in and raised you?”

  “Yes.”

  “She was a therapist?”

  “Oh, no.” Francine shook her head. “No. She was a – a rape survivor.”

  “What?” Mark stared at her in horror. “What do you mean?”

  “After my grandfather died, she was alone for a long time. She was a woman raising my mother alone, and she had her hands full, to put it mildly. But after maman left home to go to school, my granny started to date a bit. One of the guys… well. He attacked her.”

  “Fucking bastard,” Mark hissed.

  “She went to the police and she pressed charges, and she stood up in court and faced him down. He got sent away for six months, which wasn’t much, but seeing as all this happened over forty years ago, it was nothing short of a miracle.”

  “The fact that she even reported it was a miracle,” Mark said.

  “Uh-huh. She was damn strong.” Francine ran her fingers over his forearm muscles absently. “But she had no access to any kind of therapy or counselling, and her solution was to just cut herself off from men.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Me too. Anyway, when she took me in, she was wonderful. Warm, loving, caring. She carried me through my grief, and she made sure that I talked to someone. She never gave up on me, never stopped believing that I’d get through it all.”

  “And you did.”

  “I did.” She smiled, a tiny, sad smile. “But I also saw how alone she was, Mark. How lonely. A woman with so much love to give, so warm and amazing, and she was so goddamn terrified to trust any man, or even let him in to her personal space.”


  Mark shook his head, incredibly sorry for a woman that he’d never met.

  “She’s the reason that I decided to focus on trauma survivors, specifically women who have survived something at the hands of men.” Francine cuddled closer to his warmth, and Mark held her tighter. “I wanted so much to help women heal and move on… to learn how to trust men again, to see that there are good men in the world. I saw first-hand how hard it can be to do that on your own, and I saw a giving, incredible woman just hide herself away from the world, all because one abusive asshole hurt her.”

  “Did she ever let a man close again?” Mark asked tentatively.

  “She did.” Francine’s smile was big this time, so wide and genuinely happy that he found himself smiling back. “After I became a therapist, she finally got some help. It was decades after what had happened, but she went, and she did so damn well. After two years of therapy, she met a nice man at an art show, and she dated him. They lived together, though she never married again.”

  “Wow,” Mark said softly. “Good for her.”

  “So, you see: I know how important it is for women to move past trauma, and to let men in again. Not all men, and not until they’re ready, but if there’s a good, loving man who wants to help pull her through, then I want to help her to understand that it’s OK to trust that.”

  “Do most women get to that point?”

  “Yeah. Not all, for sure, but many do. Look at Olivia, what she went through, how hard she fought to let Dallas close without being afraid, or ashamed of wanting that. And now they’re married, and she’s so damn strong and confident. I love seeing it, and I’m so humbled to have been a part of it.”

  “And your grandmother?” Mark said. “Is she still alive?”

  “No. She died two years ago.”

  “Damn, babe. You must miss her.”

  “I do. Desperately.”

  “Any other grandparents or family back in Canada?”

  “No. My father’s parents died soon after he did, and although I have some aunts and uncles and cousins running around, we were never close.”

  “You’re on your own, then?”