by Anne Stuart
She just looked at him, and he wondered what kind of lie she was working up to. It would be a complicated, fully believable one, if he were even the slightest bit gullible.
Her big brown eyes were deceptively vulnerable, and she licked her lips nervously. Taking in a deep breath, she blurted, “It felt safe.”
“Why?”
“It felt like you.”
Chapter Nineteen
Sophie had no idea why she’d said such a stupid thing. Maybe because she was tired of lying. Maybe because he was standing there stark nude and obviously aroused and it was all wrong. Men usually looked silly without their clothes on. There was nothing the slightest bit silly about Mal.
And then, when she’d essentially laid her heart and her vulnerability on the line, he said absolutely nothing. He looked at her as she huddled naked beneath his sheets, as if trying to read her thoughts, and she realized he still didn’t trust her. Not on any level.
When she’d first heard him come in, she kept her eyes closed, pretending to be asleep in case it wasn’t Malcolm. It wasn’t until he moved close, silent as a cat, that she was certain, and a slow joy had filled her.
That joy had vanished now in shame and uncertainty. There wasn’t any way she could salvage her pride, but then, that had been MIA for years. Dignity was overrated as well. She plastered on one of her fake smiles, the one she perfected for Archer, as she tried to figure out her easiest way to exit.
“You must be exhausted,” she said in her best garden-party, social hostess voice. “I should let you get some sleep.” She started to sit up, clutching the sheets to her chest. Why the fuck hadn’t she put on some clothes before she’d gotten in his bed? She knew the truth, though. She’d wanted to feel Mal’s sheets all around her body, and she didn’t want to put on any of the whore’s lingerie that Archer kept her supplied with.
He still said nothing, not moving. She could ask him to turn around, she could wrap the loose sheet around her like a toga, but she wasn’t going to bother. She’d lost her dignity when she’d told him she was there for him and he hadn’t responded. She wasn’t going to show an ounce more vulnerability.
She sat up, pushing the covers away, and climbed out of the bed, not giving a damn about her own nudity. She was still slightly tipsy from the wine, she realized. Just enough that she didn’t give a shit. She shook her tangled hair out of her face, squared her shoulders, and started toward the door as he stood there, making no move to stop her. It wasn’t until she put her hand on the doorknob that he spoke, his voice low and rumbling.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
She could stalk naked from the room in dignified outrage—she couldn’t stand around having a civil conversation. She doubted she could do anything civil with this man.
You can do anything you have to, she reminded herself, and turned, her social smile in place. “Leaving you to get some well-deserved rest,” she said lightly.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
She stared at him like an idiot, and then her temper reasserted itself. “I’ll go anywhere I damned please,” she snapped.
“Tomorrow,” he said.
“It already is tomorrow.”
“Don’t be technical. After we get some sleep. And we won’t be sleeping for a while.”
She was still so fixated on his seeming rejection of her that she didn’t understand. “What are we going to be doing?”
He tilted his head, giving her a pitying, you must be kidding look, and realization flooded her. She didn’t know whether she was relieved or furious at the game he was playing. Probably both. “But Archer’s not here. We don’t have to convince him.”
“Archer wasn’t out on the balcony when you went down on me either,” he pointed out lazily.
It was a good thing the power was out, she thought, as heat flooded her cheeks. She wasn’t nearly as good at hiding her reactions from this man as she was from Archer and his henchmen.
“Get back in my bed, Sophie,” he said, his soft voice not belying the steel beneath it.
She was starting to feel cold while at the same time heat was building inside her. “Do I have any choice in the matter?”
“You always have a choice. But you want it and I want it, and it would be a waste of time to pretend otherwise. Life is short, and the good things are few and far between. You don’t get too many chances at them, and you’d be a fool to ignore it when it may not come again.”
Cryptic and to the point, she thought, discomfited. “That’s quite a seduction technique,” she said caustically. “You get a lot of girls with that line, do you?”
“I’m not seducing you. We’re well past that point. Get in my bed before I put you there.”
So much for free will, she thought. It didn’t matter that that was exactly where she wanted to be. She’d been Archer’s victim—she wouldn’t be his.
“Make me,” she said, defiant. The moment the words were out of her mouth she wanted to groan.
“Glad to oblige,” he said, stalking toward her.
She was just deciding whether to run when she found herself scooped into his arms and then tossed back on the bed, and he was on top of her, pinning her down. She didn’t struggle, didn’t argue. She simply looked into his face, his clear green eyes, waiting.
He didn’t move either. A sudden hush had come over the room, despite the storms raging outside. They simply looked at each other, and Sophie could feel her body soften beneath his, welcoming his touch, reveling in the feel of his smooth, sleek skin touching almost every part of hers, and she wanted to melt into him, and then a shiver ran across her body, followed by another.
“Jesus Christ!” she said. “You’re freezing.” Without thinking she pushed at him, and he landed on his back beside her in the bed as she started pulling the covers around him, up to his neck. “What did you do, pour ice cubes over your body?” His skin was cold to the touch, when she was used to heat pouring from him. She tried to tuck the covers around him, to warm him up, but he simply batted them away and pulled her body against his.
“The ocean’s a cold place tonight,” he said. “And you’ll warm me up faster than anything else.”
She was too caught up in worry to respond to that. “Why the hell were you walking around the house naked if you were so cold? I realize there’s no chance of a hot shower, but you should have at least . . .”
He reached behind her neck and pulled her down to his mouth, stopping her spate of words. His mouth was cool and delicious, tasting of the ocean, and she sank into his kiss, her body warming, heating his. She tried to rub his muscled arms to get the circulation going, but he caught her wrists in his hands and pulled them away. “That’s not the way to warm me up, sweetheart,” he growled against her mouth. He rolled her beneath him again, and she could feel the heat coming back to him. His cock was still iron hard, pressed against her stomach, and she frowned.
“How can you have an erection when you’re so cold?” she said, distracted. “I thought being cold disabled men.”
He laughed, and there was no darkness in it this time. “Sweetheart, if you’re around I could have a boner in Antarctica,” he said.
She looked at him in surprise. “Is that a compliment?”
“Take it as you want.”
“Because if it is, it’s the first nice thing you’ve ever said to me,” she went on, trying to ignore the treacherous need that was building inside her. She wanted, needed the words, but in a few more moments she wouldn’t care what he said to her, as long as he kept touching her.
He moved his mouth down to the side of her neck, his teeth against her smooth skin. “I’ve said other nice things to you,” he said absently, clearly not caring.
“Name one.”
He laughed again. “You are such a woman,” he said.
“Were you confused about that fact?” she countered, and then she felt his cool hand slip down her stomach, between her legs. “I guess not.”
“I guess
not,” he echoed wryly. “And I have a very good idea.” He was barely touching her, and she was ready to leap out of her skin with need.
“You do?”
“I’ve been wanting to taste you for days,” he said softly, moving down her body.
Oh, God. She’d never cared much for this part of things, particularly when the men always seemed so pleased with themselves about it. They probably wouldn’t do it at all if they didn’t think it guaranteed them a blow job.
But she’d already gone down on Mal. In fact, she wanted to again. The crazy thing about that was she’d liked it. More than liked it. “I don’t think . . .” she began to protest.
“That’s for the best,” he said, sliding his palms along her inner thighs, pulling them apart. “Thinking is highly overrated.”
Oh, God. She could feel his breath warm between her legs, his fingers sliding in the dampness that seemed to have come out of nowhere, and then she felt his tongue against her clit, nothing more than a light, teasing touch, and she stiffened. “You don’t have to do this,” she said somewhat desperately.
“Oh, yes I do. Try and stop me.” He did it again, and a ripple of pleasure went through her body. She hadn’t felt that before—and it had been a long, long time. Archer had never . . .
He lifted his head, looking at her. “What are you thinking about? You suddenly stiffened.”
“Archer,” she confessed.
His response was impressively obscene, and he surged up her body, pinning her there, cupping her face with both hands and holding her still while he stared down into her eyes. “Archer doesn’t exist,” he said with grim certainty. “There’s just you and me in this bed. Do you need me to prove it to you?”
“I think you are,” she said in a small voice.
“Then stop remembering Archer. Lie back and think of England, Sophie,” he said, sliding down again, and when he put his mouth on her this time she arched up in the bed in surprise. It wasn’t supposed to feel that good. She knew from using her own hands that a tongue wouldn’t have enough strength or friction, but she felt the first stirrings of reaction, and she pushed into him.
She knew he smiled against her. He slid a finger inside her, then two, and she almost jumped off the bed. She put her hands down to clutch his shoulders, and he was warm now, blazingly warm, as he licked her, everywhere, using his mouth, his lips, his teeth. And his tongue . . . Oh my God, his tongue. His fingers were pumping in and out, and she knew she couldn’t come this way, but damn, it felt good, it felt wonderful, it felt like . . .
With no warning at all the orgasm slammed into her, and she clutched at his shoulders, digging in, a low, keening wail coming from the back of her throat as wave after wave of reaction flowed through her. She started to shove one hand against her mouth to silence herself, but he must have had some preternatural sense of what she was doing, because he reached up and yanked her hand away, putting it back on his shoulder. “I want to hear you scream,” he said in a low, tantalizing whisper. “I want you to scream so loud they hear you all the way down to the Caribbean.”
Oh, God, he had slid three fingers into her now, and she was incoherent as she shuddered against him, drowning in sensation. It lasted forever; each time the waves slowed he did something with his mouth or his fingers that would make it start again, and she was sobbing, begging him, not knowing if she wanted more or needed him to stop.
But he knew. He pulled away from her, surging up her sweat-slick body, and he was hot too, his damp skin sliding against hers, as he kissed her, deep and hard. She tasted herself on his mouth, she tasted the ocean, she tasted Mal, and God, if he kept kissing her like that she was going to come again, and she wasn’t sure her body could handle it.
His hard, hard hands were gentle on her as he pushed her legs apart, and she felt him there—big, strong. He was taking the tip of his cock and rubbing it against her, around her, spreading all the endless moisture, and she lifted her hips, waiting for him, breathless, needing him.
He dropped his head to look down at her, but he said nothing as he began to push, slowly, filling her, their eyes locked in silent communication. He stilled, giving her a moment to get used to him, but she ignored his steadiness, needing him, now, and he pulled out, pushing into her again, slow and hard, filling her. She wanted to weep. She’d been empty for so long, all her life, it seemed, and now she was whole.
She wrapped her legs around his slim hips, her fingers tight on his shoulders as he moved inside her, steady, deep, and she wanted more, needed more. This was like nothing she’d ever felt before, it was sex, it was fucking, it was making love. Her heart seemed to flow through her body, into his, a total joining that beckoned her, frightened her, almost destroyed her. He was so big it hurt, a sweet pleasure-pain that simply moved her deeper into this dark, magic, scary place where there was no Sophie, no Mal, just them, sliding together in the murky light, and she felt another orgasm building inside her, deep and powerful, and she knew if she climaxed her heart would explode, and she didn’t care, didn’t care at all.
Conscious thought had disappeared. This was a simple animal need brought to a different level, something almost surreal, and her body convulsed. She felt like she was floating, awash in endless sensations, with nothing to tether her to safety. All she could do was cling to him, eyes closed, waiting, until he shoved in deep, so hard she cried out, and she could feel him pulsing inside her, life inside her, and she was gone, into the night and the darkness and the magic, into Malcolm, part of him forever.
Damn, she was crying, she realized some endless time later. She rarely cried, no matter how bad the pain, how cruel the treatment, how much she’d screwed up, how empty and lonely she felt. For the first time in memory she was no longer alone, and now she finally cried. It was ridiculous, she thought, fighting it. She wasn’t going to cry over some damned man.
A little sob broke through, and she tried to cover it with a cough. Mal had pulled out, collapsing beside her, and she hoped to God he was asleep. If she just managed to stop crying, he’d stay that way, and she dug her fingernails into her palms, remembering that someone had told her it was a way to stop unwanted tears.
That person had lied.
She tried to think of happy things, like the fields outside in bright sunlight, the color of the sea, the music that she missed so much. It was making things worse, so she quickly started envisioning depressing things, like Archer and the possible corpse in the basement. It didn’t work. Shoving her fist into her mouth, she tried to stifle it, but it was already too late, Mal had reached out for her and while she tried to bat him away he wasn’t having any of it. He simply tucked her against him, stroking her hair away from her face, his lips against her ear, murmuring soft, comforting things that made no sense.
She wanted to let go completely, to sob in his arms, weep until she was too tired to move, to speak, cry herself out and then sleep for days. But she didn’t, couldn’t, trust him. Somehow she managed to swallow her tears, letting him hold her, comfort her, concentrating on the sensations of his skin, his touch, his smell. And she was the one who fell asleep.
Mal lay still in the shadowed room, holding Sophie. He should slip away, he thought. Use the shower, head downstairs, and catch a few z’s on that quicksand of a couch. The longer he stayed in bed with her the harder it was to leave.
He should never have fucked her again. The other times had been hot, fast, random. This had been something else, something almost otherworldly, and it scared the hell out of him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that this woman, what happened in this bed, was a potential life changer, and he liked his life just fine. He wasn’t going to put himself in anyone’s hands, particularly not a woman who’d betrayed the Committee and had been fool enough to fall in love with a monster like Archer MacDonald.
There were a million excuses. She’d been too young, untrained, Archer was notoriously charming—it should have been little wonder that she’d been compromised.
But she wasn’t ju
st anyone they’d picked up from a temp agency. She’d worked for the State Department, the CIA. She had a formidable intellect and an instinct for the business, plus an innate gift for the physical demands. She’d been sensible and low-key with her emotional involvements—there’d been nothing to hint that she might suddenly lose the brain she’d been given and drink Archer’s Kool-Aid.
He didn’t trust her. Didn’t want to trust her. So why was he lying curled around her, skin to skin? And why did that feel so right?
Feelings weren’t worth pig shit. He was tired; he’d killed a man tonight, which always made him feel . . . off. Sex was the best way to lose that feeling, and sex with Sophie was, for whatever reason, the best sex he could remember having. Not with tricks or acrobatics or tantric positions. There was something between them, something that so far had been impossible to define. Once he figured it out he could let go, but he hadn’t made much progress in that direction.
She smelled like flowers and sex, and he realized with disgust he was hard again. He wasn’t going to do anything about it—she needed her sleep. He needed some too—he had to rest before he could figure out how to deal with the rest of his problem. Chekowsky was out there somewhere, still in possession of the chemical weapon. Archer had found out the man had decamped with all his research records, possibly in search of the highest bidder himself, which left Mal’s job only half finished. He didn’t have time to think about pussy.
But as much as he’d like to define Sophie as simply that, he knew that was much too disingenuous. If she were simply a good fuck he wouldn’t feel so twisted up inside over her. He wasn’t used to fussing over women—he steered clear of the complicated ones.
Get up, you stupid bastard, he told himself, not moving. He heard the change in her breathing, the slight hitch, and he knew he should slide out of the bed. He also knew he wasn’t going anywhere.