by Cindy Gerard
She tossed the towel onto the back of a chair and started working a pick through her heavy, wet hair, taking pleasure in the normalcy of the methodical act. It was impossible to keep her mind from wandering to thoughts of the man on the bed—who, she realized when she heard the soft give of an ancient bedspring, was no longer asleep.
Not only was he awake, he was watching her. She sensed it in the sudden sensitivity of her skin, and in her hyperawareness of his altered breathing.
He was aroused, too. She knew it in the same way she had always known how to touch him, how to please him, how to entice him to take and give pleasure on levels she’d never known existed before.
It was wrong, she supposed, to take advantage of a man whose physical condition made it nearly impossible for him to fight the strong sexual tug that had always existed between them. She should feel guilt over her pretense of ignorance. But all she felt was arousal.
And power.
Power in the knowledge that she could take advantage of the sheer fabric of her dress that did little to conceal that she was completely naked beneath it. Power in her blatant awareness that the pale streetlight shining in through the open window outlined her body in soft, shadowy relief. Power in knowing that her building desire would not only feed his, but sustain it.
So she took advantage. Shamelessly, without guilt. Because she needed something more than simply to be strong tonight.
She arched her back, lifted her arms above her head in a slow, sinuous stretch, and deliberately turned so he could get a clear view of the heaviness of her breasts in silhouette.
His breath caught.
So did hers, at the visceral strength of his response. And she could no longer stay away.
She turned to him, slowly lowered her arms.
“Did I wake you?” she whispered.
He swallowed thickly, and she could see the pulse that beat strong and fast at his throat.
A rush of desire made her tremble. The shock and strength of it sobered her. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
She forced herself to take a step back. “How are you feeling?”
He actually looked relieved that she’d offered a reprieve from the heat blazing between them. “Like I’m getting damn tired of being asked that question.”
His weary impatience told her how frustrated he was. And an underlying edginess also told her how difficult it was for him to keep from thinking about exactly what she was thinking about.
More knowledge. More power. To hell with caution.
She wasn’t going to make this easy for him, she decided. Gathering her hair in one hand, she lifted it off her neck, letting the breeze cool the damp skin of her nape. Another shameless pose. Another deliberate provocation.
He clutched a handful of sheet and dragged it over his lap in a tangle that did little to conceal his reaction to her calculated seduction. He was as lost in this game she’d started as she was.
It wasn’t wise. They should both rest. Tomorrow would be arduous as well as dangerous. But it had been so long. And she had been so foolish to let him go.
She let her hands fall to her sides and, all pretense of play gone, walked to the bed.
A sexual tension she recognized so well eddied through his big body, tensing muscles, heating his skin, changing the color of his eyes from a cool hazel to a smoky, shifting ash.
The cords in his neck tightened as he swallowed, never taking his eyes off hers. “What are you doing, Stephanie?”
The gruff rasp of his voice sent a shiver through her body. She stopped close to the bed, smiling. “If you haven’t figured it out yet, then you’re in worse shape than I thought.”
He groaned, a frustrated, helpless sound. “Trust me. I got it. I just don’t know why you’d want to, after—”
“Shh.” She pressed a fingertip to his lips. “There is no after. No before. Only now. Let that be enough for now.” She had no intention of letting him wander into that murky water.
“Only now,” she whispered and, holding his gaze, slipped the straps of the dress off her shoulders, down her arms, and let the garment fall to the floor around her feet.
“Breathe,” she urged huskily, and she tugged away the sheet and reached for the zipper on his shorts.
His hands covered hers. “Steph—”
“Shh.” She brushed his hands away, and with gentle care slid the shorts off his legs. “I promise I won’t hurt you.”
She loved the strangled sound he made. The almost laugh. The inevitable smile of surrender. She leaned down and, careful of his poor split lip, kissed him. Nothing but soft, supple mouths remembering how love tasted, how love felt, how simple love could be when only the moment mattered.
When his breath mingled with hers on a moan, she leaned in closer; felt a sharp, electrical jolt surge through her body as the sensitive tips of her nipples met the muscled wall of his chest.
She deepened the kiss, indulging in the contact and the pleasure before finally lifting her head, meeting his eyes, and accepting the truth. He had the power, not her. He had always had the power over her.
“Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll stop,” she whispered, part promise, part plea.
She waited an eternity as his eyes searched hers. Then his hand was in her hair, dragging her mouth back down to his, and he was kissing her with a breathtaking urgency that shifted the balance of power back to her again.
Give. Take. Ebb. Flow. It had always been this way between them when they were naked and needy and lost in each other. It would always be that way.
Trembling with arousal, she climbed up on the bed and straddled his hips, then guided his hand to her center where she was already wet and swollen and pulsing with need for him.
“Touch me. Please, please touch me.”
He slipped a finger inside, then slid it in . . . out . . . in . . . out, gliding the pad of his thumb over the swollen bud of her clitoris until she was sighing his name and riding his hand with wild abandon.
God, she’d missed this exquisite pressure that built and soared and transported her beyond herself into a realm of consuming pleasure. Everything in her wanted to let it take her, to let herself fly. But she needed to take care with him.
Even as he lifted his hips, driving her wild as he pressed the powerful length of his erection against her, even as he reached up to cup her breast and finesse her nipple into aching hardness and delicious sensitivity, she knew she had to rein herself in.
He was twenty pounds lighter than his very lean fighting weight. He was recovering from an ordeal that would have annihilated a lesser man. He might think he was up for a vigorous tumble, but she knew different. And she was the one who needed to gain some control.
“Easy,” she whispered and, taking his swollen length in her hand, guided him home.
His hands flew to her hips and he held himself there, still and deep inside her. She gasped at the feel of him, thick and sleek and hot and all Joe.
“You okay?” she whispered, leaning down and pressing her mouth against his ear.
He grunted something affirmative. Taking her cue from the rhythm he set, she slowly moved her hips up and down, bracing her hands on the mattress on either side of his shoulders for leverage, keeping as much of her body weight away from his bruised ribs as possible.
“Am I hurting you?”
“God, no,” he ground out and sought her breasts with his hands again, urging her to lean farther over him as he guided one breast to his mouth.
His lips were magic, his tongue relentless as he licked and bit and played with her sensitive nipple until both of them were wild with the need for release.
“We need to finish this,” she gasped, “before one of us gets hurt.”
He chuckled low in his throat, gave her breast a final, lavish lick, and set her back so she was sitting totally upright astride him.
“By all means . . . do your worst.”
She laughed and lifted her arms above her head, knowing he loved looki
ng at her that way. Loved sliding his hands up and over her belly, filling his palms with the weight of her breasts.
Finally, she started to move. Slow and steady and savoring.
“No,” she whispered when he lifted his hips to meet hers. “Just lie there. Let me do this for you.”
“Not a chance,” he murmured and, gripping her hips in his hands, guided her into a rhythm that escalated in speed and friction, and had her digging her knees deeper into the mattress and her fingers deeper into his shoulders and her breath escaping on sharp, panting hitches.
He reached between them, found her clitoris again, and sent her over the edge. She cried out just as he tensed, bucked and spilled into her, uttering her name on a long, mindless groan as they rode out their climaxes together.
He was a long time recovering his breath. For several tense minutes, she was afraid she might have truly hurt him. When she had recovered enough to move, she rose on rubber legs and went into the bathroom. She came back with a cool wet cloth that she ran over his perspiring face, then carefully down over his ribs before he took over, cleaning himself up.
“You okay?” she asked.
He grabbed her wrist and tugged her down onto the bed beside him. “You need to stop asking me that. But for the record, I’m fan-fucking-tastic.”
After that, he was quiet for so long, she decided he’d fallen asleep, but then his thumb moved on the inside of her wrist. A gentle stroke across her pulse. A foreshadowing.
“Steph . . . about what I said—”
“No.” Recognizing that leading tone, she pushed up on her arm so she could look down at him. He was about to apologize for something, and she wasn’t listening. Not tonight.
“I don’t want to talk about that now,” she said. “I don’t want to talk about what you said or didn’t say. What you meant or didn’t mean. Not now.
“But be ready, Joe. When this is over, when we get out of here and Dalmage pays for what he’s done, then you’re going to have a lot to say to me. Okay? A lot.”
He searched her eyes, then finally nodded. She had no doubt that he’d understood.
He was going to finally open up to her. Or no matter how much she loved him, no matter how much she wanted him with her, she was going to be gone.
15
Joe sat on the edge of the bed early the next morning, scowling at the white linen suit jacket hooked over his left index finger and the blue silk shirt hooked over his right. “This is what you meant when you said you had it covered? Where did you find this stuff, anyway?”
“Rich Americans R Us,” Stephanie said brightly as she shimmied into a siren red silk tank top, then tucked it into a very short, floral print silk wrap skirt. She smiled over her shoulder. “Suah knew a guy who knew a guy.”
Suah always knew a guy. “A little showy, don’t you think?”
She grinned. “A lot showy. They’ll be looking for fugitives, not flamboyant American tourists.”
He became fascinated by the lush curve of her very sexy ass as she planted a palm against the wall for balance and toed into a pair of red high-heel sandals.
“No one hiding out from the law would dare wear such bright colors for fear of attracting attention,” she continued.
He dragged his gaze away, then returned to her breasts, also standouts beneath the clingy silk.
“Okay. I get it. Expensive luggage. Showy clothes. We’re hiding in plain sight. Only one little problem.” He pointed to the bandage on his head. “Sort of a dead giveaway.”
“Got a fix for that.” She dug into the big suitcase. “See if it fits.”
He caught the straw colored Panama hat she tossed to him and settled it gingerly on his head, slanting it low on one side to cover the bandage.
“I give it two thumbs up.” She shot him a quick smile and headed for the bathroom, snatching a bag out of the open suitcase as she went. “I’ve got to take care of this hair.”
He watched her go in silence because, hell, he really didn’t know what to say to her. Last night. Holy mother. Last night had been . . . where did he start? Amazing? Incredible? Earthmoving? All of the above. But what’s more, it had been totally unexpected.
He stood and shrugged into the shirt, slowly working the buttons as he thought about the metamorphosis of Stephanie Tompkins. She’d always been this amazingly sensual woman. Still water came to mind when he thought of her. Understated. Never submissive, but passive, maybe? Was that the word he was searching for?
All that had changed overnight. This new Stephanie was a nuclear reactor, splitting atoms and moving matter in a take-charge, take-control, take-no-prisoners mode that just kept knocking him on his ass.
And, mercy, had she knocked him flat last night.
He supposed he ought to be a little intimidated by it all, but he wasn’t. In fact, now that the smoke had cleared and his mind-fog had lifted, he was fascinated and more than a little infatuated. He was also curious as hell about what had precipitated the transformation that had taken her from amazing to off-the-charts unbelievable.
“Be ready, Joe. When this is over, when we get out of here and Dalmage pays for what he’s done, then you’re going to have a lot to say to me. Okay? A lot.”
Okay. The message in her words did intimidate him. She’d put him on notice last night. Let him know in no uncertain terms that there was no future for them if he didn’t give her access to that part of his soul that he didn’t want anyone to have to deal with. Hell, he didn’t even want to deal with it.
Didn’t matter now. There was a day of reckoning coming. And for the life of him, he didn’t know if he was up to it. Just that fast, he was back to square one. Afraid of losing her if he didn’t come clean, afraid of losing part of himself if he did.
He dragged a hand over his head. When had the tables turned? And how had she managed to turn them on a proverbial dime? He’d left her, hadn’t he? Left her so he could protect her?
“Look how well that worked out, dumb-ass,” he grumbled and tucked his shirttails into the linen pants that matched the suit jacket. He wished he still didn’t feel as used up as yesterday’s dishwater.
The bathroom door opened, curtailing any more thoughts. Holy mother of God, would you look at her.
Brunette Stephanie, with her long, shining hair curling around her face, was girl-next-door gorgeous. Blond Stephanie, in a short, sassy wig that framed her face and made her brown eyes look as big as dessert plates, was a starving man’s feast.
“What do you think?” She struck a pose with her sexy blond ’do and silk-covered curves and hot-pink lip gloss.
“I think I might like you to keep that wig for future . . . um . . . reference. The lipstick, too.” If he had even half of his usual stamina, he’d back her up against the wall and see how long it took to get his hands up under that skirt.
She grinned, blushed prettily, then fell back on deflection by reaching for his jacket.
“Let’s see if this fits as well as the Panama.”
It did. But it felt odd wearing shoes and socks after going so long without. Just like it felt odd to sit back and let her take charge when she shifted into all-business mode and told him it was showtime. But this was her show. And so far, he couldn’t find fault with any phase of it.
An old but well-kept stretch limo was waiting for them on the street. The windows were tinted so dark he couldn’t see inside. Bekah relieved them of the leather luggage and stowed both pieces in the trunk. The suitcases were stuffed with clothes and touristy souvenirs, anything to give them weight and make them look legit in case they were stopped and searched.
Then Bekah went around to the limo’s side and opened the rear door, holding it open for them.
Stephanie was about to step inside when a Range Rover overflowing with armed soldiers roared down the street, then skidded to a screeching stop in front of the limo.
“Fuck,” Joe muttered under his breath. They were sunk. He had the KA-Bar strapped above his ankle, the Glock 17 stuck in his w
aistband, and Stephanie had her own Glock tucked inside her flashy purse. Their firepower against this shitload of soldiers was the equivalent of David wielding a broken slingshot in a showdown with Goliath on steroids.
“How fast can you run?” Stephanie whispered to Bekah.
“Like the wind,” he said with the confidence of someone who knew his own strengths and that they were about to be tested.
“Then do it now.”
Understanding even before she started screaming, “Thief! Thief! Someone stop him!” Bekah took off down the street like a Formula One racer and disappeared from sight before Stephanie launched her second wave.
“He robbed me! Why would he do that?” She turned big, sad eyes to Joe, playing the horror-stricken princess before turning accusatory glares on the storm troopers who had bailed out of the Rover and were approaching them with their rifles locked and loaded.
“Why aren’t you going after him?” she demanded of the soldiers in a spoiled American, rich bitch voice. “Don’t just stand there—you can’t let him get away with that! We were trying to help him. We only stopped because he looked so hungry, didn’t he darling?” She turned those sad eyes on Joe again.
“Please calm yourself, dear,” he drawled, falling back on his Georgia roots. “Just be thankful he didn’t pull a knife. Or worse, a gun. Didn’t I tell ya that stoppin’ was a bad idea? They’re all little heathens. Am I right, gentlemen?”
He turned a man-to-man smile on the soldiers, whose stances had transitioned from hostile and suspicious to barely concealed contempt for this stupid American couple, who was apparently slumming it for grins and giggles and had gotten themselves in a little trouble.
“My wallet,” Stephanie said suddenly as she dug into her purse, frantically searching. Outrage whined through her words. “He got my wallet! It was a Louis Vuitton! My favorite Louis Vuitton, the pink one!”