“All morning.” His weight made the bed dip and tip her toward him. Jack reached for her, rolled on top of her.
“All—” She gave a half laugh. “Even when you were fixing the boiler?”
Oh God, she felt so goddamned good, warm and soft, skin like satin. He rested his upper body on his forearms and looked down at her, smiling, as happy as he’d ever been in his life.
“Not then, no.” Down there in the basement, his only thought had been to get the damn thing up and running and get Caroline to somewhere warm. “But before. And after. And especially now.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“Feel it.” Suddenly, Jack wanted her hands on him, like he wanted his next breath. He levered himself off her, to the side. He took her hand, soft, slender, long-fingered and curled it around his cock. “Feel me,” he whispered. “Feel how much I want you.”
Her fingers flexed under his, once, then closed around him. He hissed as a surge of blood rushed through him, straight into his cock. He’d pulled the covers up and tucked them around her shoulders, so Caroline couldn’t see what she was doing. But even if she couldn’t see it, she could surely feel what she was doing to him. Fisting her hand around him, she brought it down to the base, then slowly back up, smoothing a finger over the head of his cock. One pump of her hand, and it was weeping again. She could feel it, the little witch. The shyness was gone, and a smile of pure seduction was on her face.
She could feel everything she did to him, how his stomach muscles clenched when the back of her hand ran over them. The hand not holding his cock was on his chest, over his heart. She could feel how his breath shortened, how his heart raced.
Jack usually had a clock running in his head, and it was accurate to the minute. But now he lost all track of time in the quiet room. It was so sullen and overcast outside it was hard to tell what time of the afternoon it was, and there were no outside sounds.
There was only them, and the noises they made in the quiet room.
His rough breathing, the rustling of the sheets. The quiet slither of her clothes dropping by the side of the bed as he undressed her under the covers. The creaking of the bedsprings as he finally mounted her.
The slow ahhh sound she made as he rolled back on top of her and positioned himself, cock barely inside her, feeling if she was wet enough. She was, not completely primed like he was, but wet enough. More foreplay would have to come later, when he’d had her—oh, maybe a thousand more times and had cooled down a little. Right now, if he waited even a second more to enter her, he’d come over her stomach, or his head would explode, so he slowly pushed his way in. Pushed his way home.
It felt like a homecoming.
There was no mistaking it—the welcome her body gave him. Tight as she was, there was no resistance, just the wet warm sleekness of the tissues of her little cunt, parting to make way for him. He didn’t have to hold her thighs open—she’d lifted her legs herself and opened them wide, heels hugging the backs of his thighs, arms tight around his neck, arching into him.
It all felt so good he stopped when he was fully embedded in her, savoring everything about being inside her. It was so luscious here, so warm, he never wanted to leave. Pulling out to start thrusting seemed insane, when she was wrapped around every inch of his cock, and he’d have to give some of that up.
No.
Jack ground his cock in her, digging his toes in the mattress to give him more leverage, and rocked in her. Tiny little movements that gave him the friction he craved but didn’t require him pulling even partly out.
He circled his hips, round and round, reaching even farther inside, and with a small cry, arching her back so her perfect breasts were pressed even more tightly against him, she began coming. Sharp little contractions of her cunt, pulling at him, squeezing. She came with her whole body, arms and legs tightening around him, mouth seeking his, tongue deeply in his mouth, stroking his tongue in time with her cunt…
God! Without moving, just from being inside her, Jack came, in great streams of come, shaking and sweating, heart pounding, bright pinwheels of light behind his eyelids.
He couldn’t move, he could barely breathe, it was so intense, so mind-blowing. Caroline was moaning in his mouth, arms and legs holding on to him tightly as if to keep him from leaving. He loved it that she was clinging to him so fiercely, but it wasn’t necessary. Why would he leave? Not while every cell in his body was swamped with pleasure so acute it bordered on pain. No, leaving would be impossible.
The contractions died down, slowly. The biting, harsh, deep kisses softened, became a slow, languid meeting of lips, while Caroline’s muscles relaxed, the breath leaving her on a sigh.
One last intense pulse, and his climax was over, too. Jack sprawled on her, muscles like water. He was too heavy, he knew that, but he couldn’t have moved if someone had put a gun to his head. His face was buried in her hair, one golden red lock tickling his nose. It smelled of roses—that smell zinged its way to the most primitive part of his brain, the one that would always associate the smell of roses with Caroline, with sex. He hardened inside her, and she gave a shaky little laugh.
“Not yet, cowboy. I need to regain my strength.”
Jack smiled. They’d have sex again, and soon. As far as he was concerned, they would have sex for the next thirty-six hours, stopping only to eat and shower. But though his cock was getting harder again by the second, he didn’t move because where he was—was perfect. The feel of her, the smell of her, above all the relaxed sense of closeness. It was almost as good as the sex, and it was something he’d never had in his entire life.
It was the one perfect thing in his imperfect life.
New York
Waldorf-Astoria
If you have enough money, you can get anything you want, even on Christmas Day. Deaver took a cab to Chinatown where he bought himself an entire wardrobe from the skin out, thanks to Axel. Two excellent faux Armani suits, a gray cashmere overcoat, two khaki pants, five white dress shirts, five flannel shirts, two sweaters, ten silk boxers, ten silk undershirts, two pairs of expensive boots and a fake Vuitton suitcase. That was for Deaver’s new life, just as soon as he tracked that fucker Prescott down.
For what had to be done in the meantime, he bought two cheap black suits, five white drip-dry shirts, two pairs of jeans, two sweatshirts and a forty-dollar parka. That all went into a gym bag.
He needed some walking-around money. There was $40,000 stashed away in a safe in his house in Monroe, but he had no idea if Prescott had alerted the local police, so that was out.
Right now, his staging base had to be here, in New York, where he could disappear while trying to find where Prescott had gone. Drawing cash from Axel’s card on an ATM was impossible without the PIN.
But he had an ATM card on an account in the Caymans he’d opened in the name of Nicholas Clancy. The money came from a very lucrative deal in ex-military arms sold to a rebel Ossetian group, and the bank catered to people precisely like him.
It was essentially a server in a high-rise on Grand Cayman. Its customers never visited. The bank knew what it was there for and what its customers needed, so that bank gave its customers a ten-thousand-dollar-a-day limit on its ATM withdrawals.
Axel’s Platinum card was enough for a suite at the Waldorf for however long it took to formulate his plan. Deaver was grateful to Axel for having made a fortune in the stock market before deciding to save the world by becoming a UN peacekeeper.
Everything about the Waldorf was pure pleasure, starting with the doorman in livery handing him out of the cab. Deaver pressed a fifty in his hand, figuring the word about big tippers would spread. The doorman, dressed like a Ruritanian general, handed the Vuitton and the bag to a bellboy and ushered Deaver into the huge marbled lobby as if Deaver might actually have some problems walking through a door all by himself.
Damn straight. He’d been living rough and hard all his life. Time to change all that, and the Waldorf was just the place to do it,
to turn his life around. Ten very pleasant minutes later, he was being showed into his room, about three times the size of most of the quarters he’d lived in as a soldier, and about ten times the size of the house trailer he’d grown up in.
Plush carpeting, antique furniture polished to a high gloss, a big, high four-poster bed, a desk, deep burgundy armchairs, a bowl of shiny fruit, a tall flower arrangement. The Sun King wouldn’t have felt out of place.
His suitcase and bag were neatly laid on a foldup holder. He stepped farther into the room, letting the door close behind him, breathing deeply. Christ, the place smelled rich! It smelled of lemon polish, freshly laundered bed linens, the sweet smells of the flowers.
Yes, this was a perfect place to set up headquarters to hunt down Jack Prescott and get his diamonds back.
In the luxurious shower, it took him half an hour to wash Africa and the long plane trip out of his system, but he had more toiletries to do it with than he’d bought in his entire lifetime.
The sullen winter sky was turning dark when he emerged in jeans, sweatshirt and parka, exiting fast and hailing a cab a block down so the doorman wouldn’t link the sleek businessman who’d arrived an hour before with the ordinary man in ordinary clothes. By the time he came back, there’d be another doorman, and after that it wouldn’t be a problem.
Because Vince Deaver, roughneck soldier, was about to disappear forever.
Nine
Summerville
Caroline lay beneath Jack, still recovering from the climax and still astonished at herself that she’d been able to climax like that, without actually making love. Just the feel of him in her, just holding his penis deep inside her, had been enough to set her off. He hadn’t even had to move, really.
Had Jack discovered some key to her she didn’t even know herself? She was usually slow to climax, or at least slow enough that lovers complained. Well…lover. Sanders, actually, while they’d been having their on-again, off-again affair. Affairs.
Sanders considered himself an accomplished lover, she knew. Just like he considered himself a connoisseur of wine, a gourmet, a man with a good eye for art. The fact that she took a long time to come had been a source of friction between them, until Caroline had learned the fine feminine art of faking it.
She hadn’t faked it with Jack. She’d started coming, startling herself, almost before she knew it herself. Her body had just convulsed. Just from the feel of him on her, inside her.
Amazing.
He’d been sprawled bonelessly on her after his own orgasm, but now she could feel the tension of returning consciousness in his muscles. His penis in her stirred. It was just this incredible sensation, feeling him grow hard—harder, because actually he hadn’t softened much even after coming.
She ran a hand over his shoulder, down his back, reveling in the feel of him, so incredibly strong and solid. His spine was an elegantly curved indentation, dense muscles on either side. She followed the furrow down to the small of his back, where a few wiry hairs grew, and on down to his backside. She smoothed her hand over a hard buttock.
It felt so delicious, like a huge apple, and she wanted to take a bite out of it. She couldn’t, so she dug her nails into the flesh of his buttock and felt an immediate response in his penis.
Positively Pavlovian! Caroline nearly laughed with delight. He was primed to respond to her, it seemed. Every movement of her hand corresponded to a movement of his penis in her. It worked for her mouth, too, she discovered as she turned her head and kissed his neck. And when she nipped him lightly, oh my, he jolted, and the penis inside her jumped!
They were carrying on a conversation with their bodies.
Her touch said—do you like this? And his body answered—oh yeah!
His big hands moved in her hair, and he angled his head closer to hers. When he spoke, it was directly in her ear, the vibrations of the deep voice and the puffs of air as he spoke making her shiver, though from the heat of it and not the cold.
“I’m afraid we’re just going to have to stay in bed until the house warms up.”
He didn’t sound too put out. “Oh yes?” Staying in bed with him until the house warmed up sounded wonderful.
“Yeah.” He nuzzled her temple with his nose. “Might take hours.” He sighed, his voice filled with regret as his hand touched her breast. She was somehow primed for this, because all he had to do was touch her, and the skin of her breast warmed. When his thumb glided over her nipple, she felt it, intensely, between her legs. She tightened around him, helplessly. His penis surged inside her, giving her a little electric shock.
Caroline smiled and lifted her arms back around his neck. His shoulders were so broad it was almost impossible for her to embrace him.
“Might,” she answered. “Tough luck for us.”
His mouth had moved to her neck, running his lips up and down the sensitive tendons. She arched her neck to give him better access. It was beyond delightful, feeling his mouth on her neck, giving her little biting kisses.
“So…” He started nibbling on her shoulder, delicate little nips. “What can we do in the meantime? Hmm? Talk?”
“I don’t—” Caroline took in a sharp breath. He’d pulled out of her so far she could feel the huge bulbous head against the lips of her sex, then thrust slowly back into her. She laughed breathlessly. “I can’t talk while you’re doing that!”
“Doing what?” He pulled out again, slid slowly back in again. He was moving with ease. Caroline could feel the wetness of his semen and her own arousal.
In…Out…
“That,” she gasped.
“Tell me about your family. What were they like?”
It took her a moment to realize what he’d said, she was so distracted by the feel of him sliding in and out of her, so slowly she could feel every inch of him.
But then she stiffened and pushed at his shoulders, a chill running through her. She couldn’t talk about her family, not now. Not ever.
“No.” She pushed at his shoulders again. It was like pushing against a steel wall.
He entered her again fully and stopped moving. “Talk to me.” That deep voice was lulling, almost coaxing. “The cab driver coming in said that you lost your parents on Christmas Day five years ago.”
“Six. Six years ago.” Caroline’s throat felt raw. She felt raw everywhere, all her emotions suddenly right there on the surface, horribly vulnerable. She didn’t have her usual protection around her, he was demolishing it with kisses, slow runs of his fingers over her breasts. With sex.
“Talk to me, Caroline. It helps to talk. Tell me what they were like. Start with your dad. What was he like?”
“Funny. He was very funny, but he only allowed us to see it.” The words were out before she could stop them. “Everyone thought he was this sober businessman, but he had a very ironic take on life. He hated hypocrisy and politicians. He did a wicked imitation of the governor, but only in the family and only when he’d had some whiskey. I knew exactly when to take things seriously and when not to, thanks to him. I could always count on him to put things in perspective when I was a girl. Once—”
She stopped, a tear trickling from the corner of her eye. She couldn’t wipe it away herself, her hands were on his shoulders, so he did, with his thumb. “Once?” he asked quietly.
She sniffled a laugh. “Once this candidate for the Senate came to the house, trying to get Dad to become a fund-raiser for him. He was a businessman, real rah-rah, and dumb as a rock, only less interesting. He thought that since Dad was a businessman, all he’d care about was tax cuts and deregulating. So he and his horrible wife sat there smugly talking about incorporating in the Virgin Islands to avoid taxes, and how he’d raided his company’s pension fund to pump up the stock price and how he’d eliminated five thousand jobs.” She gave a little laugh, remembering. “So Dad met Mom’s eyes and started talking about their plans to liquidate, give everything to charity and move to an ashram in India. The candidate and his awful wife were so
horrified they didn’t stay for dessert. Mom and Dad opened a bottle of champagne when they left and drank it all in front of the fire. I caught them necking and laughing.”
She met his eyes. “I’ve never told that story to anyone. And now I’m the last person to remember that.”
He wasn’t smiling, the deep grooves bracketing his mouth dug even deeper. “Why haven’t you told anyone that story? It says a lot about your dad. It’s the kind of story that automatically makes you like the guy. I think I would have liked him a lot. I like no-nonsense people.”
“Maybe.” It was an unusual thought. But who knew? Maybe they would have gotten along. Jack seemed the opposite of her father, who’d been a man who’d liked to live large, who’d liked his comforts and his pleasures, who’d enjoyed life with gusto, even better when it was first class.
He’d enjoyed elegant clothes, fine wine and cooking, expensive Cuban cigars, single-malt whiskeys. Her dad flew first class, always stayed in five-star hotels and always got the best seats in the house when they went to the theater.
Jack was a soldier, a hard man, a man used to living rough. He wore old clothes and down-at-heel boots, and had been so incredibly grateful for the meal, she was sure he didn’t eat well on a regular basis. Not much in common there.
But her father had hated bullshitters and snobs and plastic people. He’d despised Sanders once he got to know him, though at first he’d tried to hide it.
Dad might have liked Jack, after all. Jack never pretended to be anything he wasn’t, hadn’t tried to impress her in any way.
“And your mom? What was she like?”
“She was wonderful. Ah!” He suddenly changed the angle of penetration, doing something with his body, his hips, so that he bore down on her clitoris with every slow stroke into and out of her. The pleasure was almost electric in its intensity. A couple of those honeyed, electrifying strokes, then he stopped.
“Tell me more. She was wonderful. What else?”
“Beautiful.” Her body was so pleasured, she didn’t have the energy to weigh her words. They came from somewhere deep inside her. “Mom was such a beautiful woman—inside and out.”
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