Backstreet Hero

by Justine Davis

  “Lilith, I need you to do this. Please.”

  “All right, then,” she said.

  And the moment she spoke the words, the instant she saw the heat flare in his eyes, she knew she’d taken an irrevocable step. She might someday regret it, the impossibilities were all still there, but right now, as he pulled her into his arms and lowered his mouth to hers, she truly didn’t care.

  Chapter 22

  He’d known it would be sweet. He’d known it would be hot. He’d even known, on some level, that it would be unlike anything he’d ever experienced.

  But he hadn’t known it would be like this. Because he hadn’t known anything could be like this.

  The moment he realized she was trembling, he reined himself in with one of the fiercest efforts of his life. He undressed her gently, letting out the tender side of what he was feeling, the emotions that he had no words for. He wanted her now, right now, but he also wanted her for the rest of his life, and he wasn’t going to get that if he scared her, rushed her now. Even with her bed right here, a step away, he had to go slow.

  When she tentatively reached for him, helped him tug off his shirt, his belly tightened fiercely, knotting with a heat and tension he’d never felt before. He treasured every move she made, every quickened breath she took, every tiny sign that she wanted him, too. He had to fight down the urge to take her now, hard and fast, before she could change her mind.

  He’d wondered if her concern about the difference in their ages was based on something more than the calendar, if it stemmed from what she saw in the mirror every day. He’d known he wouldn’t care—the thought of looking, of having the right to look, at her naked body, in a mirror or otherwise, told him that—but he’d made up his mind she wouldn’t care, either. As it turned out, he didn’t have to work very hard at it.

  She was beautiful. As beautiful as he’d imagined. More. In a womanly way, with luscious, taut curves that made his fingers curl with the urge to trace every one. He’d meant to tell her he thought she was just that. Now that it was here, now that she stood before him, he couldn’t say a word.

  But when he lifted a hand to touch her, he saw he was trembling himself, and had to hope that that would tell her what he couldn’t find the words to say.

  He stopped, unable to move his hand that last, critical inch. In this final moment, when what he’d ached for for so long was within reach, all he could see were those faintly lighter patches across his knuckles.

  I shouldn’t even touch you, he thought, frozen, staring at his own past as if it were alive and here.

  He didn’t realize he’d spoken the words, whispered them aloud, until she followed the line of his gaze, then looked back at his face.

  “I had them removed,” he said, “but that doesn’t change—”

  He sucked in a breath as she touched him, traced those reminders on his skin with gentle fingers.

  “Badges of honor,” she said softly. “A permanent reminder of the courage and determination it took to get out. You should be proud.”

  He swallowed tightly. And he of the quick repartee, the easy flirtation, still couldn’t think of a thing to say to her that didn’t sound hollow and false to his ears.

  Finally, he went with a gut-level truth that left him feeling as if he’d bared his throat to a blade.

  “The only thing I want more than you right now, is for you to be sure.”

  “I’m sure,” she whispered. “I’ve been sure since that endless second before I knew you were all right.”

  He wasn’t sure exactly what she meant, but was positive he didn’t care. He leaned forward and kissed the top of her shoulder, the spot he’d seen her rubbing on occasion, where it was no doubt sore from her near fall on the stairs.

  He’d get to the other sore spot, that beautiful, lusciously curved backside, later.

  He touched her then, cupped and lifted her breasts just as he’d imagined so many times. But the reality far surpassed the fantasy; the feel of that soft fullness rounding into his hands sent a jolt of fire through him that left him reeling, and wondering if there would be anything left of him but ash when this was over.

  He rubbed his thumbs over her nipples. They hardened and she let out a gasping moan. The sound and feel answered his own question; there would be nothing left and he didn’t care. He couldn’t think of any way he’d rather go out than with this woman in his arms.

  She reached for him then, urging him to shed the rest of his clothes.

  “You do it,” he said harshly. “I don’t want to let go.”

  He caressed her again, savoring the way she moved at his touch, arching, shifting restlessly. When he felt her hands slide across his belly, fingers reaching for the buttons of his jeans, he sucked in a breath so quickly it was audible.

  She stopped.

  He was so achingly hard he thought he would die right here and now if he didn’t have her hands on him soon.

  “Lilith,” he whispered, the first time he’d spoken her name since they’d come into her bedroom.

  “I…it’s been a long time.”

  “I know. Just don’t stop.”

  Freed of his clothes at last, he had a moment to be aware of the contrast between them, her creamy skin and his own darker bronze. He saw her look at his hand on her, wondered if she was thinking the same thing. But then she smiled, a soft, wondering smile, and slid her own hands down to his hips, pulling him toward her. Rigid flesh met soft curve, and his usually agile brain went into free fall.

  And suddenly nothing was as he’d expected, or thought it would be. Elegant, poised, collected Lilith Mercer responded fiercely, arching to him, her muscles fairly rippling beneath his touch. And she touched in turn, exploring until he was gritting his teeth with the effort to hold back. But she stroked, caressed, with just a hint of tentativeness that reminded him it had been a very long time for her.

  It was a reminder he needed, to keep himself slowed down. And he wanted to go slow, wanted to trace every single, glorious inch of her. He wanted her with him every step of the way, wanted her to want it as ragingly as he did, and set about making sure that happened. He set his jaw against the urgent demand of a body so hard he thought he might die from it, and coaxed her to the edge again and again, until he was certain.

  And then she was urging him on. He slipped a testing finger between her legs and found her hot and slick and ready, and the anticipation of easing this damned ache in her sweet heat was more than he could resist.

  When he began to inch into her he thought she cried out; he couldn’t be sure because her name ripped from somewhere low and deep in his chest. It was a long, nerve-wrenching slide as her unaccustomed body adjusted to take him, but once he was in her to the hilt, only one word echoed in his pleasure-drugged mind.

  Home.

  He knew in that instant he wasn’t going to be able to go slow. He of the infinite control and careful uninvolvement was lost.

  “I can’t,” he whispered to her. “Sorry, I can’t go slow.”

  “Don’t. Oh, please, don’t,” she said, breathlessly, stunning him more than a little.

  He began to move, savoring every tiny sound she made, every lifting movement that drove him deeper. And just when he knew he couldn’t hold out another instant, he heard her cry out, and felt the first clenching squeeze of her muscles around him. He let go then, slamming into her twice more, and then a shout of gasping triumph broke from him as his body erupted in an explosion of pure, sweet pleasure.

  And when she held on to him, even when he would have moved to relieve her of his weight, he thought again of that single word.

  Home.

  When she awoke, he was gone.

  She supposed she should have seen the inevitability of that. What had happened between them last night had probably been ordinary to him. Not that she doubted he’d truly wanted her. There was no way she could question that, not after the way he’d held her, touched her, and taken so long to caress her she’d almost screamed at him
to finish it.

  She’d expected something hot and fast. She’d gotten instead a tenderness and gentle insistence that had steadily pushed her higher than she’d ever gone in her life.

  She’d expected demands and fierceness. She’d gotten soft, sweet persuasion and looks of such wonder she almost forgot all about the fact that her body was twelve years older than his, with all the extra wear and tear that entailed.

  She’d also expected a casual aftermath, from a man much more experienced in this sort of thing than she was. That, she had apparently gotten.

  She resisted—barely—the urge to curl her satiated body up in the fetal position to ponder what she’d done, to open the door to the morning-after regrets she sensed were hovering just on the edge of her consciousness.

  But how could she regret something that had been so over-poweringly glorious? How could she regret waking up feeling like a woman who had been loved to within an inch of her life?

  How could she regret the simple fact that never again would she think of Daniel first when she thought of the few men she’d shared a bed with?

  Then something else that had been hovering finally penetrated the fog: coffee. She was smelling coffee.

  On the thought she heard footsteps. And then he was there, in the doorway, painted dark and golden by the morning light. Beautiful, tall, strong and unabashedly naked. She watched him walk toward her, two mugs of steaming coffee in his hands. It gave her the chance to really look at him, in a way she hadn’t been able to in the dark of the night.

  He moved, she thought, like that big cat he’d put her in mind of last night. She supposed that was because he was so perfectly put together. Her cheeks heated as she noted the dusting of hair on his chest, remembering the rough caress of it against her nipples, and the way it had made her arch her back, wanting more. And the small patch of beard beneath the center of his lower lip made her smile; she’d never even kissed a man with so much as a mustache before.

  He reached the bed too soon; she’d wanted to keep looking, to work up the nerve to give that part of him that had driven her to madness last night more than a quick glance. Not that she needed to; she knew all she needed to know—he fit her perfectly.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and held out one of the mugs to her. It was, she noticed as she took it, exactly as she liked it, just enough milk to take it from near black to creamy brown.

  She was grateful for the distraction, since she had absolutely no idea what to say to him. Thanks for the most amazing night of my life seemed a bit cliché.

  And all the thoughts that she supposed inevitably followed a night like last night were now tumbling around in her head, the most prominent being Where do we go from here?

  Assuming, of course, they went anywhere except straight back to business.

  Even as she thought it, he did just that.

  “I’m going to go see Joe Santerelli.”

  She blinked. “Now?”

  He nodded. “It’s Sunday. He’ll be…relaxed.”

  “Unsuspecting, you mean,” she said, thinking she was oddly thankful he’d not started by talking about last night. Realizing he’d probably done it on purpose, sensing her unease.

  “If you like,” he agreed easily. Then, with a touch of wariness, he added, “You’re not going.”

  “I wasn’t planning to. I never met the man, I wouldn’t be of any use.”

  He looked relieved. “You were, with your ex,” he admitted. “It was me who blew that.”

  “I…appreciated the way you treated him. He deserved it. It did me good to see it.”

  He smiled. “In that case, I forgive myself.”

  She hesitated, then asked what had been bothering her all night. “Last night—” he tensed, and she realized he thought she was going to bring up what had happened between them, in this bed, and quickly went on “—are you sure the man who died was really the target?”

  He relaxed, and she realized how out of whack things were when talking of a drive-by shooting where someone had died was easier than talking of a night of passion. Out-of-control passion, yes, but still…

  “Yeah. They were Cholos, a rival gang, and they yelled his name. They were after him. He knew it—he’d been acting twitchy.”

  “Oh.” It seemed wrong, to be relieved, but she was.

  He took a sip of coffee, then said briskly, “Hill is on her way over.”

  Uh-oh, Lilith thought. Here we go. But she tried to keep her response calm, reasoned. “I’m just going to stay here this morning, do some work.”

  “Fine.”

  “I’m sure Taylor will be glad to get her Sunday morning back.”

  He frowned. “She’s still coming.”

  “I don’t need a babysitter.”

  “You’re getting one.”

  She tried to ignore the high-handedness. “In fact, Taylor would be a distraction, since I do need to work.”

  “I’ll tell her to leave you alone.”

  “That would be rude.”

  “Rude,” he snapped, “is a word that only works in your world. And you’re not in your world at the moment, you’re in mine.”

  Just like that it was between them again, that barrier between worlds he couldn’t seem to get past. And now, looking at him, at that lovely expanse of golden skin over taut muscle, she wondered if she truly had lost her mind. Because the morning light only brought home the reality that she’d dodged last night.

  And she guessed the morning light was bringing home the reality to him as well, showing the faint lines around her eyes and mouth that advertised the difference in their ages.

  “Did you think,” she asked, her voice tight, “that because we slept together, you now own me?”

  “I thought,” he said, his jaw set, “that you would agree to letting me keep you safe. But your agreement isn’t required.”

  “Back to ordering instead of asking, are we?” she snapped.

  Of course, he’d gotten her into bed, so now maybe he thought it wasn’t necessary anymore. But the fact that he had reverted to the very behavior he’d confessed he felt had gotten Lisa killed bothered her more than she cared to admit. Because it told her she was in this much deeper than she’d allowed herself to acknowledge.

  And there’s no one to blame but yourself.

  The problem wasn’t just the difference in their ages, although she felt that more than ever this morning. She drew herself up, refusing to clutch at the bedcovers to hide behind; it seemed ridiculously pointless after the night they’d spent.

  “I can tolerate a great deal,” she said quietly. “I can even tolerate overprotectiveness. What I can’t tolerate is someone making the same mistake over and over again.”

  She got up then and escaped to the bathroom, where she tried valiantly not to weep and succeeded, for the most part.

  When she finally emerged, Taylor was sitting at her kitchen bar and Tony was gone. Lilith put on a smile with that practiced ease her world—and her life with Daniel—had taught her.

  Maybe Tony was right. She belonged there, in that world.

  Because she certainly wasn’t doing very well venturing into his.

  For at least the fifth time since he’d left the condo, Tony had to force himself to focus on what he was going to say to the disgraced, imprisoned CEO of JetCal. His mind kept wanting to go backward, and no amount of telling himself Lilith was just being stubborn could erase the sting of her last words.

  What I can’t tolerate is someone making the same mistake over and over again.

  The words stung because there was no denying the truth of them. He had done exactly what had set her off before. If it were only that, it would be bad enough. But it wasn’t.

  Because he’d done exactly what had sent Lisa out of their apartment to be kidnapped and die.

  Again.

  He tried to tell himself it was because he was worried, and that made him edgy. That much was true. He even admitted he’d reacted that way for the same reasons, that d
esperate need to keep the woman he loved safe.

  The woman he loved…

  It didn’t even hit him with a jolt. He’d gone into this knowing he was halfway there already, but he’d counted on the impossibility of it, the hopelessness of trying to blend her world and his, to keep the feelings at bay, to keep him at that harmless halfway point.

  It hadn’t worked. And he knew that he’d been beyond that point even before last night; that incredible, powerful, life-changing night that he suspected had been as intense as it had been because he was in love with her.

  And maybe that was why he was taking so long to learn, to stop himself from reacting from the gut, making the same mistake with her he’d made with Lisa. He’d never loved anybody like this before and it was distracting him.

  None of which changes a damned thing, he told himself.

  The minimum-security facility where Joe Santerelli was being held was much different from Chino, where Daniel Huntington was. And Santerelli was going to get out a lot sooner. Sooner than Stan Chilton as well, since Chilton had threatened lives and Santerelli had only been convicted of cooking his own books; buying industrial secrets, suborning corporate espionage was a nebulous area to convict anyone on. But Redstone influence was huge and Josh had a lot of friends, and the investigation into other areas of JetCal had netted its CEO a home away from home for quite some time.

  It was also why Tony thought approaching Santerelli was the way to go; the man had a lot more to lose and therefore could be pressured. He’d already run afoul of Redstone when he’d thought he’d get away with something he told himself every businessman did, and Tony hoped he’d want to avoid that mistake again.

  Of course, if he was behind the plot against Lilith, Josh would want to crush him.

  You’re going to have to get in line behind me, boss, he thought.

  Tony watched carefully as Santerelli walked toward him. He was short and a bit rotund, although Tony guessed he’d lost a bit of weight since he’d been inside, given the way his clothes hung on him. He also walked with a hint of a strut; it had likely been a swagger when he’d started, but prison life—even at what were laughingly called country-club prisons—would take some of that out of just about anyone. Especially someone used to living large, as Santerelli had been.