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CHAPTER TEN
To hell with Lupines, generals, military intelligence, molecular biology, and his whole current situation, Noah thought as he stripped off his uniform later that evening.
He'd made it home just after seven o'clock, right on-schedule, but he hadn't been in Brooklyn interviewing another potential Lupine recruit. He'd been at the public library digging up everything he could find on Annie Cryer and Gordon Entwhistle and the task force who had written that damned paper. Then Noah had made a couple of quick phone calls on a variety of public pay phones to ask some highly placed sources to dig even deeper. And finally, he'd wasted nearly twenty minutes going through the slow, painstaking process of getting a message to the general to let him know he had information to pass on. All of it left him feeling dirtier than a five-dollar whore.
A quick shower didn't do much to change that, but then Noah hadn't expected it to. He toweled himself briskly dry, then pulled on a battered pair of blue jeans and grabbed a beer from the small fridge in his suite on the club's third floor. As long as he was screwing Graham Winters and the entire Other community, he might as well drink the man's beer and watch pay-per-view sports on the massive flat-panel television in his room.
He twisted the cap off his bottle and stretched out on the bed with a grant, thumbing on the remote. He'd seen Graham downstairs when he'd come in, an encounter that had failed to sweeten his mood. Graham had been as friendly and welcoming as ever. He had, in fact, invited Noah to have dinner with him and Missy and the kids at their home next door, but Noah had refused. He'd pleaded fatigue, paperwork, a headache, and possibly bubonic plague. He couldn't remember. All he'd been able to think of was the sick, twisting, sinking feeling in his gut that had settled there that afternoon and gotten steadily worse as his day progressed. At this rate, he figured by morning his abdomen would have turned inside out through his belly button and his problems would be over. He'd be dead. No more secrecy or deception required.
It sounded like heaven.
Brooding, not even half his attention on the game in front of him, he nursed his beer and tried to think of any possible way in which he could make his current assignment not suck. After ten minutes in which he could have sworn he heard the sound of crickets chirping inside his skull, he gave up and decided there was only one thing he could do tonight.
Get stark, raving, stone-cold, red-hot, ass-over-teakettle drunk.
Gulping down the rest of his beer, he got up and wandered back over to the fridge and opened the cabinet beside it. Score. Minibar.
Although it wasn't like any other minibar Noah had ever seen. Instead of those tiny airplane bottles of assorted liquor, Noah found generous bottles—about 375 milliliters each—of name-brand vodka, tequila, gin, light rum, dark rum, Scotch, and bourbon. He also spotted a bottle of very nice cabernet sauvignon and remembered seeing a similarly pleasing pinot grigio in the fridge when he'd grabbed his beer. This place was better than a frat house.
Bypassing the mirrored silver tray bearing four crystal shot glasses as well as the matching rocks glasses on the shelf above, Noah grabbed the Scotch and headed back for the bed.
Time to get to work.
He uncorked the bottle, savoring the hollow little pop it made, and took a second to inhale the rich, tangy scent of good liquor before raising it to his mouth and taking a healthy swig. He gave himself half an hour, tops, before he was flat on his back singing the song his unit sniper had taught him about a lovely young girl from East Indonesia.
Bringing the bottle back for a second dose, he froze at the sound of a gentle knock on his bedroom door.
He glared at the white-painted panels and debated ignoring the person on the other side. Eventually they'd have to give up and go away. It was probably Graham, come to persuade Noah into food or a card game or some other friendly activity guaranteed to send his already low opinion of himself straight into the gutter. Well, he didn't need anyone to remind him what a heel he was. He could take care of that just fine on his own, thanks.
The knock came again, more insistent this time. Holy hell. These people were determined to see him straight to damnation on the first bus south. Graham knew Noah was in here. If he didn't answer the door, he'd look like as big a jerk as he really was. He had to at least open the door and come up with some excuse for being an unsocial git. Likely it would be a lame excuse, but he still had to give it a try.
Taking another slug to fortify himself, he set the bottle on the bedside table and forced himself across the short distance from bed to door. Yanking it open like a bandage off a wound, he prepared to fake civility. He blinked for a minute at the empty space directly in front of him before his gaze dropped six inches and collided with Samantha's.
The breath sighed out of him like he'd just taken a power left to the solar plexus. What was she doing here?
While he stared down at her stupidly, she hitched the straps of her little black backpack higher on her shoulders and offered him a smile.
"Hi," she said, and her husky, familiar voice went to his head in ways the fifteen-year-old Scotch had never even attempted. "Do you mind if I come in?"
Automatically he stepped aside to make way for her, and she strolled across the threshold before his brain started working well enough to tell him what a stupid idea it was. He took his time closing the door, trying to buy enough time to reclaim his power of speech, before he realized that shutting himself in a room alone with Sam and a bed did not qualify as the brightest moment of his life. When he turned back to her, he found those bright golden eyes watching him intently.
"It occurred to me that I didn't thank you for listening to me spaz this morning," she said, her lips curving into a small, self-deprecating smile.
Ah, shit. She had to remind him of the moment when this whole situation had gone straight down the crapper, didn't she? Was there no sense of justice in the world?
He crossed to the television and lowered the volume. No way was he heading toward the bed where he'd left the remote. "You came all the way back here for that?"
He winced at the way that sounded even as the words were leaving his lips. But Sam didn't seem to take his rudeness to heart. "I wanted to. It's not like this is such a trek from my apartment. It's a fifteen-minute subway ride."
"You could have waited until tomorrow."
With perfect nonchalance, she took a seat on the end of his bed and crossed her legs. "I didn't want to wait."
It had to be the Scotch making those words sound like an invitation, he thought, shaking his head as if that would clear it. The effort failed spectacularly. Her graceful movements as she crossed her legs drew his eyes like a laser guidance system. He noticed immediately that the stockings she'd worn during the day had disappeared, leaving him an unencumbered view of her naked and lithely muscled legs.
Sweet Jesus.
Forcing his gaze higher, he realized her stockings weren't the only change she'd made since leaving the office. He recognized the skirt with the few wide pleats that she'd worn all day. It had looked completely professional in the office when it had been paired with a matching gray flannel suit jacket, but the jacket had disappeared and been replaced by a snug white tank top and a soft-looking pink cardigan with a disconcerting number of unfastened buttons. The two halves clung together by virtue of just two buttons, one between and one immediately below her breasts. Everywhere else, the sweater gaped open, revealing the clingy fabric of the tank top below and making him picture the scene minus that particular garment. The mostly unbuttoned cardigan would frame her breasts while exposing the soft, smooth skin of her chest and belly…
He stifled a groan and wished he could stifle his other instinctive reaction so easily. Somehow just changing her damned shirt had transformed her skirt from an attractive piece of business attire to something out of his darkest naughty schoolgirl fantasies. Was she trying to kill him?
Her smile curved a fraction wider, and Noah realized he'd been standing there stari
ng at her like a drooling idiot for God knew how long. Struggling for an air of calm, he leaned one shoulder against the wardrobe that housed the television and shoved his itching palms into his pockets.
"So, I thought you were the kind of responsible citizen who didn't go out on school nights," he challenged, giving the whole "best defense" thing a shot. "Isn't that why you refused to go out with me until Saturday? I would have thought this was past your bedtime."
The hot, bright glitter in her eyes couldn't possibly have prepared him. One minute, Sam was sitting on the end of his bed watching him with an intent golden gaze and looking like something out of an erotic film; the next, she was pressed full-length against him with her husky whisper echoing in his brain.
"You're right," she purred. "In fact, I should be in bed right now."
Then her mouth closed in on his and his world exploded.
She tasted of heat and woman and wild, unfathomable need. His hands came up and clenched around her upper arms as if he couldn't decide whether to haul her closer or push her away. Pushing her away was never an option. If he could have gotten inside her skin, he would have done it. Instead, he'd just have to get inside of her.
His surprise lasted less than a second. That was how long it took before he dove headlong into the kiss and made his own needs clear.
He had so very, very many.
She might have led the way into the kiss, but within seconds of following her lead Noah had outpaced her. Her parted lips taunted and tempted, her tongue playing with his until he realized he had no patience for games. No matter how beguiling. Tugging her against him, he plunged into her mouth, avid and rapacious.
Her welcoming moan, the eager pressure of her lips, the clenching of her fingers on the tops of his shoulders convinced him that his greed hadn't bothered her. In fact, she met him want for want. He barely had to tighten his grip on her arms for her to plaster every one of her sweet curves against him. He nipped at her lips, and she opened for him wider. He shifted his hips to nestle the ridge of his erection against her soft mound, and her legs parted, body melting to welcome him even nearer.
She was the most sensually responsive woman he'd ever touched, and thirty seconds after he got his hands on her he knew that if he didn't get inside her soon, he would die.
Releasing his grip on her arms taxed his willpower, but she made up for his fortitude by wrapping them around his neck and using the new leverage to haul herself up against him. His palms skittered down the long line of her back, over that infuriating, teasing excuse for a sweater. They squeezed the curve of her hips, savored the instinctive giving, before sliding around to cup her lush backside. She wriggled against his touch, a cat begging to be stroked. Instead, his hands tightened, and he lifted her off the floor.
Her legs parted instinctively, then eagerly, curling around his hips, her ankles locking together at the small of his back. Her pelvis tilted, dragging Noah's reality with it. The action brought the sweet warmth of her center into perfect alignment and nestled it tight against the length of his cock. If it hadn't been for his worn-out jeans and her tiny panties, he would already have been inside her.
His frustration poured into her mouth on a low, rumbling groan. She answered by shimmying her hips and nearly making him come in his pants. As it was, he gave himself another ninety seconds. Tops.
Huge strides took them to the bed in the shortest time possible. He tumbled her down on the downy coverlet, more savage than suave, but when he dragged his mouth from hers he detected no outrage in her small, wicked smile. Only pleasure. And anticipation.
He braced his weight on his arms and leaned over her, deliberately rocking his hips against her softness.
"I want you," he ground out, and he could barely recognize the voice as his own. It sounded tight and rough and brutally frank, but he saw excitement flare in her eyes. "I want to get inside you, so deep you forget which way is up. I want your ankles on my shoulders and your nipples in my mouth—"
She cut him up with a sharp nip to his chin. "Don't talk." She yanked her sweater and tank top off over her head and threw them aside. "Don't talk. Do."
The rosy satin of her bra shimmered up at him, but pretty at it was, he hated it with a passion all out of proportion to its sins. He wanted it gone. Reaching out, he flicked open the front clasp and revealed an infinitely more beautiful sight beneath. Her blush pink nipples had tightened into hard little nubs just begging to be sucked. He couldn't stand to disappoint them.
His mouth closed over the first, tongue lashing out to rasp across the sensitive flesh. The attack made her moan and shiver beneath him. When he clamped down and began to suck in strong, rhythmic pulls, she cried out and grabbed for his waistband.
"Off!" She fumbled with the metal button at his waist, her body arching under the onslaught of his attention. "Want you."
Her panting demands barely registered. He left her to deal with her problem, too entranced by the soft, warm weight of her breasts to let himself be distracted, no matter how worthy the cause. He rubbed his cheek over the soft undersides, feeling his evening stubble rasp over the velvety skin. Turning his head, he nuzzled her, savoring her warm, musky scent and the way her flesh gave so willingly to his slightest touch. He could play with her breasts for hours, but Sam had other ideas.
"I said off!"
She gave what he suspected was a very restrained tug under the circumstances, and his jeans never stood a chance. The rivet holding the metal button in place snapped, and the button flew across the room to ping against the outside wall. The zipper didn't even pretend to fight back, splitting apart to free his impatient arousal.
He looked down at his ruined clothes and felt his lips quirk. "Well, why didn't you say so?"
Her eyes narrowed and she wiped the smile off his face by the simple expedient of wrapping her hand around the base of his cock and dragging it toward the tip in a long, tight, exquisitely torturous milking motion.
His head fell back and his eyes squeezed shut as he groaned like a dying man. Every muscle in his body shook with the strain of his epic battle not to come. He nearly lost it when she reached her goal and rubbed her thumb over the head, massaging the small bead of moisture into the painfully sensitive skin. "Shit!"
Balancing himself on one hand, he darted the other beneath her skirt, fisted it in the fabric of her panties, and yanked. They disintegrated in his hands, eliciting a grunt of satisfaction. Shaking off the scraps, he grasped his cock and fitted himself to her entrance, swearing again at the slick, soft heat of her. He gave a brief thought of regret to her skirt and his jeans still between them, dampening the pleasure of skin against skin, but it was too late to pause. Gritting his teeth, he slid his hand around to her ass and held her in place while he thrust home, impaling her on his thick length.
She screamed, a short, sharp, breathless cry that he prayed wouldn't bring Tobias and a whole platoon of his security staff barging through the door, mostly because he couldn't have stopped if they had. At that point, he figured the Queen of England could have sat down next to them on the bed to give a televised address and he couldn't have stopped. It was way too good for that.
Sam had arched beneath him, lifting into his thrusts, and he could feel her muscles trembling against him. Hell, he could feel himself trembling. He felt like he'd just plugged his dick into a wall outlet; that's how intense the electricity between them felt. The sensation forced him to grit his teeth to keep from coming before he got all the way inside her.
Walls of slick velvet clung to his shaft, parting reluctantly, making him feel like some kind of marauding barbarian, which in turn only made him even harder. He was amazed his heart could still beat, considering the center of his circulatory system was currently positioned between his legs. Or, rather, between Sam's legs.
Blowing out a harsh breath, he slipped his hand out from between Sam and the mattress and slowly eased his weight down onto her torso. Already their skin had grown damp with sweat and they clung together like
Velcro. He slipped both arms under her rib cage and curled them up, hooking them over her shoulders and trapping her in place. Jaw clenching, he looked down at her and slowly flexed his buttocks, easing his last inch into her and feeling himself nestling high against her heart.
If he had died right then, Noah knew he'd have gone straight to hell, because where he was at already qualified as heaven. The only hell would be separating himself from this woman, and he had no intention of letting that happen.
Slowly, achingly slowly, he began to move, easing himself away from her, only to slide home again, drawn by the magnetic pleasure of being inside her, of feeling her holding him, squeezing him, as if she, too, could not bear for their flesh to be separated.
Every stroke wrenched a groan from him and a thin, ragged cry from her. He felt his breath sawing in and out like a bellows, felt the heat radiating off her like a furnace, and reveled in the knowledge that he was the one who had stoked that fire. He began to move faster, caressing her with his length, caressing himself with the hot clasp of her silken walls. His fingers dug into her shoulders and he worried briefly that he might be bruising her, but if he was, she never noticed. Her own hands were clenched in the bedsheets, fisting them into ragged knots. He wondered briefly why she didn't touch him, but the eager way she matched him, thrust for thrust, drove every other thought from his mind.
All rational thought had left him. There was only her body, tight and wet around him, soft and strong beneath him, filling his mind the way he filled her body. Her scent wrapped them in a cloud of heady musk, mingling with the heat of his skin and the rich, earthy smell of sex. He sucked it in with every grasping breath, unable to get enough oxygen, unable to get enough of her. Unable to get enough.
Howl at the Moon Page 10