by Tess Diamond
She tore his shirt off. His body was like a Greek statue, broad and beautifully defined. She hadn’t been wrong about those washboard abs. She dragged her fingertips lightly up his stomach to rest her palm against his chest, which was sprinkled with a thick thatch of dark hair. She could feel his heart racing under his skin at her touch.
She’d made that happen.
“Look at you,” he said. “God, Maggie.” He kissed her like it was his only recourse. With his hands cupping her breasts, his lips trailed down their gentle slopes. The warm shock of his mouth against her nipple made her gasp, shocks shooting through her as her fingernails dug into his shoulders. “Sweet girl,” he murmured. “So beautiful.”
Normally she would have scoffed over such words, but instead, she found herself fueled by the ardor in his voice. She wrapped her legs around him, and he grabbed her waist, lifting her easily. He spun them around until her shoulders pressed against the cool glass of the greenhouse as he trailed kisses down her neck. She closed her eyes against the slow, gentle, maddening assault of his tongue, trying to clear her spinning head, and failing as lust swamped her. God, it felt so good not having to think. To just feel.
But his touch was like a drug, leaving her aching. Desperation building inside her, she hitched herself up higher on his body so she could get at his belt. She shivered in anticipation when his sinful hands stroked her bare back, tracing her skin like a map.
“You’ve been driving me crazy,” she told him, fumbling with the buckle, pulling it free. With shaking fingers, she managed to unbutton his pants, and they fell in a pool at his feet. “This is all your fault,” she gasped—because it was true, and he laughed at the annoyed tone of her voice. But the laugh turned quickly into a moan when she brought her palm against the strained material of his boxer briefs, rubbing in a slow circle.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he swore. “Always arguing.” His thumb flicked open the button of her skirt. She strained up against him, needing his hands, his mouth, any kind of friction. Her skin was too tight, too hot. She needed him to release her. To quench the fire that had been raging between them since the moment they met. “Always contradicting me.” He dragged down the zipper, the noise unbearably loud in the greenhouse. “Always going off without backup.” Her head lolled back against the heavy glass wall as his fingertips traced the lace edge of her bikini panties. Please, please, please.
“What’s that, sweetheart?” he asked, smiling against her skin, his fingers teasing, slipping along the lace, but never quite reaching where she wanted it to. “Tell me what you need.”
She wriggled against him, trying to gain leverage, trying to think. But she was drowning: His touch was an anchor, pulling her down, down . . . She needed . . .
God, she needed him.
“Please,” she gasped.
His tongue traced the edge of her ear, making her choke back a sob. She was on fire and he was the only cure.
“Please what?” he said, the insufferable, beautiful, sexy, maddening man. She was going to kill him after this.
First, though . . .
“Please touch me,” she gasped out. “Please.”
She looked up to see the satisfied, primal smile on his face as he stripped away the lace covering her like it was nothing, baring her to his gaze.
“God, Maggie,” he whispered her name like a benediction. His fingers parted her, and she trembled when she felt how wet she was for him. “Wanted this from the start,” he whispered in her ear, his fingers rubbing in circles, building the tension inside her until she was gasping each breath, on edge. Right before she was about to spill over the edge, he pulled his hand away, and she honest-to-God whimpered over the loss.
“I’ve got you,” he said. “Don’t worry . . . this is all for you, beautiful.” Then he was back, his chest pressed against her breasts, his cock resting right against her core. She tightened her legs around him, trying to push down, desperate for him. But he gripped her hips, keeping her from moving.
“Look at me,” he said softly.
Dazed, wanting, she struggled to focus, but when she did, when her eyes met his, everything else faded away as he slid inside her. Her head fell back at the sensation of being filled, of finally being complete.
“Oh, God,” Jake groaned, moving inside her, sparking sensations that spread through her body, from the top of her head down to her toes. Every part of her was alive and singing with pleasure. “Wanted to be inside you,” he gritted out, his eyes drifting shut as the feel of being inside her took him over. “Wanted to be with you. Wanted you to drive me crazy. So fucking hot. So fucking stubborn. Wanted to make you mine.”
She could feel her orgasm building inside her, her body tensing and tightening, ready to shatter. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as her hips moved against his, desperate to chase the feeling. She gripped his shoulders tightly, her nails digging into his skin as their mouths crashed together, the sweetness of his lips against hers singing through every part of her. She gasped as the pleasure rose inside her, and he pulled away, his lips dragging along the sensitive line of her jaw.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” Jake murmured against her ear. “Come for me.”
He reached down between their joined bodies and pressed firmly down on her clit.
She had to muffle her scream. Light danced along the edges of her vision, and she gasped against his skin, trying to bury the sound in his shoulder. She went still in his arms as pulsing pressure shattered through her, and she clung to him, knowing he wouldn’t let her fall, but needing to be closer than close.
She never wanted this moment to end.
“So fucking beautiful,” Jake whispered, brushing her hair off her face as he began to move inside her again. She twisted in his arms, the aftershocks of her orgasm making her almost unbearably sensitive. She was even more aware of him, her body clenching around him as he thrust fast and deep, finishing with a sound that was half groan, half her name.
He’d been right, she realized with the clarity that followed impulse: this kind of desire, this level of want . . . this man was going to be the death of her.
But God, what a way to go.
Chapter 33
Maggie’s entire body was so relaxed—sated, really—that she didn’t want to move. Jake had found a lopsided settee in the far corner of the greenhouse, tucked away among the orchids. He’d carried her there, laying her down next to him on it like a prince in a fairy tale. If they weren’t pressed for time, she was pretty sure they’d be going for round two right now.
Damn, the idea was tempting.
But she had to get up. She knew that. Before it got awkward. Before her doubts grew louder. God, it had felt so good. Insanely, gloriously hot. Part of her wanted to dive for his mouth again, to let the sensation of his tongue against hers drown out all her doubts. She wanted to pin him back on the settee and wrap her legs around his waist, and just have him again.
She shouldn’t. She licked her lips.
She couldn’t. She straightened, sitting up and buttoning up her shirt, running a hand through her unruly curls.
Jake shifted on the settee, propping his head up on his arm, and her eyes met his. He smiled, a lazy, catlike quirk of his lips that looked so self-satisfied, she was torn between swatting him and kissing him.
She stood up instead, smoothing her skirt. “Well,” she said, hoping something to say would come to her, but finding she had nothing. “At least we’re good at that.”
He let out a short bark of laughter. “I’m good at a lot of things,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t get too high on yourself, cowboy.”
He reached out, trailing a finger down the side of her neck. She shivered, leaning toward him almost involuntarily. “I’m high on you,” he said.
She tried to make herself breathe normally. God, this was idiotic. She was being silly. “I should go first,” she said. “Wait a few minutes after I leave, okay? Just in case?”
�
�You ashamed of me, Goldilocks?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Do you really want to talk about feelings? Now?” It was a surefire way to get a man to shut up or want to flee. She wasn’t above using it in this situation.
He shook his head. “Fair enough. I’ll wait . . . be your dirty little secret.”
She shot him a glare, and his eyes sparkled at her, telling her he wasn’t really angry at all. The insufferable tease. She knew she had to regroup and get back to business, but despite herself, her stern look softened into a smile.
She turned on her heel and hurried out of the greenhouse, heading back toward the mansion, refocusing on the crisis at hand. She was probably fired, but she could work around that. She was going to get Kayla home safe no matter what. She felt reborn; more determined than ever. Jake’s openness, his caring, had filled her with a renewed faith.
But she had to find a way to talk to Mrs. Thebes, the only person who might be able to convince the senator to give up the file. Maggie knew without a shadow of a doubt that she loved her daughter, that she’d do anything to get her back. A mother was the backbone of a family; the heart. The fiercest warrior a child had on their side. If anyone was up to this fight, it was Mrs. Thebes.
As Maggie walked past the rose garden, she saw a figure heading toward her from the senator’s mansion. She slowed to a stop on the sloping lawn when she realized it was Paul.
Uncomfortably aware of her flushed cheeks, Maggie had to stop herself from reaching up and trying to fix her hair, which was still a tangled mess.
It wasn’t as if Paul didn’t know what she looked like after . . .
Her cheeks got even redder. Please, please let him not notice.
“There you are! I was looking for you,” Paul said. “I just finished calming Thebes down.” He smiled proudly. “I know he’s being an ass, and I’m sorry. I think the stress is just getting to him. I made sure he knew how instrumental you’ve been every step of the way. And I stressed that at this point, changing negotiators would be next to impossible, especially since Mancuso’s calling your cell. He’s formed a connection to you, and to change the game now would be disastrous. He understood.”
Relief rushed through her already incredibly relaxed muscles as Paul said, “You’re still on the case.”
Maggie wasn’t sure if she should be thankful or hang on to her anger at the senator’s behavior.
She could do both. She was thankful because she would have pursued this even if she’d been dumped, but not being fired made things easier. And she was angry because Paul was right—she had been instrumental, and no one bothered to see it.
Frank had brought her in because she’d been the best, and she’d be the best for Kayla.
“I hate how upset this has been making you,” Paul said, reaching out and squeezing her shoulder. “I know it must be so hard, and I want to help, Mags. I always want to help. I just never seem to do or say the right thing.” He sighed, dropping his hand. “I guess that’s why we didn’t work out, isn’t it? There were always parts of you that you could never show me. Parts of you I could never see.”
In a way, it hurt to hear it out loud, the thing that she knew, that she had hoped he’d someday understand. But inside the hurt was relief, the bone-deep kind, that he was coming to terms with the fact they’d never quite fit.
“You are an incredible man,” she told him. “You were so good to me.”
“I—” Paul began, but then he broke off, frowning at something over Maggie’s shoulder. She turned to see what he was looking at.
Jake had just left the garden shed, heading in the opposite direction, his back to them.
Paul’s mouth snapped shut as he glanced back at Maggie, taking in her rumpled clothes, messy hair, and pink cheeks. His eyes widened, and she saw the dawning of understanding, followed by deep hurt.
Maggie’s heart twisted, and heat crawled up her face. She hadn’t wanted this to happen. She had never wanted to hurt Paul. Not when she’d broken off their engagement, and not now.
“Oh,” he said, and she had to bite the inside of her lip to keep looking at him. She couldn’t act ashamed.
And she wasn’t—even though she felt terrible that he’d been slapped in the face with this raw evidence of her moving on. That wasn’t fair to anyone, but especially Paul, who had been nothing but good and strong and honest and faithful.
“Paul—” she began, and then found she didn’t know what to say.
He took a deep breath, holding out his hand to get her to stop. “Let’s . . . not. None of my business.”
“I meant what I said,” she told him. “You are such a good man. And . . . I still need your help.”
He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “God, you and your laser focus,” he said, shaking his head. “I always admired it. You never lose sight of the case.” He pulled out his phone. “What do you need?”
“Information. Probably classified. And I need private access, so nobody else knows I’m investigating. Can you do that for me?”
“That’s against regulations,” Paul said.
“I know,” she replied. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. And I know you know some guys. Like your poker buddies.” He’d never talked much about his weekly game, but she knew some of the players had access to highly classified information. It might cost him some major favors, but his connections could work.
Paul nodded. “I can get information for you. What do you need to know?”
“I’m looking for the connection between SouthPoint Oil and Senator Thebes.”
He frowned. “Well, I can do that without going through back-channels,” he said, after a moment. “SouthPoint Oil is the senator’s biggest campaign contributor. He and the CEO Carl Dessen go way back—they went to Harvard together. During the last election, they were all over the TV. They cut ads together about the Maryland economy. Don’t you remember them?”
Maggie could suddenly see the commercials clearly in her mind. The senator and Carl striding down a small-town street bordered by quaint old buildings, discussing the importance of tax cuts and business growth.
“Yes, I remember,” she said. “See if there’s anything else you can dig up for me. Anyone who’s heard anything, I want to know. Thank you, Paul. Really.”
Any other time, she might’ve reached up and kissed him on the cheek. But she knew that wasn’t possible anymore. It would just cause more hurt.
“Wait,” he said as she turned to head toward her car. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to SouthPoint headquarters,” she called over her shoulder. “To get some answers for myself.”
Chapter 34
Kayla’s eyes opened, the hazy room coming slowly into focus. She licked her lips, wincing when her tongue hit the corner, where the skin was so cracked it had begun to bleed. The tang of copper filled her mouth, and she spat weakly onto the ground, trying to get rid of the taste.
She’d curled up on the lumpy mattress pad, her knees drawn close to her chest. She couldn’t stop shaking, no matter how tight a ball she tucked herself into. Sweat crawled along her back and chest, and she didn’t even want to think about what she smelled like. She breathed through her mouth, panting shallowly.
She was so tired. Everything took effort. Her entire body hurt and felt too hot. Her head ached, and every time she moved, dizziness closed in and dark spots floated in front of her eyes.
She knew what this was. When she was seven, she and her mom had been with her dad on the campaign trail, and the week had been so busy, no one realized she’d missed a few shots. She’d passed out right in the middle of her dad’s speech and had been rushed to the hospital.
After that, her mother had an app designed, synced to all their phones, that would send reminders if she was even five minutes late with a dose.
She remembered the feeling. The dizziness. How the world swung around her when she tried to sit up or stand.
She wanted her mom. The thought made tears leak
out of the corner of her eyes. She wanted her mom so badly it hurt almost as much as her body shutting down. Would she ever see her again? What would she do if Kayla didn’t come back? Would she be okay?
Kayla kept trying to think about the last thing she said to her. She couldn’t pinpoint it. They’d been at breakfast that morning—how many days ago had that been? Kayla had no idea. Mom had been on her way to a meeting with one of her charities and she’d said something about moving their weekly ride to Tuesday. Kayla remembered being annoyed.
Oh, God, what if she’d said something snotty? What if that was her mother’s last memory of her before . . .
She whimpered, trying to muffle her sobs. She didn’t want to die. She wanted to go home and sleep in her bed and have her mother stroke her hair back like she did when Kayla was in the hospital.
She was going to pass out soon. This time, she wouldn’t wake up to worried parents and doctors and nurses, an IV in her arm and her blood sugar regulated.
This time, she might not wake up at all.
Her skin prickled, and she made up her mind.
She only had a little time. She had to get out of here. Make a run for it. Something.
Anything.
She knew her chances were slim. But her mom needed to know that she at least had tried to get back to her.
She dragged herself to her feet and, leaning on the wall, made her way to the door. She banged on it, yelling Max’s name until she heard footsteps and the scrape of a key in the lock.
“What do you want?” he demanded. “You need to stay quiet.”
“My bucket’s full,” Kayla lied. “Can I please use the real bathroom? I feel sick.” She pressed a hand to her stomach. That was no lie, she thought. “I might throw up all over you.”
His face wrinkled in disgust, and his eyes flicked to her bound hands, like he was trying to measure her capacity for damage.
He obviously didn’t think she could do much, because he yanked her by her wrists, dragging her down the hall and into the bathroom.