KILLING ME SOFTLY

by Jenna Mills

  "You'd come to me like this, too," he said, then demonstrated by easing the fabric over her hips and down her legs, letting it pool at her feet. He rocked back on his heels and looked at her, drank in the sight of her standing there in her unbuttoned shirt and panties. "I could love you then." In the deceptive safety of his own dreams. Where no one could take her from him. "And you could love me."

  Her eyes went even darker, and for a moment she just stood there like that, staring down at him as if someone had just put a gun in her hand and ordered her to finish him off. Then, slowly, she extended an arm and held out her hand. "Please." Her voice was quiet, hesitant.

  Because he didn't trust himself to do anything else, he put his palm to hers and stood. She had to tilt her head to meet his gaze, and in doing so she let her dark hair spill around her neck and shoulders. He reacted on sheer blind instinct, reaching for her, but she stiffened and stepped back.

  "No," she said, then tortured him with a slow, easy smile. "It's my turn."

  Before he realized her intent she was stepping into him, lifting her hands to his chest and working at the buttons of his shirt. She released them one at a time, her fingers teasing flesh as she did so. He wanted to yank open his shirt and be done with it, back her across the room to the bed and give them what they both wanted, feel her close around him. But even more he wanted to enjoy every agonizing touch and taste and sound. Every nuance.

  "You came to me in my dreams, too," she whispered as she eased the wrinkled cotton over his shoulders and down his arms. She reversed the path with her hands, running up his biceps and over his shoulders, down to his chest, where she skimmed her thumbs over his nipples. He felt them pucker, felt them beg for the moist warmth of her mouth.

  "Sometimes you would just take me," she said, teasing him with soft little kisses to his chest. When her tongue flicked across the flatness of his nipple, he wasn't sure where he found the strength to let her lead. He wasn't that kind of man. Taking charge ran like hot blood through his veins. When he knew what he wanted, he took. It was as simple as that.

  Her hands moving to play with the fly of his jeans, she tilted her head and ambushed him with a glow in her eyes. "And sometimes I would take you."

  There were tears in her eyes, he saw, pain that he felt. Her words were of seduction, but beneath them ran a current of uncertainty that squeezed like a vise around his chest. Savannah Trahan had always been a risk taker, never shied away from a challenge. She'd humbled herself to nothing or no one.

  But now here she was, nearly naked and on her knees, handing him the very ammunition to destroy her. And in that instant he realized his mistake. It wasn't vulnerability he saw in her eyes and felt in her touch, heard in her voice, but a courage so raw he'd almost failed to recognize it.

  She smiled as she glanced down at her hands. He both watched and felt her release the zipper, both watched and felt his heavy erection spring free. She cupped him, stroked him, molded her fingers to his length and his width—

  And he couldn't take it one second longer, couldn't just observe, no matter how excruciating the pleasure. On a low moan he pulled her to her feet and took her mouth with his own. The kiss was rougher than he'd intended, but she didn't resist. She opened to him, twined her arms around him and pressed against his body, slanting her mouth restlessly against his own, tangling her tongue with his, taking and giving and demanding, until he couldn't distinguish one from the other.

  The past eighteen months fell away, the horror and unanswered questions, the darkness, the cold emptiness that had him jerking awake with the embers of her name burning in his throat. There was only the sweet feel of her hand fisted in his hair and her breasts pressed to his chest, the warmth of her mouth clashing with his, and sweet cruel mercy, the taste of wintergreen.

  "Vannah," he breathed into the kiss, then lifted her against his body. Immediately she curled her legs around his, and he walked her toward the bed he'd once laid rose petals on—rose petals she'd never gotten a chance to see.

  Need born of endurance and denial shoved everything else aside. Yanking back the blanket, he climbed onto the mattress and lowered her to the sheets, hovered over her like that, his body primed and ready and straddling hers. He wanted to go slow, be gentle. He told himself to. She deserved that.

  But there was nothing slow or gentle inside him.

  "I'm sorry," he rasped on his last breath of restraint, but wasn't sure whether he spoke in English or French. Wasn't sure what he was sorry for, either. The past, or what was yet to come.

  Then his mouth found hers, and it was too late for apologies.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  This, Renee thought in some hazy corner of her mind, as the weight of Cain's body pressed down on her. This was what she'd dreamed of. What she'd imagined. What she'd wanted and craved and longed for. What she'd needed. To be back in his arms. To feel his mouth moving greedily against hers, the soft scratch of his whiskers against her jaw. To feel the heat of his flesh beneath her hands as she ran them along the hard planes of his body. To feel the ridge of his erection pressing into her abdomen.

  But she always woke up to the harsh realization that even though her body still lived, dreams didn't come true. They glimmered and bolstered and promised, teased and seduced. But in the end, they also destroyed. She knew that. The life she'd led was over. She could never go back. Never pick up the pieces. Never hear Cain whisper her name or see him look at her as if he wanted to simply inhale her.

  Except, he'd just done both.

  Shock swam through her, but she refused to let it numb her to the feel of his mouth, taking and giving and demanding. He kissed her with a searing, almost violent hunger that scorched her soul and repaired that dark and shattered place deep inside, the one that had mourned him, missed him, loved him even as she read the devastating accusations against him; wanted him even as she forced herself to consider the heinous possibility that he'd been the one to betray her.

  With her hands she mapped the hard lines of his back, loved the feel of his skin, so hot and vital. So real. Lower she found the waistband of his jeans, and tugged. She wanted to feel all of him. Taste all of him. She wanted him naked, to feel all of him hard and hot and rough against her. She wanted to give him all she'd dreamed of during the months they'd spent apart, to show him with her body what words would never express.

  They'd made love before. Many times. Many ways. But this blind urgency was new, and it frightened. She'd never needed anything or anyone like this before, like that first greedy gulp of oxygen after being held underwater. She'd never let herself crave like that, had refused to let herself become that vulnerable. Ever.

  Until she'd walked back into the life she'd left behind, and found Cain broken, and waiting.

  I dreamed of you…

  His hands, so big and scarred and yet capable of infinite gentleness, ran along the curve of her waist and up the swell of her breasts. She cried out when his thumb skimmed the lacy fabric covering her nipples, gloried when his mouth left hers and seared a hot path down her throat, lingering on the collarbone that, like so much else, had been shattered that brutal night. The feel of his whiskers against sensitive flesh stunned her, fed her. Thrilled her. The ache was immediate, intense. All-consuming. Her body begged. Her heart—craved.

  He obliged her by releasing the front clasp of the bra she'd worn the first night they made love, then kissed his way down to her breast. But he didn't put his mouth to her like she wanted. He used his tongue first, long, moist flicks that sent longing pooling in her groin. She felt the rush of moisture between her legs and clenched against it, felt herself dig her fingers into the muscles of his back and arch into him.

  What her mind had tried to block, her body remembered. Time and distance evaporated, and there in the shadows of the small cottage, she was Savannah again, and he was Cain, driving her to the brink with his hands and his mouth. He knew how to love a woman. How to love her. He knew how to tease and tempt, how to take and how to give.r />
  The assault was the sweetest of agonies, the feel of his lips moving against her breast, his tongue swirling circles around her nipple, flicking against the automatic pucker. Everything inside of her flashed white, then dark with need.

  "Yes," she rasped when he pulled her into his mouth and suckled. "Yes." Need streaked from her chest down between her legs, and pooled there, throbbed. She gave over to it, thrashed her head as he lavished equal attention on both breasts, kissing and licking, sucking. All the while she could feel his erection straining against her thigh.

  His hand slipped down her stomach to her panties. There he made quick work of the lacy fabric, pushing her underwear down her hips. She wriggled them lower, kicked them from her legs. He wasted no time finding her, cupping her, working her first with his palm, then with his finger.

  Pleasure assaulted her. She let out a broken breath and felt her head loll against the pillow, felt a thousand sighs float through her body as he explored the dampness, touching and stroking, tracing a remembered path, building a familiar rhythm. Instinctively she writhed into him and against him, demanded more even as she felt herself begin to come apart.

  Lost in the silent wanting, it was a second before she realized he'd spoken. Another second before she realized the words had been in French. She opened her eyes and found him poised over her, his finger buried deep, his eyes glowing like black diamonds lit from the inside out. "You're wet."

  The hoarse satisfaction in his voice sent pleasure rolling through her. But it was the awe, the wonder, that brought emotion into her throat. "For you."

  Holding her gaze, he slipped a second finger inside and drove them up, thrust against her. The sensation almost blinded her. Her body convulsed around him, clutched him, welcomed him when he did it again. She rode the mindless wave of sensation, let it curl through every nerve ending.

  "Don't," she forced herself to say, but barely recognized her own voice. She opened her eyes and met his. "Not with your fingers."

  The low rumble was the only warning she got. Before she could catch her breath, before she could so much as breathe, he was on her again, flesh to flesh. His mouth was on hers, his lips moving against hers. She opened for him, mind, body, soul and heart, let him in. He kissed her with a carnal urgency that fired her blood, a rough sweetness that blanked her mind.

  Pulling him to her, she wrapped her legs around him and ran her hand along his body, loving the feel of him, the strength and the need. She could feel him hot and hard against her abdomen, all of him, driven by the same urgency that consumed her. All that mattered was having him inside her, feeling him move against her, touching her in ways and places no other man ever had, the power of each deep, mind-numbing thrust.

  And then he was there, guided by her hand and memory, nudging at the slick warmth of her opening, pushing inside and going deep. She arched into him and felt the breath gathered in her throat, felt her heart slam against her chest and her blood sing. All those dreams she'd tucked away and denied, convinced herself would never, could never come true, came pouring out of hiding, streaming through her, driving her.

  "Look at me." The words were devastatingly quiet.

  Floating toward ecstasy, she dragged herself back and opened her eyes, stared up into his and felt something deep inside her completely give way.

  He didn't say anything else. He didn't need to. With his gaze holding hers, he slid an arm along her inner thigh and tucked it beneath her knee, drew her leg up beside her and thrust again, touched her even deeper, carried her beyond the point of return.

  The feel of her, all hot and slick and welcoming, almost sent Cain over the edge. She was real. She wasn't a figment of his imagination. She wasn't a ghost. She was a flesh-and-blood woman, and she was Savannah, and she was beneath him, around him. He wanted to go slow and savor, to draw each moment until the exquisite agony threatened to break him, but other needs pulverized him. The need to claim. To possess. To take. The need to bury himself as deeply as possible, to feel her clench and squeeze around him, feel her writhe beneath him, hear her cry out his name, make her fall apart.

  "Yours," she whispered, and any trace of restraint he'd managed crumbled away. He moved within her, pulling out and pushing back in, drowning in the excruciating pleasure, his slow pace building with each thrust. She accepted him, took him deeper, kept her eyes glued on his.

  And he couldn't take it. Couldn't take the raw trust he saw glowing there. The hope and the promise and the vulnerability. But he forced himself to look, to watch, even as he took her hand and dragged it over her head, linked his fingers with hers and held her like that as the past fell away. Bodies slick and entwined, hearts pounding, they moved as one, just as they always had, her hips arching to meet each of his thrusts. Deeper. Somewhere in the haze he was aware of her tensing, bracing in both surrender and invitation, and he found himself thrusting harder. Need blinded him to the lethal burn of lies and betrayal. There was only the need to bury himself as deeply as possible, to lose himself in her, forget everything but her and this moment.

  And then she was crying out, her body tightening against his, the fingers of her free hand digging into his back, and no matter how much he tried to hold on, how much he tried to deny and delay, he went in deep and hard and heard himself shout out her name, felt the rush of pleasure pound through him and pour from him, spill into her.

  He collapsed against her and fought to steady his breathing, absorbed the sweet scent of her, the combination of vanilla and musk that had tortured him long after she left his life.

  He felt himself twist deep inside, heard the voice of the man who'd been betrayed, the voice that ordered him to roll from her and walk away. But the man who'd loved her couldn't do that, not when the feel of their bodies hot and slick and joined fed the place he'd written off as dead. He felt himself pulsing inside her, loved the way she embraced him, her limbs wrapped around him, holding him as closely as possible. Beneath his chest he could feel the thrumming of her heart, could hear it echo through his blood.

  She shifted then, slid her hand up to his neck, threaded her fingers into his hair. "Mon Dieu," she whispered, slipping into the cadence of the woman she'd once been for the first time since she'd revealed herself to him. "I missed you."

  Her voice was ragged, and it damn near slayed him. "Shh." He didn't want words, damn it, no matter how sweetly they shimmied against his heart. He didn't want to talk or remember or analyze. There in the dead of night, in the bed where he'd once rehearsed the most important words of his life, he wanted only to savor the feel of her in his arms and the sound of her breathing. Because God have mercy on his soul, he'd missed her, too, as deeply and completely as though the oxygen had been extracted from his blood.

  The burn at the back of his eyes surprised him. So did the tightness in his throat. He blinked against the moisture and squeezed his eyes shut, drew their joined hands to his mouth and brushed a kiss along her knuckles.

  Losing her had shredded not just his heart, but his faith and his humanity.

  He'd never imagined finding her could be worse.

  She'd taught herself not to imagine. She knew the danger. No matter how seductive the temptation to close her eyes and let herself be with Cain, to feel his arms close around her and hear the pounding of his heart, taste the saltiness of his skin, doing so was tantamount to taking a knife to her heart.

  Because when she opened her eyes, he would be gone.

  Against the far wall of the cabin, Renee watched the shadows dance. They moved slowly, erratically, sinuous and sensuous, brushing and merging, an erotic tango courtesy of the moon and the pecan trees beyond the window. All the while she held herself very still, not wanting to break the moment. She could feel him beneath her, his skin so slick and hot and vital, warming her despite the cool wind rushing against the outside wall. With her head resting against his chest she could hear the strum of his heart, knew that somewhere along the line the rhythm of her breathing had adjusted to keep cadence with his. />
  Silence wove between them, broken only by the fading song of the night. Neither of them had spoken since he'd shouted her name and she'd whispered his. Words had been unnecessary, unwanted intruders to the fusion found only in the absence of sound.

  Closing her eyes, Renee concentrated on the feel of his hands, so talented. One rested against the small of her back, while the other played with her hair. It had always been like this in the aftermath, she remembered. He'd never had much use for words, but nor had he been a man to roll over and go to sleep, or worse, go shower. Unless the shower had been with her. He'd preferred to keep touching, subtle after-play that kept her body purring—and wanting more.

  Safe, she realized as she opened her eyes. For the first time in almost two years, she felt safe, as though nothing could touch her, hurt her. There were still miles to climb, a killer to find, but the dark shadow was gone from her soul, and her heart hummed with a contentment she'd never imagined she would feel again.

  "I think they were protecting me," she whispered, and felt him stiffen. "My dreams. If they'd been like this, there's no way I could have survived."

  "Non." His hand slid to her mouth, where he ran his index finger along her lips. "No words."

  She shifted to look at him, found him staring up at the ceiling. There was sorrow in his eyes, a pain that scraped at her heart. She'd done this to him, she knew. Her secrets. Her lies.

  "We haven't talked about it yet," she whispered, and the contentment in her blood wobbled. "I know you have questions, that there are things you want to know—need to know."

  The hand at the base of her back slid to frame her face. "I know what I need to, cher." The words were low, hoarse, and they wrapped around her heart, and squeezed. He urged her closer and she went willingly, turning so that she straddled him. "You're here," he said as her mouth found his and the calm shattered. "You're alive."