“That’s true enough.”
“Your secrets aren’t any of my business. Mine aren’t yours.”
He gave her a smile. It was close to one of those heart-stopping grins that showed his dimples, but darker. Much, much darker. When he spoke, his voice was husky. “I want to make everything about you my business.”
“Oh.” She lowered her eyelids, forgetting that she didn’t flirt anymore. That she was trying to be adult and reasonable. “And what makes you think I’ll agree to that?”
She’d forgotten her hand was over his until his strong fingers slid around to grip her wrist.
“Beasts don’t ask permission,” he growled.
Bree felt a surge of adrenaline, but it wasn’t the terror of gunfire and car chases. This was deeper, more elemental. This fear was tempered by the anticipation of battle, and she wasn’t unarmed.
If he was the dragon, she was the sorceress. She was done waiting and watching, wondering what Mark might do next. She leaned across the table to whisper in his ear.
“I think we’re ready for some grown-up time, don’t you?”
Chapter 17
Bree tilted her head back and he slowly raised his hand to her hair, pushing it away from her face. It swished across her neck and cheek as he stroked her, his fingers slipping through the thick, tawny waves. She leaned into his hand, ready to purr like a cat, and then leaned closer to kiss him again.
The contact of their lips shocked Bree. She had kissed him before, but now it was more. He was more. Intent. Intense. She couldn’t name the change, but he tasted like a man who had made up his mind to sin. The notion made her shiver, caught between anticipation and the unknown.
The tiny table was between them, and now Bree pulled away from Mark long enough to circle around so they could stand without a barrier in the way. She approached him tentatively, suddenly feeling naked though she had not shed one stitch of clothing. Her pulse felt loud and full, as if her veins were too small to hold the pounding surf of her blood. Heat crept up her skin, prickling under her arms and aching at the tips of her breasts. When she stopped he was only a few inches away. Those few inches felt charged, as if static could arc between them in a sparkle of light.
He ran one hand down her arm, his fingers tracing the flesh with a feather’s lightness until he found her hand. Then his fingers laced with hers.
“Mark,” she said softly.
“Hush.” He put one finger across her lips, stopping any more words. His voice was low, almost inaudible.
She caught the finger between her teeth, nipping it lightly. He curled his finger back into his palm, a flash of amusement in his eyes. Then the humor stilled, the pupils of his eyes drowning in the dark brown of his gaze. Bree’s stomach fluttered with impatience, but she made herself savor the moment. It had been a long time since she had the luxury of wanting a man and having that desire granted.
And he was a dream. The light that hung over the table was bright, hiding nothing. The sculpture of his face was at once rugged and beautiful, like something hewn from stone by an old master. There was art, with all its careful attention to geometry and balance, but the material was hard and strong.
She wound her fingers into the front of his shirt and stepped backward toward the other bedroom, tugging him along.
His eyes glittered hungrily, but there was caution there, too. “Are you sure?”
No, she wanted to say. She had too much history to do this lightly. There were risks and considerations, dangers and consequences. But there was also life. For once, she wanted a bit of it for herself. “Yes.”
Then his hands were on her shoulders, fingers tensed as if he were not sure if he was pulling her close or pushing her away. Her fingers were still wrapped around a fistful of his shirt. The tension between them was nearly audible, throbbing like the deep note of a cello.
And then her arms were around his neck, his beard grazing her cheek. He lifted her easily, his hands under her as she wrapped her legs around his hips. Their lips met again, his kiss devouring her mouth. It went on and on, their tongues meeting, fencing, exploring with all the curiosity bottled up during those long hours in the car. Bree felt herself melting inside, a long ache winding through her core like the spring of a clock turned tighter and tighter. She wanted Mark. She craved release.
They moved, Mark backing her up to a wall, letting her feet touch the floor again. He did it all without breaking that kiss, but the change in angle allowed her to press different parts of her against new parts of him. His arousal was obvious, bringing a fresh urgency to the embrace. Mark’s hands were on her, too, caressing the span of her ribs to cup her breasts. Feeling wanton, she arched into his touch.
Finally, he let her come up for air. With her hands threaded through his thick, dark hair, she stared into his eyes. They seemed to glitter, the ferocious hunger in them pulling at that spring in her belly. Her nipples grew harder, so sensitive she both wanted and did not want the pressure of his questing fingers.
“Oh, Doctor,” she murmured.
“Not the bad doctor jokes.”
“I’m having a medical emergency.”
“We haven’t even started.”
She let her hands trail down the thick muscles that flared between neck and shoulder, then down the curve of his chest. It was like stroking marble, but he flinched when she got to the lower part of his flat belly. When her fingers found the button of his jeans, he was walking her backward through the bedroom door.
“Do you have protection?”
He chuckled. “Of course I do. Men are eternally optimistic.”
He closed the door quietly behind them. Gently, she pulled down the tab of his zipper and nearly started as he sprang free of the confining denim. She let out a huff of breath. “Oh, yeah.”
Mark chuckled, a guttural, male sound that resonated low in her spine. He herded her toward the bed, the edge of the mattress catching her behind the knees so that she automatically sat down. But he kept coming, forcing her to scramble farther until she was on her back. Then he was on top, straddling her. Somewhere in the rush he had taken her shoes and kicked off his, but she wasn’t sure when. Her insides squeezed with anxiety, suddenly sure he was much more experienced at this than she was. She had sown her wild oats, but he... Her brain let the metaphor wander.
He bent, running his hands under the edge of her sweater, pushing it up inch by inch. His cool fingers seemed greedy for her warmth, caressing as they went, honoring, stroking, exposing her midriff to the soft light of the bedside table. As the gentle glow touched her skin, so did his mouth. Bree closed her eyes, swamped in sensation as he nipped at the vulnerable flesh of her belly. His teeth were surprisingly sharp, leaving gooseflesh in their wake.
“You even taste like sunshine,” he murmured.
“You’re allergic to it,” she protested.
“It dazzles me.”
He slipped the sweater over her head, then pulled off his own. Bree’s stomach flipped, her focus lost for a moment to the lean, hard muscle of his body. He was equally fixed on her, one finger running along the ivory lace of her bra, pausing to linger at the peak of her nipple. Holding his gaze, she reached up, unclasping the front of the garment. She felt it give way, the heaviness of her breasts falling free. His breath caught, and then she felt his mouth close around her to suck. An exquisite sensation pulsed through Bree, making her squirm.
This felt so good, so right. It had been so long. Her brain floundered, able to grasp only thoughts like good and yes. Deep down, somewhere below the layers of sensation, she was aware that she trusted Mark enough to let go of her thoughts, to be Bree again, and not only the defender of her child. When had that happened?
And then his jeans were off and they were skin to skin, the soft velvet of his manhood brushing her as he moved to slip on a condom. The rest of her clothes were
gone, too, leaving her vulnerable, her skin pale against the dark flowered quilt of the bed. Vulnerable and very wet.
She reached up to him, her hands skimming the strong muscles of his shoulders. She could see the tension in his neck, in the bunching muscles of his forearms. She stroked down the length of his arms, pulling him to her. Even that mild pressure made him shudder as if in pain. Curious, her gaze found his face.
What she saw there robbed her of breath. His features were carefully neutral, as if wiped clean of anything that might scare her off. But he could not hide his eyes. There she witnessed raw hunger, as feral as anything from her darkest nightmares. She could only guess that all that tension was Mark’s effort to keep himself in check.
A sane response would be to flee, to put solid walls between her flesh and so much devouring need. Instead, the desire pooling in her belly spilled into her blood, warming her like hot brandy. Bree’s heart pounded harder, as if readying her for a race. Mark’s eyes flared, impossibly dark, impossibly intense. He leaned forward, planting his hands on either side of her, bringing his face kissing-close.
Bree reached up and wrapped her hands around his wrists. “How do you want this?”
“Don’t talk,” he whispered. “I can’t talk.”
Then he kissed her, as if to stop any more words. His thumb ran along the arc of her collarbone, sliding along the curve of her breast. He sighed, the sound ragged as it heaved out of his chest. The sound told her exactly how much he wanted to let himself go, to take instead of tease, but it also said he intended to savor every moment. His lips traced the line where his touch had been, sometimes in light butterfly kisses, sometimes in sharp nips that sent arrows of pleasure to unexpected places. A tiny moan escaped her, bringing a slight smile to his lips before he bent once more to his task. It was as if he were mapping her as systematically as any explorer planting his flag.
When she tried to reciprocate, he held her down, his eyes unfocused and wild. “No. It’s better if we do it this way.”
Bree slid her knee up his side, giving him the soft skin of her thigh. He pushed her leg back down, his hand firm but gentle.
She wanted to scream, every fiber of her being on fire. “I can’t lie still. I have to move.”
“No.”
She put her hand to his face. He replaced it on the mattress. “No. Don’t you dare.”
“But—”
He put his lips to her ear, barely making a sound. “Let me do this my way. I’m not completely safe.”
The words sent a chill through her, but that got mixed up with her oversensitive nerves and just inflamed her more. He resumed his work then, tonguing her nipple until the sensation bolted all the way through to her toes. Not safe? No. Not at all. He was torturing her, but not in any way that would put him in jail. “Mark...”
“Shh.”
Lying still left her no option but to feel every touch, every lick, every time he blew across her damp skin, leaving a thrill of sensation that raised the fine down of her body. He had reached her midriff by the time the first orgasm took her. By the time he reached the cleft of her thighs, she was cursing him. But by then he had her again, and the sweet, pulsing pain of her desire swamped any thought of rebellion.
He was good at this, this...torture. Damn him, he was good. But she wasn’t doing this his way all night. She caught the hard, full length of him and stroked. She heard that ragged intake of breath again as she guided him exactly where he needed to fit. She was more than ready, but the fullness of him made her moan.
“No,” he muttered. “No.”
What was with this guy? “Yes.” And she moved her hips.
He didn’t protest again, his body giving an answering thrust. He made a harsh sound in his throat, half snarl, half cry of pleasure
This was more like it. She arched to meet him, feeling sensation spiraling through her as delectable pressure began to build once more. Yes, this is what she wanted. Bree closed her eyes, losing herself in Mark’s strength, the sheer power of his body working against hers. He was magnificent.
And that tightness in him was beginning to give way. She could feel it with every thrust, as if he were a bowstring unraveling, stretching, ready to snap at any moment. It fed into her excitement as the speed and urgency of their lovemaking increased. Her face was wet with tears—of gratitude, of release, of the surrender of her own crazy, overburdened soul—she wasn’t sure and it didn’t matter. It was all perfect and she let go one more time. There was nothing gentle in it, desire ripping through her like a blade. With a final thrust, Mark squeezed his eyes shut, throwing his head back with a rough cry.
Bree clung to him, conscious of his convulsion at the same instant as hers. Time dropped away for a breathless pause, a perfect, inexplicable sum of them both. And then it slowly spiraled away, taking her strength with it.
Only then did he lie down beside her, holding her close. Bree curled next to him, her head under his chin, her body satisfied beyond any encounter she had ever known.
But it felt wrong.
She arched her neck, looking into Mark’s face. His eyes were guarded. He had finished, no question there, but he had held part of himself back. The bowstring might have frayed, but it had not given way beneath the onslaught of their passion. The wild, dangerous creature that had stared out of his eyes was still safely on its leash.
Logic said she should have been grateful, but her heart felt heavy. She might have trusted him, but he wasn’t ready to share everything with her. He’s not completely safe.
Or at least he didn’t think so. What the blazes was that all about? The guns and spy stuff? Or something more personal?
He noticed her looking at him. “Thank you,” he said softly.
“Likewise,” she replied, touching his rough cheek with her fingertip. What’s wrong? She wanted to ask, but she didn’t. Instinct said he’d shared as much as he dared for one night. Pushing would spoil it. Nevertheless, it left her with one corner of her soul hollow, as if what they had done hadn’t happened and she was still sleeping alone.
Mark pulled the blanket over them, cuddling her close. But within his embrace, she could feel the subtle tension of his body.
Chapter 18
They had turned east just south of Paso Robles. On Mark’s instructions, Bree was watching for a helicopter in the clear blue sky overhead.
She was confused and tense after last night, wondering if she were inventing trouble where it didn’t exist. They’d had sex—great sex. Then they’d had a nice breakfast. So what was wrong with that? Was she expecting vows of eternal adoration? A marriage proposal?
Bree wanted to slap herself. She was trying to give her romp with Mark more importance, to see his desire as more than a healthy libido. She’d done it before and here she was doing it again. Her fantasies of a happy family seduced her into making mistakes. Enjoy the sex and move on. That’s what he’s going to do. You’ve been down this road time and again. Expecting more is what hurts in the end.
Mark suddenly swore and stepped on the gas. Her stomach lurched, still mired in her swamp of self-examination. The roar of the engine snapped her back to the here and now. Bree’s instincts to flee or fight ramped to full throttle.
“What is it?” she demanded, gripping the door handle in one hand and Custard in the other. The puppy had been asleep in her lap until that second. Now he yipped in protest.
“The Escalade. They’ve found us.”
“How? Did they listen in when you called for the chopper?”
“Maybe.” His voice was controlled, but he smacked the steering wheel hard, making the car swerve. “It’s not impossible that they’ve got a tap on home base. One of our own defected months ago. Who knows what information he gave them.”
Hurt fury lurked beneath his clipped words. More emotion he didn’t want to share. Wel
l, fine. This wasn’t the moment for it anyway. Bree turned her mind to the practical. “How do we lose them?”
They were nowhere near a town and the promised chopper was nowhere in sight. Then she spotted something arching above a stand of trees. “Wait, is that a Ferris wheel? If there’s a crowd, lots of people...”
Mark gave a single, approving nod. “There’s a road sign up ahead.”
It wasn’t exactly a road sign. It was a large piece of cardboard pinned to the stump of a lightning-blasted pine. It read County Fair, Fri–Sun Only in hand-lettered paint. An arrow pointed north. In unspoken agreement, they turned north.
Mark pulled the car into a rutted field, parking it next to a muddy pickup. There had to be hundreds of cars in ragged rows. The nearby town might have been small, but the fair obviously drew folks from all the farms and hamlets around.
“Good thinking,” he said, quickly killing the motor. “We’ll lose them easily enough in here.”
They wouldn’t be able to use the same car again. Bree gathered their things in record time, stuffing them in her backpack. She squashed an almost-full bag of puppy kibble in with her dirty clothes and Jessica’s book—which he’d finally returned to her custody. Mark picked up Custard, who tried to cover his sunglasses in slobbery licks.
They had to leave the car seat. It made Bree uneasy, but carting it around would attract attention, and it was too big to run with. As it was, they probably had only a few minutes to disappear into the crowd before Nicholas Ferrel caught up. They’d have to become invisible fast.
They hurried along the chain-link fence to the gate. Jonathan trotted at Bree’s side, pointing at the brightly painted rides as they swooped and dipped against the perfect, blue sky.
This should have been a time for cotton candy and merry-go-rounds. Her son’s happy smile brought an ache to her chest. Her parents at least had managed to avoid subjecting their daughter to actual gunfire.
Mark paid the clown selling tickets and they went in.
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