Christina:
I sat up, shielding my eyes from the light. I half-expected to see the iron bars or the blank, white walls from the containment cell. Instead I saw glorious sunshine flooding in through the open window. I was free — free from the IMA. Against all odds, I had escaped.
I had the perverse desire to jump up and cheer. Instead I stood up and promptly bumped my head on the low ceiling. “Ow!” I muttered. With a curse, I climbed the small set of stairs leading up to the deck. A rush of ocean air assailed me. I blinked at the pungent saltiness of it.
Michael was driving, his back towards me, wearing jeans and a fitted gray shirt I couldn't remember seeing before. I sat down in the seat beside him and said, “Hey.”
“You're awake.”
“Barely. I was beginning to think I'd never be able to get up again.” I looked around at the endless expanse of ocean. “Where are we?”
“About twenty miles off the coast of Southern California.” He tossed a carton at me. “Eat.”
It was a sandwich. Egg and cress. Still cold. I didn't hesitate; I hadn't eaten for almost two days. I ripped into the carton and tore at the bread with my teeth, not caring that I probably looked like a wild dog with my matted hair and filthy clothes. I savored each mouthful, pausing only long enough between gulps to ask, “Where did you get this?”
“I picked up some things. Don't eat so fast, you'll get sick.”
I had to tear myself away from the lovely food again. “When?”
“About two hours ago.” He paused. “You were asleep.”
Something in his voice — something almost accusatory — put me on edge. I swallowed the final mouthful of sandwich. “Where are we going?”
“Seattle.”
“Seattle?”
“That's what I said.”
“Seattle, Washington?”
He didn't bother to respond. Just looked at me in that unnerving way of his. “Get dressed,” he said at last, turning back towards the ocean. “You're a mess.”
I looked down at my once-white shirt, now ripped and stained and smeared with dirt and blood. “Are there clothes on the boat?”
“There are now.”
“Wow…thanks.”
He turned away. “Don't thank me.”
“The sheets — ”
“I'll rinse them all in salt water. The clothes are already clean. I went to a laundromat.”
Giving him a look — wasn't he just Miss Suzy Homemaker all of a sudden — I went back down below deck and saw a bag bearing the logo of a fairly prominent store. I sifted through it, frowning. Two pairs of jeans, one light and one dark. A sweatshirt. A sweater. Some t-shirts. Some tank tops. Flannel pajama pants. No pastels, everything strictly monochrome. Cheerful guy. The bra was, disturbingly, the right size. And the underwear he'd picked out made the heat rush to my face because they were all a bit lacier than the white cotton I'd usually wear.
I got dressed, tugging on the jeans — Jesus, I couldn't remember the last time I'd been able to squeeze into a size 12. Not since…Freshman year, at least. I picked out the sweater because it was cold on deck and looked decent enough.
When I climbed back up the stairs, Michael had the boat set on cruise control. He was sitting sideways with his legs resting on the seat I'd just vacated. One of his arms was dangling over the back of the chair and he was drinking some orange juice.
“Why are we going to Seattle?” I asked. “I live in Oregon.”
“Because I need to locate your cowardly parents.”
He held out the bottle of juice to me, which I refused. I folded my arms over my chest and tried my best to look outraged. “You didn't answer my question.”
“We can't live on the boat. We have a limited amount of both money and food. Neither you nor I have any form of identification and the IMA is still presumably looking for us.”
“You blew them up!”
“Callaghan survived. I'm not sure how. The man is like a fucking cockroach.”
I fell back against the passenger seat. “Oh, God.”
“I phoned one of my contacts. They're going to meet me in Washington, hook us up, so we're going there. I rented my apartment there under an assumed name that the IMA don't have on file. Callaghan won't find us.”
His apartment? We were going to his apartment?
“That a problem?” he asked, taking an indolent swig from the juice.
“No.” I had to force the word out.
“It's safe, if that's what you're worried about.” Not with you there, it isn't. He set the half-empty bottle down. “They don't know about my lease. And it's under an assumed name, as I said. The worst is over. You can relax a bit.”
“How can you say that with Adrian still alive?” I threw up my arms. “He's twice as dangerous as Mr. Richardson ever was.”
“Because you can't live on adrenaline twenty-four seven.” His eyes dropped. My shirt had ridden up again. I moved to pull it down and he caught my wrists. I had unconsciously walked closer while shouting at him, bringing me within arm's reach.
“Let go.”
“I have news for you, darlin. You're on a boat. In the middle of nowhere.” He gave me a tug so I tumbled into his lap, and promptly leaned over me to cut the engine. “You're not going anywhere.” I could feel his heartbeat — it was pounding, almost as hard as mine.
Something corkscrewed in my chest. He put my hands around his neck. I didn't stop him. He put his hands around my waist. I didn't stop him, either. Gentle, deliberately, he began to caress my skin with small, firm strokes, without looking away. “Ça c'est bon,” he whispered.
“Was that…French?” I asked desperately.
“Mm-hmm.” His lips pressed against mine. His mouth tasted like orange juice. One of his hands moved to my hair, tangling in the lank and greasy stands. I stank — we both stank, despite the new clothes — and his hair looked just as unwashed as mine. “Ça c'est très bien.” I pulled my hand away from his neck and pushed his face away.
“I can't — ”
“Christina — don't do this to me.” From him, it was an order, not a plea.
“I'm not doing anything to you.”
“Believe me, cher,” he said. “You're doing plenty.” He grabbed my hand, placing it on the inside of his thigh.
I made a face. “Cut it out.” Ignoring me, he continued guiding my hand upwards, placing it over a hard bulge in the denim of his jeans. “What are you doing?”
“That,” he said, curling my hand around it, “Is your fault.” Keeping his hand over mine, he leaned forward to kiss me again.
“No, it's not,” I whispered.
“Oh no?” That made him grin, a slow, sinful smile. “I'm flattered.”
“And I didn't know…it would be like this.” Why can't I breathe?
His eyes widened a little, in surprise. “What are you talking about?”
“You” — all the words evaporated from my mouth — “and me.”
“Like what? This?” he repeated, giving my hand another squeeze and barking out a laugh when I winced. “You really did go to a fucking parochial school, didn't you. Pauve ti bete. What did you think you'd agreed to? A kiss and a walk on the beach?”
I said nothing.
“I'm a man, darlin.”
“You're a bastard, is what you are.”
“That may be. But tell me something. What is it about this that's bothering you? Are you afraid that you might actually…enjoy it?”
I pulled away from him then, landing on the floor. Pain licked at my elbows. I ignored it, scrambling away before he could reach me. “As if I would. You stink, anyway.”
“So do you.” The setting sun threw his face into shadow. “Get out of here, then. Get. Take a shower. We'll settle this later.”
Michael:
I couldn't sleep.
At first I chalked up my insomnia to the cold and tugged on the jacket I'd purchased in the store. Then I'd gotten too hot and stripped off both coat and t-shirt. Th
e ocean wind was mercilessly cold against my damp, bare skin and still I sweated. As I stared at the black water, lit only by the full moon overhead, keyed up far more than any man should be at four o' clock in the morning, I had to admit to myself that I had a problem. A problem currently asleep below deck, completely oblivious to my torment.
No. Not completely oblivious. She knew what I wanted from her; I had made myself explicitly clear. She hoped that if she didn't acknowledge it, I'd forget. It was the mentality of a child hiding from monsters under the bedsheets: If I can't see it, it doesn't exist.
Well, I hadn't forgotten.
I paced around the small deck restlessly, trying to walk off the energy buzzing around in my bloodstream. Exercise wasn't what I needed. I needed something else.
Someone else.
I found her lying on the cot, wrapped up in the blanket. Fast asleep. Or pretending to be. She shivered as I climbed down the steps, as if picking up on my dark mood, and pulled the blanket more tightly around herself. Her black hair fanned out around her face in a dark nimbus, tangled and unbrushed. She was sleeping on her side, curled up to make herself as small as possible so the blanket would cover more of her body. I was pleased that it didn't. I wanted that pleasure for myself.
I reclined beside her, careful not to disturb her, and pulled her against me. She was soft and warm. When she squirmed, I felt the shuddering movement in a thousand places. For several moments, my healing wounds throbbed from tension as I fought to remain still.
Being a contract killer ate into my personal life. Though I tried to keep the two separate, and succeeded within reason, such black-and-white distinction was impossible when I was on-call twenty-four/seven. I never had much time for sex; on the odd occasions I did, it was usually quick and impersonal. Personal relationships were a liability.
I slid my hand into the folds of the blanket, cupping the curve of her breast through the thin fabric of her shirt. Her heart fluttered against my palm. Thank you, God. I stroked her through the thin fabric, stirring the peach-fuzz on her neck with my breathing. There was a hot, liquid weight pressing down hard on my lower belly, shooting fire into my groin. I was like a dam about to burst. I wanted to stop the dreams. Stop thinking about her. I suspected sex wouldn't do that. I suspected I was attempting to rationalize something that would just make it worse: that it would fuck me up even more than I already was, and her, too — but I wanted it anyway.
I wanted her anyway.
“Christina.”
No response.
I leaned closer, shaking her bare shoulders. She bumped her head and hugged the sheet to her chest. “What are you doing in here?” she demanded, in a gasping voice I would have called seductive from any other woman. The fact that it wasn't intentional made it doubly provocative.
What would my name sound like, breathed like that?
And then I knew I was in trouble.
Christina:
Michael was leaning over me, inches away from my face. Shirtless, leonine, cast in shadow: he bore sinister resemblance to a panther. I stared at him, but when I blinked, he didn't go away. “What are you doing here?” I repeated groggily. “What do you want?”
He laughed. Slow, breathy laughter that made the hair on my arms stand up. “You.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“W-were you watching me sleep?”
“Sleep?” The smile on his face disappeared. He looked at me unblinkingly, his hands sliding down my arms. And I found myself remembering his erratic behavior on deck. He no longer smelled like prison; he had washed his body and his hair and I thought I caught a dash of cologne. “How could you possibly sleep?”
“I was tired…” I swallowed again. “Aren't you?”
“No.” He moved closer. “And it's all your fault.”
If he moved any closer, our lips would touch. His words from earlier — all your fault — echoed in my ears. I pressed myself against the pillows. “What did I do this time?”
“It's what you didn't do that's the problem.” His mouth brushed my ear, the words buzzing straight into my brain. “I want you.”
“But — ”
Michael leaned in and caught my lower lip between his teeth. “Now,” he added. As if that was all the explanation he needed, he slid his hand under my shirt.
I grabbed his wrist, feeling heat race up my throat as his fingers splayed defiantly over my stomach. “I'm tired,” I said piteously.
He managed to bring his hand up a little higher. “You slept all day long.” He nipped at my lip again, flicking his tongue against the corner of my mouth. “Ça va. Nap time is over.”
His voice was deep, his accent more pronounced than I'd ever heard it. My grip faltered, and he started tracing slow concentric circles against my prickling skin. A spark of something that wasn't quite pain arced through my body as he began sucking at my throat. “Don't,” I pleaded.
“Your skin is so soft.”
“Michael.”
He glanced at me, a challenge inscribed upon his face, before lowering his head and kissing everywhere he exposed as he tugged my shirt off. The stubble around his mouth chafed, but in a way that made heat pool in my stomach. In a way that made me forget how to breathe.
I twisted my fingers in his hair, trying to pull his head back. He grunted and flicked his tongue against a very sensitive spot. I squeaked and his eyes lifted to regard me, pale even in the moonlight.
His lips curved, and his tongue traveled over my skin a second time, then a third, longer each venture, but always halting just before — before…something. He laughed when I jerked beneath him. “You want me to stop?” When I didn't respond, he blew on my still-damp skin, watching my face. I choked on the dryness of my own mouth.
I began to struggle in earnest. I raised my knee, hoping to hit him in the stomach or groin. He rotated his hips to avoid the blow and pinned me against the thin mattress, settling between my legs. The directness of his gaze made color crawl up my neck. I didn't understand how he could be so unselfconscious when I was so painfully aware of how vulnerable I was.
“You promised,” he said, speaking in a normal voice now, though he sounded a little out of breath. “The only rule you set was that it couldn't be on Target Island.”
I was breathing just as hard, to my shame. “All this for something that won't mean anything to you?”
He tugged at my pants. “I never said this meant nothing to me.”
“Of course it does.” I was sobbing now. “You just want to sleep with me. You think I'm trash — nothing.”
“If all I wanted was a quick fuck with some cheap whore, I would have gone home with the blonde,” he snarled, angry again. Blonde? What blonde? What nonsense was he talking about?
I stared at him. He glowered at me and tried to kiss me again. Then he said, “Stop that.”
“Stop what?” I steeled myself for the inevitable.
“That look. I know what you're doing, what you're thinking. The prayers. The crying. The goddamn” — he made a harsh, grating sound in the back of his throat and his hands hit the mattress on either side of me — “you. Why do you do this to me?”
I shook my head wordlessly, pulling the blanket up to my chin.
“Do you think I enjoy watching you cringe? You think I couldn't get other girls, prettier than you, who wouldn't fight me? Who wouldn't act like I'm fucking torturing them? Who wouldn't pray to their fucking gods for deliverance like I'm some kind of devil?”
I blinked back fresh tears and said viciously, “Then why don't you?”
“Because I don't want them. For reasons I can't quite comprehend, I want you.” He expelled a breath and said, in a quieter voice. “I want you. Only you — here and now.” His lips brushed against my ear, my racing pulse. “Just kiss me, darlin. C’est tout. I'll do the rest. And I'll be…careful. Just don't fight me.”
“Just kiss you,” I repeated shakily. He nodded.
I closed my eyes, drew in a deep br
eath, and closed what little distance remained between us. He was as still as a statue, even as my trembling lips found his. He opened his mouth. I leaned in to seal our lips together. He made a low hum of approval in his throat that I felt all the way in his chest. Then he seized control with a deep kiss that had my head tipping back, until we were both lying flush against the cot, breathing as if we were about to drown.
“Good girl,” he whispered.
I felt him slide off the blanket, which he tossed unceremoniously on the floor. Felt him tug off my pants. Felt his hips as he leaned back over me, solid and corded with muscle. A whimper escaped me. There was a crinkling sound. He closed his eyes and gasped. I felt him moving my legs. What is he doing? I opened my mouth to protest and something swiftly changed my mind.
“Oh — ”
“Shh.”
“Ow.”
“Just relax, darlin.”
“Aah. Hurts,” I cried. “Hurting me.”
“I know.” His hand was around my wrist, and he squeezed. Whether in warning or comfort, I wasn't sure. I tried to find the words to ask him to stop but was choked off by a hitched gasp. The first thrust brought tears to my eyes. The second made me scream.
“Oh, fuck you're ti — ah…I mean…” He darted a look at me, guilty and slightly surprised, as if he had forgotten I was there. Then he grunted, recapturing my mouth, and pushed harder. There was a slow, sharp tremor of pain that seemed to last a lifetime, like my skin was being forced to adjust to something unnatural.
“Worst part's over,” he panted. “That's…as bad as it gets. I promise.”
I sobbed quietly. It still hurts. He settled into a slower rhythm and the pain lessened, just as he had promised. The burning died down to a dull, tolerable ache. This was interspersed with little nips and licks that made my body break into a fresh sweat. He was making me feel what he wanted me to feel…and it was not quite as unpleasant as I would have liked.
“Enough. You got what you wanted.”
“Not yet.” His breathing sounded labored. “Don't cry…mon…cher.”
I couldn't help it.
“You feel…so…good.”
There was a final flash of pain, one thrust that felt deeper than all the others. He shuddered and collapsed on top of me with an explosive gasp. For a while, we just lay there. I stared at the ceiling, waiting for it all to be over as his chest heaved against mine. I was horribly embarrassed.
Cloak and Dagger (The IMA Book 1) Page 26