Risk no Secrets

by Cindy Gerard

  When one silky leg started moving over his, a niggling voice of reason rose above the madness, reminding him that he should stop.

  It would have been easier to stop the sunrise.

  “I need you,” she mouthed against his skin.

  She needed him? Christ. He was the one in need. Deep need. Dark need. Insatiable need of everything about her that made her woman, and wanton and willing in his arms.

  He groaned when her warm mouth opened against his throat trailing long, lingering kisses that were as much suction as consumption, as much greed as giving.

  Lord God above, she was eating him by inches, and he was powerless to do anything but lie there and let her feed until there was nothing left of him but memory.

  “Sophie,” he murmured on a ragged breath when her lips brushed across his nipple.

  “I need you,” she whispered again, more plea than proclamation, more promise than prophecy.

  She rose to her knees and, watching his eyes in the dark, peeled her gown over her head.

  “Need you …” Then she bent over him and took him in her soft, soft hands. Took him in her warm, giving mouth.

  He knotted his hands in her hair on a deep groan. Sank into the sensation of her tongue on his flesh and the selfless seduction of suction. Christ, oh Christ, this didn’t feel like anything as simple as desire. This felt much more complex, much more intense, as she lost all inhibition and gave all-consuming pleasure.

  Heaven. Hell. She took him there and all parts in between, her desire tempered with desperation and—he groaned when she sucked him hard and deep—and something he couldn’t name. Something that transcended physical and brushed up against the realm of spiritual.

  “Sophie …” He sighed her name on a harsh breath, buried his hands deeper in her hair, and guided her head, helping her set a rhythm that enhanced a pleasure that built to rich, rare heights he’d never known he could reach and not explode in the process.

  It wasn’t that she was experienced. It wasn’t that she was practiced or perfect or even skilled. It wasn’t just that she was willing to do this for him. She wanted to do this for him, wanted it with an urgency and ardor that robbed him of all reason and control and regret.

  With a ragged groan, he stilled her, knowing he was a deep breath away from coming in her mouth. “Sophie—I can’t—I can’t hold back much longer.”

  She lifted her head, letting him go with a long lick, an enticing whisper of warm breath on wet flesh. Her tangled hair fell like a curtain of silk across his hands. Her eyes were dark and deep, her expression lost somewhere between passion and an unwavering longing to finish the work she’d started.

  “Don’t. Don’t hold back,” she murmured, her eyes pleading, before she lowered her mouth and took him in again.

  He sucked in his breath and hooking, his hands under her arm, dragged her off him. “I want to be inside you when I come. I want you coming with me.”

  He was beyond finesse now, beyond anything tender or gentle, when he flipped her onto her back, moved between her thighs, and entered her in one hard, deep stroke.

  She gasped, then moaned, then wrapped her ankles around his hips and urged him home.

  21

  Sophie didn’t want to think. Not about Lola or Hope or the day’s violence or the consequences of this moment. She just wanted to feel. To escape in the riot of sensations Wyatt brought to life in her body as he pounded into her again and again and again.

  His fervor took her breath away. No tender love this time. No patient, giving tempo to ease her into pleasure. He wanted her like breath. He wanted her mindlessly. And he needed her like life blood and made no excuses as he staked a claim that made her feel both lost as she’d never felt lost yet found as she’d never been found.

  “Harder,” she demanded, wanting all he had to give her, wanting him the way he wanted her, needing him the way he needed her. Hard and rough and deep. She met him stroke for stroke as he wedged his hands beneath her hips and tilted her tighter against him, then pounded into her again.

  And again and again, burying himself deep, with a reckless abandon that made her lightheaded and frantic for a release that danced just beyond her reach.

  She was fire. Burning, licking heat. He was steel. Forged, unyielding strength. Together they were hot, molten, unappeasable.

  She didn’t know when it had happened, but he’d become a craving for her. His tough body. His wounded, heroic soul. Somewhere in the course of that night, he’d become like a drug she couldn’t get enough of. Like air that she’d die without breathing.

  The friction of his hot body gliding in and out of her was at once unbearably stimulating and luxuriously sensual. She wanted everything he had to give her … but didn’t know how she could possibly take any more.

  And then it was out of her hands. A blinding orgasm ripped through her, frightening, stunning, breath-stealing. A lightning strike of pleasure, blade-sharp and perfect and pure. She cried his name, dug her nails into his back, and convulsed involuntarily around him.

  “Please, please,” she begged, crying now, for the sheer joy and consuming power of her release. “Come with me, please, please, come with me.”

  Through a haze of exquisite sensation, she felt his big body stiffen and knew he was already there. Already gone. Her orgasm was the final push that shoved him over the edge. He pumped once more, and she felt him soul-deep inside as he shot into her, riding on the wave of her release.

  Both sweat and tears dampened her cheeks when he pressed his face to hers and held her while she clung to him to keep from shattering into a million pieces, held her as if he was the one in danger of falling apart.

  Rich, lush, devastating, the sensations rolled through her in gently surging currents. She savored every one, tried to make it last forever … and still, it didn’t last nearly long enough.

  His heart slammed against her breasts as he struggled for breath, and she made a feeble attempt to get her bearings. But there was no way to orient herself to an experience like this. No analyzing, no quantifying.

  So she just let herself ride. She closed her eyes. Gave herself permission to drift on the amazing down side of their passion and let the tactile sensations wash over her like warm water.

  The softness of his skin.

  The steely bulk of muscle and bone beneath it.

  The glorious, wonderful weight of him.

  The way his breath gradually leveled when it fell soft and hot against her shoulder.

  The dampness of his skin beneath her palms.

  The heavy beat of his strong, giving heart.

  Right now, it was all hers to value and indulge in. Right now, it was enough.

  Later, she’d sort it all out. Later, she would question her sanity, ask herself where they could possibly go from here.

  Yes, she told herself as she drifted off to sleep again, later would be soon enough.

  * * *

  Sophie was still sleeping when Wyatt woke up to sunlight shining bright through the bedroom window. He lifted his arm, checked his wrist watch. Six-oh-eight a.m.

  Tick-tock. Thirty hours and counting.

  He threw his forearm over his forehead, closed his eyes, and lay there for a moment, waking up by slow degrees, still shaken in the aftermath of the most intense sexual experience of his life.

  Sexual. Soulful. Meaningful. He refused to believe it wasn’t all of that. Emotions that raw and powerful and primal had to mean something to her. Something more than physical release. Something more than escape from the brutality of her current reality.

  She stirred beside him. Soft and slumberous and—

  A sound from the doorway yanked him to full alert.

  Muscle memory kicked in like a bullet.

  He shot to a sitting position and grabbed the H&K in one motion, leveling it at the bedroom door—and dead center in the middle of Hugh Weber’s heart.

  Hugh. An older, harder, angry Hugh.

  Jesus.

  Wyatt lowered
the gun with a shaking hand. He’d almost shot him.

  “Well. Hell. This is awkward.” Hugh’s tone was smart-ass and glib as his gaze flicked from Wyatt to Sophie before zeroing back in on Wyatt again. “Guess it would be an understatement to say you weren’t expecting me.”

  Fuck.

  Wyatt dragged a hand over his face, then glanced at Sophie who was wide awake now, her face awash with emotions that ranged from shock to rage to mortification.

  “Give me a minute,” Wyatt said, his tone making it clear that he wanted Hugh to leave and shut the door on his way out.

  “Take your time.” Hugh’s voice was deceptively magnanimous, considering the venom in his eyes. He glanced back at Sophie, the corners of his mouth turning up in an ugly smile. “I always did.”

  “Get out,” Sophie demanded, her eyes wounded and hard.

  Hugh left, closing the door behind him—but not before Wyatt saw the flash of both anger and pain he’d tried to cover with a “who gives a shit” grin.

  He still loves her.

  The truth of it hit Wyatt like a sledge powered by guilt.

  Christ. Jesus H. Christ.

  Hugh still loves Sophie.

  Wyatt shot out of her bed, never more aware that it was the same bed Sophie had once shared with Hugh. He stepped into his pants and zipped them before the sound of Hugh’s footsteps faded away down the hall.

  “He’s angry,” Sophie warned as she gathered the covers to her bare breasts and watched him with nervous eyes.

  “I got that part.” Expression grim, he bent over and picked up his shirt from the floor. “I’d be pissed, too, if I were him.”

  Sophie dragged her hair away from her face with a trembling hand. “He’s dangerous when he’s angry.”

  Yeah, Wyatt got that part, too. And he didn’t need Sophie to tell him. He’d known Hugh longer than she had.

  “I hate this.” Her voice was low, shaken.

  That made two of them. He just wondered if she hated it for the same reasons he did. Maybe she just hated that it hadn’t been Hugh in bed with her.

  “He lost his right to be angry a long time ago,” she said, stopping Wyatt when he wrapped his hand around the doorknob.

  He turned back to look at her.

  “He lost his right,” she repeated with a sincerity that had Wyatt wishing he could bank on the words she hadn’t said.

  Hugh lost his right, not just because they were no longer married but because she no longer cared.

  But she didn’t say that, and as much as he wanted to find out exactly where the two of them stood, he had some fences to mend.

  So he left the woman he loved and went in search of the man who had once been his best friend.

  Hugh was in the kitchen, loading the coffee pot, when Wyatt found him. His broad shoulders were squared, his motions routine and familiar in the house that had once been his home, in the kitchen where his wife had once cooked for him.

  There was no easy way to do this. Wyatt scrubbed a hand over his jaw, then pulled out a bar stool and sat down, with the counter separating them. “Can’t say this is how I saw things going down between us.”

  When Hugh turned, he was wearing that amiable grin Wyatt remembered. An underlying edge of anger sliced through it like the blade of a KA-Bar.

  “What?” Hugh’s smile was tight and forced. “No ‘It’s not what it looks like, buddy’? Christ, Savage. Couldn’t you at least make the effort to look guilty?”

  Yeah, there was guilt. No matter how many times Wyatt told himself that what he and Sophie had was righteous and pure, it still felt like he’d cheated on a brother.

  He folded his hands together on the countertop and met Hugh’s dark look. He saw that the years of living on the back side of danger and death had taken a toll on him physically as well as emotionally. Hell, it had taken a toll on both of them. “What is it that you want me to say?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe that you’re sorry you screwed my wife?”

  Nothing would feel better right then than flying across the counter, grabbing Hugh by the throat, and warning him to watch what he said about Sophie.

  Because Hugh had been his friend, because threats wouldn’t fix a damn thing, Wyatt stayed the hell put. “You really want to do this? Here? Now?”

  Hugh held his gaze with a long, searching look. “No,” he finally said, his tone more weary now than pissed. “No, I really don’t.” He worked his jaw, clearly struggling to keep his anger in check. “I shouldn’t have barged in. I don’t have that right anymore. And what Sophie does now is Sophie’s business. It was just a shock, okay? I’ll get over it.”

  Not likely, Wyatt thought. No, a man was not likely to get over seeing an old friend in bed with his ex-wife. He felt regret that it wasn’t just the years that had gone by that had separated them as friends. Years ago, even when Wyatt had backed away and let Hugh have a clear path, Sophie had always been there between them. Just as she was between them now.

  He studied Hugh’s face, a face that looked older, harder, tougher. And he respected him for his restraint. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “I came here to help. Period. I didn’t know about the divorce. I didn’t expect—”

  “I know.” Hugh lifted a hand, cutting him off. For the first time, he met Wyatt’s eyes without malice. “I know,” he repeated, and shot Wyatt a tight, forced smile. “You were always a Boy Scout, Bear. No reason to believe that would change over the years.” When Wyatt remained silent, Hugh shrugged. “Shit happens. I’ll deal with it. Now, why don’t you fill me in on what’s happening with Lola?” He shoved a mug of coffee across the counter. A peace offering.

  Wyatt wrapped his hand around the mug, nodded in silent concession that, yes, there needed to be peace if they were going to move on. Move on being the operative phrase. They could never be what they’d once been to each other, but for the sake of a child, they’d move forward.

  That didn’t mean this was over. Didn’t mean this was anything more than a temporary truce. Hugh always settled scores. And right about now, Wyatt knew his former combat buddy figured he had a damn big score to settle.

  Later. There was no doubt in Wyatt’s mind that this would come to a roaring, raging head.

  In the meantime, they had a job to do. The only way to get it done was by working together. So he hunkered down and told him everything he knew about Lola’s abduction, all the while feeling a weary regret that this man, who had once guarded his back, saved his ass, and given him some of the best laughs of his life, would never be his friend again.

  Sophie didn’t know what she expected to find when she walked out of the bedroom five minutes later. Anger, for certain. Hugh had always had a temper. Sullen silence, possibly. She’d been the recipient of his brooding wrath more than once.

  Divorce court had been a rabid, ugly humiliation for both of them. He’d screamed. He’d sworn. He’d threatened. She’d rather face a firing squad than the rapier edge of Hugh’s rage again. But the fact was, she had no choice. Everything might have changed for her and Wyatt and Hugh, but nothing had changed for Lola.

  Lola was still out there. Scared and alone. And Sophie refused to let herself think about what else might have happened to her.

  On a bracing breath, she smoothed a hand over her hair and walked out of her bedroom, primed for anything but what greeted her.

  The two men stood across from each other, drinking coffee at her kitchen counter. Just standing there, quietly talking like they met like this every day. Like no years, no distance, no anger had passed between them. Like her ex-husband hadn’t just found her in bed with a man who’d once been his best friend.

  She wasn’t prepared for the tug of nostalgia that pulled at her heart, either, as she watched them together, both unaware that they had an audience. Hugh’s dark head nodded as Wyatt outlined the situation and everything Wyatt and his team had done to date.

  And Wyatt—while his broad shoulders weren’t exactly relaxed, they weren’t knotted tight
with tension, either. They seemed to have called a tentative truce, put aside whatever residual backlash they felt, for the sake of saving a child.

  Warriors, she thought, and felt her heart swell with pride. Pride for the man Wyatt was. Pride, even, in Hugh, because he’d apparently dug deep and found that part of himself she’d once respected and admired, even loved. Yes, at their core, both were still warriors, even though Hugh’s motives had run amok somewhere along the way.

  For a moment, she forgot about the present and simply watched them together, let the look of them take her back to a time when they’d all been young and naïve and full of hope and idealism. It was a moment that passed in a single heartbeat, when the pain of their current circumstances eclipsed it.

  These men had been friends once. Brothers. And no matter that she and Hugh had gone separate ways, she had never wanted to come between them. Not twelve years ago. Not now. And yet she had.

  Since there wasn’t a damn thing she could do to make it go away, she sucked it up and joined them in the kitchen. Hugh was the first to spot her.

  His eyes were hard when he met hers, but whatever anger he was feeling, he kept it under control. “Sorry I didn’t get here sooner,” he said without preamble. “It took a while for your message to reach me. Longer still to make connections home.”

  “Thank you,” she said, uncomfortable facing him but determined to get through it. “Thank you for coming.”

  His passive expression tightened. “You didn’t think I would?”

  No. She hadn’t thought he would come. She didn’t say as much, but her face must have telegraphed her thoughts.

  “Jesus, Sophie.” His rage snapped like a whip crack. “Hope’s my daughter, too.”

  A flip switched inside her then. Like Pavlov’s dog, she fell back on the anger she’d used for too many years to combat Hugh’s mercurial mood swings. All of the old hurts he’d inflicted, all of the old scars that had never fully healed, resurfaced with a vengeance.

  “Your daughter? You never wanted Hope. You never loved her.”