Trail of Desire [Class of '93 Trilogy Book 2]

by Felicia Forella

  The way he felt every time he looked at Katrina, they'd go through half the jumbo pack by tomorrow night. Just watching her walk gave him a hard-on. Thinking about their sixty-nine session about had him coming in his pants like some perpetually horny teenager.

  Even as a high school student, he hadn't been held hostage to the whims of his dick. He'd been too focused on getting into the Air Force Academy and out of his small South Carolina town to worry about girls. Much. Once he'd secured his appointment, he'd indulged in the pleasures of a girlfriend, a pretty little thing he'd drooled over since she'd transferred in during their junior year. They'd lost their virginities in the back of her Chrysler LeBaron and spent the time before he left for Colorado Springs learning all about the joys of sex.

  Enforced celibacy had been the name of the game for the first two years at the Blue Zoo thanks to the rigors of Academy life. He dated some of the uniform bunnies looking to snag an Air Force officer on the fast track, but he wasn't into casual sex and didn't want to wind up trapped by a schemer.

  All that changed after Serena's death. Casual became the name of the game. Until Greta screwed him over and caused a return to celibacy.

  It had been easier to swear off sex than he'd first feared. He hadn't realized how unsatisfying meaningless relationships had become until he left that scene. His right hand treated him just fine, no unreasonable demands or expectations and always available to release a little tension. He'd been content with the stress-free relationship until the first time he'd seen Katrina slink down the hall of the Philadelphia headquarters.

  He couldn't decide if the fates had smiled on him or screwed him royally.

  She'd immediately captured his interest, and the attention of his cock. The lingering scent of her perfume taunted him. The soft click of her heels sparked his notice. He shouldn't have been aroused by her sensible suits, but he was, God help him.

  When Jack informed him that he'd be partnered with her, stuck out in the wilds, he laughed and cried. He wanted her. His right hand no longer looked so appealing. The struggle began and had him questioning the need for celibacy.

  Abstinence crashed and burned in glorious fashion when he fell head first into sex with Katrina. As much as he hadn't wanted to get involved with another woman, as much as he'd wanted to maintain his professionalism, he couldn't regret what they'd already done and what they'd do in the future.

  In the near future, if he had anything to say about it.

  "What's our game plan for the rest of the day?” He hoped she'd want to camp now and hike to the last crime scene in the morning. If he didn't fuck her so hard she couldn't walk straight.

  "I'd really like to go over the pictures from the other murders in light of what we saw this morning, unless you're bent on doing some hiking."

  "I think your idea is best, while everything is fresh in our minds.” Like he'd ever forget what he saw.

  A short time later, they'd located a clearing near the trail and a stream. Katrina set about putting up the tent, leaving Braedon to the unenviable task of setting up a fire circle and laying the perimeter security. The sun filtered through the treetop branches, keeping the air seasonably warm. With the back of his hand, he swiped at the sweat beaded on his upper lip, but he wasn't sure if it was as a result of gathering up kindling or watching Katrina's curves as she bent to her work.

  "What do you want to do for dinner?"

  Her question distracted him from the serious business of ogling. “Are you offering to cook?” He cocked an eyebrow, waiting for her to zing him for his sexist comment.

  "That's not what I said, and you know it."

  "I picked up some hamburger meat when I ran into the store. I thought it would be nice to eat something that hadn't been freeze-dried since before I was born or canned in the last millennium."

  "Who says food is the way to a man's heart?"

  He didn't want to find a way to her heart, did he? He wanted to find a way into her shorts.

  "And here I thought you'd gone into the store for condoms."

  He had and she knew it. “We could always skip straight to dessert.” His pulse sped up at the suggestion.

  "I think we should eat lots of protein so we can keep our strength up."

  Oh, sweet mother of mercy. How much longer did he have to suffer before he could toss her on her back and fuck them both silly?

  Chapter 7

  Katrina sat on the floor at the foot of the bed, maps and SWAT team information spread out in front of her, Braedon at her side. In his boxers. She kept trying to sneak a peek at his fly, trying to see if she could see anything, but the dang man had the nerve to wear boxers that buttoned.

  Just as well, it had been difficult enough to concentrate on choreographing the coming operation. If she'd actually been able to catch a glimpse of his penis, she'd never have been able to maintain any semblance of her focus. She was pleased with their plan, but only time would tell if they'd closed in on their UNSUB or some poor unsuspecting soul who enjoyed living in the middle of nowhere. They were close, though, she felt it.

  Gathering up their notes, she returned the packet of paper to the dresser. As she walked past Braedon, he snagged her ankle and dragged her into his lap. She didn't need to peek behind his fly to know what was going on. His erection hardened and lengthened against her hip. Her nipples puckered, poking at the thin fabric of her t-shirt. The moisture from her body dampened the crotch of her panties. It didn't matter that two hours earlier, he'd left her limp and satisfied in the shower. Oh, no. The only thing that mattered was that for the ensuing two hours she'd been crazy with desire for him.

  She'd noticed every muscle flex and bunch each time he shifted or stretched. She'd watched his lightly furred chest rise and fall with each breath. She'd reveled in his clean, fresh scent when he'd lean close.

  Some how, some way, she'd kept her professionalism in the forefront.

  Now, the horny wild woman clawed her way out to play. She looped her arms around his neck, drawing him to her. She licked at his lips, tracing the curve and teasing at the seam, darting the tip of her tongue between his parted lips. He opened to her, but she pulled back, trailing wet kisses along his strong, clean-shaven jaw. Reaching his ear, she sucked the bottom part of his lobe between her teeth and scraped the skin. He rewarded her with a pained moan and a pump of his hips. She nudged his head to the side, exposing the line of his neck to her mouth. Her hand came down to rest on his chest, his heart thudding beneath her palm. With one long lick, she moved to suck at the pulse point at the base of his throat. He throbbed against her lips and against her hip.

  "Damn, woman.” He tipped her until he had her flat on her back. He loomed above her, looking wild and out of control. A flood of feminine power washed over her with the knowledge that she drove him mad with little more than a few well-placed kisses.

  She pushed at his chest in a futile attempt to force him to his back. The urge to mount him and ride him until they both screamed was strong. He refused to budge. Stripping off his boxers, he straddled her waist, nestling his erection in the valley of her breasts. She cupped them from the sides, squeezing tight around him. His thighs trembled as he moved, pulling back until the head of his penis disappeared then sliding back up until she was able to lick the tip. She took great pleasure in his drawn-out groan.

  "Do you like having your tits fucked?"

  Until just now, she'd never imagined the process to be very pleasurable for the woman involved. In a matter of minutes, all that changed.

  "Do you like doing it?” she challenged back.

  "As amazing as it feels, I'd rather be making love to you.” Moving away, he retrieved a condom. He flopped to his back and handed it to her.

  Ripping open the foil packet, she rolled the rubber down his shaft with slow strokes. Then it was her turn to straddle him. She settled on top of his erection, using her own wetness to coat him. He remained motionless and allowed her to set the pace. Raising up on her haunches, she gripped him at th
e base and guided him inside her. She hovered above him, just the tip penetrating her, and sank slowly, taking him inch by inch. Her nerve endings came alive as he stretched her, filled her. Every cell in her body tuned in to the process. When his pubic hair tickled her blood-engorged lips, they both moaned.

  She held still, savoring the sensation of being joined to Braedon, the sensation of fullness and completion. He jostled her with his hips and she met his gaze. Even if she wasn't quite ready to move, he was anxious for her to start. Splaying her hands on his chest, she rocked her hips. Front to back and up and down. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she focused on the incredible sensations generated by the slide of his erection inside her. His hands cupped her breasts, thumbing her nipples. Electric currents shot to her clit, increasing the pleasure until she felt as if she was burning up from the inside out. Without warning, without preamble, her body shattered in to so many little pieces she doubted she'd ever find them all again. And she didn't care. All that mattered were the tongues of fire licking at her, going on and on as she collapsed against his firm chest and held on for dear life.

  His arms wrapped around her waist, molding her body to his as he thrust inside her with powerful strokes. With a hoarse shout, he called out her name and stilled. He pressed her closer, their sweat-covered bodies joined as her sanity returned to her in small measures.

  "I have to—” Braedon shifted under her.

  He needed to get rid of the condom, a reality check after a magical interlude. Swinging her leg over him, she propped herself against the bed and watched his loose-hipped stride to the bathroom. Will I ever experience sex without worrying about health status and latex usage? Would I ever know skin on skin contact, not flesh on latex-covered flesh contact, with a man? Not just any man. Braedon.

  How did he feel? What did he think?

  She giggled. Men should come with tags on their foreheads, visible in black light. “Commitment phobic,” “mamma's boy,” “trustworthy.” Then she wouldn't have to wonder about Braedon's emotions. And think of the benefit to her professional life. Rapists, pedophiles, serial killers, all marked for an unsuspecting public.

  "I'd like to think I put that smile on your face, but I don't want to come across as self-confident.” He stood in the doorway, naked, hip braced against the frame.

  If anyone had cause to feel sure of himself, it was Braedon. “I thought all you flight-suited jet jockeys oozed arrogance."

  His hand came up, clutching at his heart. “Ouch."

  "You want the whole profile?"

  He held up his hands in mock surrender. “No way. I know all I need to about jet jockeys, flight-suited or otherwise. I'd like to know more about you.” Claiming a spot next to her, he stretched out his long legs and rested his arms on the bed. The scent of recent sex clung to him, setting her nerve endings on edge all over again.

  "What more is there to know about me? My favorite ice cream is chocolate chocolate chip. My favorite color is blue. I like classic rock."

  "I'd love to know a little more about what you were like in college. You must have been hell on wheels if that tattoo is any indication.” His fingers stroked her shoulder.

  College. A time in her life she tried to block from her memory. Still, what could it hurt to share a few inconsequential details with him?

  "I already told you I went to a small school on the East Coast, as far way from my father and his rules as possible."

  "Yeah, but where? Fair is fair, you know where I went."

  True. “I graduated from Goucher College, just north of Baltimore."

  A strange look crossed his face and he paled. “My sister went there."

  His sister. The one who died in a drunk driving accident. “I don't remember anyone named Margaret Powell.” She didn't remember an accident, other than hers, although it might have occurred while she was on medical leave.

  "My sister's last name wasn't Powell. My mom got pregnant before she married my dad and my sister had her name. London."

  Oh. My. God. Ohmygodohmygod. Margaret London. Meg London. My best friend.

  * * * *

  Braedon sat on his bed, alone, watching Katrina pretend to sleep in her bed, alone. She'd shut down on him. Slammed the door right in his face. One minute they'd been sharing histories and the next she claimed a migraine and retreated to her bed. He'd taken a long hot shower to give her time to screw her head back on right. She faced the wall, not budging, since he'd climbed under the covers.

  What the fuck is going on?

  He'd be damned if he was going to just take it. She didn't know him very well if she thought playing dead would work. Her time had just ticked away.

  "What the hell is going on here?"

  Silence greeted his question. He sat up, putting his feet on the floor, his knees brushing her bed across the small physical space between them. An emotional Grand Canyon loomed between them. Right now, he didn't care if he had to cross it by donkey and canoe, he'd find a way to conquer the divide.

  The soft light from the bathroom cast shadows over her body. “Dammit, woman, I know you're not asleep. I know how your breath gets soft and even, how your eyelids flutter. You don't grind your teeth when you're asleep."

  "I'm trying to get some rest. We have a big day ahead of us. One that starts in,” she glanced at the red neon numbers glowing in the dark, “five hours."

  Finally a response. A lame one, but a response. “I'm sure as hell not sleeping and you're not sleeping, so you might as well tell me what's wrong."

  She shifted to a sitting position, her knees captured by his. “Nothing's wrong."

  "Bullshit. I may have been the undisputed king of nonrelationships, but even I know when something's not right."

  "You don't want to know. Not tonight."

  "Yes tonight. Now. We connected in this room. If you try to tell me we didn't, you're a liar.” He tugged her hand from where she was sitting on it and clasped it in his. The dimly lit room prevented him from looking in her eyes. “Talk to me, Kat."

  Tears streamed down her face. “Kat was my nickname in college. The guys called me Kitty Kat. My best friend and I used to party hard, mostly at the Naval Academy."

  His gut knotted and sank. A sixth sense told him he wasn't going to like this story, the same one that had kept him alive on dangerous covert ops.

  "We were wild. Promiscuous is a nice way to describe us. We always made sure one of us was the designated driver because we weren't stupid. Except for one night. My best friend was the designated driver, but she drank to help ease the torture of a bad date. I was too wrapped up in my successful date to notice and too drunk to drive even if I had."

  Oh, God.

  "It was February. The semester had just started for us. We were having fun with the Middies and thought we were hot shit. I don't remember the accident. I'm told we were going sixty miles an hour on a road where the speed limit was forty-five miles an hour on a good day. This wasn't a good day. It was a bad, rainy night. When I woke up from the coma two weeks later, my parents told me my best friend was dead and I was lucky to be alive."

  "What was your best friend's name, Kat?"

  "You already know what her name was."

  "Tell me, dammit.” He was yelling and he didn't give a shit.

  "Her name was Meg. Meg London."

  Oh, God. He pushed to his feet and paced the confines of the small room. He struggled to draw any breath into his lungs. He was so hot. He couldn't swallow past the grief in his throat. He'd known the facts of the accident since shortly after it happened. He'd known Margaret had been driving drunk on slippery roads at night. He'd known she'd very nearly killed the passenger in the car with her, and that the only reason she hadn't was because she slammed the driver's side of the car into the pole.

  "My parents came to see you in the hospital, but you wouldn't see them."

  "How could I? I'd killed their daughter."

  "You killed her?” He didn't know how he felt about that statement. Neither he or hi
s parents had ever blamed anyone but Margaret. It had been her decision—an incredibly, unbelievably stupid decision—to get behind the wheel of the car. They'd always been thankful she hadn't killed the passenger in the car. Now he knew who she was.

  "I killed her and I deserved to die, too. It was my fault. Why did I survive when she didn't?” She sat on the bed, rocking, her arms wrapped around her waist.

  He wanted to go to her, but something held him back—shock or grief, he didn't know. He continued to pace. He thought he'd come to terms with his sister's death years ago only to learn he hadn't when Serena died. What he'd learned when he'd visited the shrink they'd forced him to see after his fiancée's accident was that even after a survivor had worked through the stages of grief, an incident could trigger the feelings all over again. Katrina's confession sure as hell dragged some of the old baggage to the surface.

  Gaining control of his raging emotions took top priority right now. They had a raid to conduct in the morning.

  Well you're the one who forced the issue, you fucking idiot.

  "I think we both need to try to get some sleep so we're not punchy when this goes down."

  She sniffed, the sound tearing at his heart. “We should try, anyway."

  Crawling back into bed, he embraced an image of Margaret standing on the grounds of the Air Force Academy, waving to him. Yeah, he'd try to get some sleep.

  Four hours later, he stared up at the shadows on the ceiling, sleep eluding him while thoughts of his sister and his fiancée bombarded him. He couldn't shake the missile-lock hold and was going down in a blazing ball of glory. He'd shut himself down after Serena's death, unable to bear the thought of losing another woman he loved. Yet, even with the dredged up grief crushing his chest and sucking the air from his lungs, one undeniable fact beat him upside the head.