Searing Need

by Tracey Devlyn

  When he leaned in for a second spoonful, Riley cautioned him. “Um, try just the one first.” She glanced at Maggie. “The cream can be… rich.”

  His eyes narrowed on his dessert.

  “Okay, everyone, eat up,” Mom said.

  Rather than cutting through the pudding like butter, his spoon sank into the slice like it was cutting one-hundred-year-old cheese. She really should have warned him about her mom’s cooking skills, but an inner devil clamped on to her tongue and settled in for the show.

  Frowning, he glanced up to see everyone watching him. Wary now, he lifted the spoon to his nose, sniffed, and eased it into his mouth.

  The chewing looked a little slow going at first, then things loosened up.

  Swallowing, he smiled. “Delicious, Sandy. Did I detect a hint of peppermint in the cream?”

  She nodded. “I only had a bit more left in the bottle, so I added it to the mix. You didn’t find the pudding too chewy?”

  “Not at all. Yours reminded me of my mom’s.”

  “How nice. I would love to swap recipes with her sometime.”

  Riley’s smile faded. “Mom—”

  A large hand covered hers where it rested on the island counter.

  “I wish you could,” he said. “The two of you would’ve been great cooking companions. But my mom passed away several years ago.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Coen.”

  Silence fell over the kitchen.

  Then Coen reached for the spoon and added another dollop of cream and raised an eyebrow at everyone until they dug into their pudding.

  Pinpricks of gratitude stung Riley’s nose. She glanced at her dad, and as she suspected, tears glinted in his eyes.

  Noticing she didn’t take a piece, Coen asked, “Nothing for you?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “Diet?”

  She peered down at her slim figure. “Do I look like I need a diet?”

  Taking her question as an invitation, he made a languid sweep up and down her body. “No.” His low voice carried a velvety richness she’d never heard before.

  The muscles in her stomach—and lower—contracted.

  When he opened his mouth to ask another probing question, she strode back into the dining room. Having a conversation about why she’d decided to keep her sugar intake to a minimum tonight wasn’t on her list of fun things to do.

  After two rounds of Pictionary, during which the ladies trounced the guys, Riley decided to call it a night. She caught Coen’s eye. “Ready?”

  He nodded, and they both stood.

  “Leaving?” Dad asked.

  “I have an early morning tomorrow,” she said.

  “How are we supposed to vindicate ourselves if you leave?” Cash asked.

  “Whether I leave or stay, you guys don’t stand a chance. Females are the superior gender.”

  “Smack!” Shep said.

  Cash smiled from where he slouched in the crook of the couch, Emmy snugged into his side. “Want me to drive him?”

  “You both look too comfortable,” she said. “It won’t take me but an extra minute or two.”

  “Thank you for dinner,” Coen said to her parents.

  “Come back anytime,” Mom said, bussing his cheek.

  Her dad shook his hand. “Next time we’ll have a different sort of chat.”

  She had no idea what he meant by “a different sort of chat” and, thankfully, wouldn’t have to worry about it since Coen would be long gone soon.

  Her mind shied away from that train of thought.

  Once the car door closed, she settled her phone in the cupholder and asked, “Did you really like my mom’s bread pudding?”

  For that, she received the second death stare of the night. “Thanks for the warning—and for hanging me out there to sink or swim.”

  “You did one better than swim. You floated. Made my dad tear up.”

  “Because I ate his wife’s dessert?”

  “No, because you were kind about it. More than kind.”

  “They’re good people. You’re very lucky.”

  “Yes.”

  A familiar uneasy silence choked the air. She increased her speed. The sooner she got them to the center, the sooner she could put an end to this… this whatever it was between them. Or not between them.

  Arghh!

  “Why don’t you eat sweets?” he asked.

  She angled her head around to give him the stink eye.

  “Why do my eating habits hold any interest for you whatsoever?”

  “I love a good mystery—and you’re proving to be more than a woman who likes weeds.”

  “You will not provoke me into talking about this.”

  “Gonna make me work for it then.” He settled back in his seat and stared out the window. Into the darkness. “What do we know about sweets?”

  “Coen, knock it off.”

  “They’re delicious.”

  She clenched her teeth, bracing herself to ride it out.

  “Fattening.”

  He shifted his attention to her, and dammit if her heart didn’t pause to hear his next guess.

  “A temporary source of energy.”

  Swallowing hard, she focused on the road ahead, on keeping her features neutral.

  “My money is on number three.” He considered her for a moment. “What sort of effect does sugar have on someone who’s constantly on the move and whose mind never rests?”

  “Coen, drop it.”

  “When did your parents forbid you to eat sugar?” he asked in a quiet voice.

  “My parents would never do something like that.”

  “If not your parents—?”

  “Please stop. There’s nothing earth-shattering here for you to figure out.”

  He shifted toward her. “You made the decision to deprive yourself of sugar.”

  “Yes, for the love of my sanity, yes!” She whipped into the center’s parking lot and slammed to a halt in front of the entrance drive, where the shadows were thick. “Do you feel a sense of accomplishment now that you’ve unearthed my dark secret?”

  “Tell me why?”

  Riley closed her eyes as humiliation burned the tips of her ears. “You’re not going to drop this, are you?”

  “Sorry, your curiosity has rubbed off on me.”

  Bahh-ling. Cracking open her eyes, she peered at the display and noticed a too-tiny-to-see image before a big hand blocked her view.

  “No distractions,” he said.

  Dropping her phone back into the cupholder, she reached across his lap, grabbed the door handle. “End of the road, big guy.” She pushed it open. Or tried to. The damn thing was locked.

  Before she could straighten, he grasped her outstretched arm with one hand and used his other hand to cradle the back of her neck. Their noses were a finger’s width apart. His breath fanned over her face, and where his skin connected with hers, their heartbeats thrummed together in an ancient rhythm.

  The frustration and humiliation she’d felt a second ago ebbed from her body at his touch. At the heat in his eyes.

  How had this night gone so sideways? Once again, she’d ignored her instincts. She should’ve taken Cash up on his offer to drive Coen home. But she hadn’t been ready to let him go. An odd feeling of loss had crowded into her mind, as if she’d peered into the future and knew this would their final time together.

  So she’d declined Cash’s offer, and look where her heart had led her.

  Yearning. Aching. Anticipating.

  “Tell me,” he whispered.

  “I don’t want to.”

  Bahh-ling. She tried to break free to look at her phone, but he wouldn’t let go.

  “Tell me.”

  His thumb brushed the fine hairs where her cheekbone met her ear. Gooseflesh pimpled her arms, her legs, her breasts.

  Deep down she knew that he wouldn’t leave until she answered him. Damn stubborn man.

  When she tried to sit back, his hand on her neck tighte
ned, holding her in place.

  “Sugar gives me a rush.”

  He raised a brow.

  “Much more than the average person. I get animated and chatty and can make an all-around fool of myself.” When he said nothing and just studied her with unnerving thoroughness, she continued. “After you consume sugar, your body produces dopamine—a natural opioid for the brain. My body is very, very good at producing—”

  A large finger pressed against her lips.

  “You didn’t want to have a reaction in front of me.”

  Throat tight, she shook her head.

  “Why?” He removed his finger. “Why would a sugar rush bother you more than some of the other crazy situations we’ve been in together?”

  An unfamiliar shyness took hold of her, and she fixed her attention on the tiny whiskers starting to cover his chin. “Those other things happened before you ate my mom’s bread pudding.”

  Something not quite human rumbled in his chest. Her only warning before he took her mouth with his. Took. Not captured. Not caressed. Not covered. Took.

  She allowed her mouth, her tongue, her hands to flow with his, giving as he demanded. A different kind of urgency than the one that normally haunted her nerves tingled in her bones. The ticker tape of questions in her mind slowed to a crawl.

  Both his hands came up to cup her jaw, as if it were the most fragile piece of Waterford crystal. Her body began to crave a greater connection. Crave something she couldn’t identify.

  When he slowly sat back in his seat, bringing her with him, the roar of an engine stopped him short.

  She broke away like a guilty teenager. “Who’s that?”

  A low, pounding bass and howls of masculine laughter carried across the lot and through the Jeep’s open windows, then the driver stomped on the accelerator.

  “A truckload of trouble,” he said.

  The white pickup spun in a circle, its frame tilting to the right and wheels smoking.

  Coen opened the passenger door and stepped out.

  Bahh-ling.

  She fumbled to find her phone. “Where are you going?”

  “To teach a few young men how to respect private property.”

  “Coen, no.” Her fingers wrapped around her phone as he shut the door. “They’ll run you over!”

  “I know how to deal with drunken teenagers,” he said, rounding the front of her car.

  A bottle shattered against the hard pavement, not far from his location.

  Anger flared in her veins, and she jumped out and ran to his side. “Watch it, asshole!”

  “Get back in the vehicle, Riley,” Coen demanded.

  “Those boys nearly hit you with that bottle.”

  “They’re just being idiots. They haven’t even spotted us yet.”

  “Why did they throw the bottle then?”

  “It was tossed, not thrown.”

  She glanced at her surroundings and realized the tall parking lot lights didn’t illuminate this end. Her dark gray Jeep blended into the landscape.

  “But surely their headlights…”

  Coen’s stillness froze the words on her tongue. He watched the pickup for several seconds. The intensity of his observation put her technique to shame.

  “Do not move from this spot,” he ordered before shooting toward the revelers.

  “Coen!”

  He ignored her warning. Barreling toward the truck, he jumped onto the driver side running board and reached into the cab. The laughter inside ceased, and the truck slammed to a halt.

  Coen’s position on the running board didn’t budge. For several seconds, he stood there speaking to the guys in a calm tone of voice, too soft for her to hear. He didn’t seem fazed by their occasional protest to whatever he was telling them.

  She itched to hear his conversation, but she remained rooted in place, unable to take her attention off his broad shoulders. When he finally stepped down, he held a carton of beer in his left hand.

  How had he managed to get them to hand over their liquor? She shook her head in amazement.

  Bahh-ling.

  Crisis over, she peered down to check her text messages. When she pulled up the tiny image, tears sprang to her eyes.

  31

  Coen shook his head at the departing truck. Had he ever been that young and stupid?

  Yes.

  Turning back to Riley, he switched mental gears. He didn’t know whether to be grateful to those boys for interrupting him and Riley or pissed off.

  He hadn’t meant for things to get so heated between them. But the moment their lips had touched, he’d plunged into a vortex of sensation. It had been a long while since he’d experienced such raw desire. How far would he have taken things if the boys hadn’t appeared?

  He glanced down at the mostly full carton of beer. “Guess I know what I’ll be drinking tonight.”

  When she said nothing, he peered through the gloom to where she stood—where he’d left her—reading something on her phone. The light from the screen shone on her face.

  On the tears streaming down her cheeks.

  An image flashed across his mind’s eye, blinding him for a second. He shook his head until Riley came back into view.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, picking up his pace.

  She lifted regret-filled eyes to his.

  Regret.

  A tremor took hold of his knees and snaked its way into his gut, chest, arms, and fingers. Glass shattered nearby. Screams echoed in his ears, blinding him in their intensity, sending him back into his living nightmare. Sending him back to the mountains of Ecuador, to a jungle-enshrouded encampment.

  * * *

  Crack!

  The wild-eyed guard stormed over to Coen’s side and screamed in his ear. “Call!” For the thousandth time, his nail-bitten thumb hovered over the phone’s dial pad.

  He ignored him.

  With his head strapped to a high-backed chair and ropes securing his wrists and ankles, he could do nothing to help Kendra, and he sure as hell wasn’t calling his commanding officer. So he stared straight ahead, at Kendra, as she regained her senses after the bastard’s knock-out blow.

  A lone guard remained inside the shanty after one of his comrades threw open the door fifteen minutes ago, rubbing his privates and bragging about the new truckload of chocha that had arrived. The room had emptied, leaving a young, pissed-off guard with far too much untrained testosterone pumping through his body.

  Eyes burning, he watched Kendra slowly lift her head. It lolled on her neck as though it was too heavy to hold upright. The skin beneath her left eye was split open to the bone. Blood streamed down her cheek and neck.

  The guard returned to Kendra’s side, grabbed a hunk of hair, and yanked back her head. His murderous gaze remained on Coen. “If you do not call,” he said, swerving in and out of English, “she dies.”

  Her black diamond gaze flicked to him, and he saw regret flit across her features before she turned back to her punisher. “Spineless prick!” she wheezed, spitting in the son of a bitch’s face.

  Swiping the spittle from his eyes, the guard slammed a fist into her jaw, sending her, chair and all, flying backward. He followed, delivering blow after blow after blow.

  When she ceased moving, the guard paused, his chest heaving. He glanced at the door, then back down at Kendra. His anger transformed into predation, and he sent Coen a sly look before removing a knife at his waist and bending to cut Kendra’s restraints.

  He unbuckled his belt.

  Coen’s arms strained against their bindings. He could no longer feel his fingers, and a punishing pulse pounded in his swollen right eye, his split upper lip, his bruised jaw. After three days of constant torture, he’d learned not to show any emotion, any rage, at their attacks on Kendra.

  He’d made the mistake once, after observing them burning and beating her without cease for nearly twelve hours. Rather than redirecting their attention toward him, his outburst had stoked a depravity beyond any imagining. />
  Bound and unblemished, he’d been forced to watch them wrestle her to a filthy pallet in the corner and, one by one, they’d violated her.

  Kendra’s war cry shook him back to the present. Wielding the guard’s hunting knife, she attacked, murder in her eyes. The first slash of the blade sliced open his cheek in precisely the same location as the gash on hers. Her second slash laid open the contents of his stomach. The third slash nearly severed his head from his neck.

  The rebel dropped to the ground, and Kendra straddled his lifeless body, stabbing over and over and over.

  Coen kept his voice calm, almost soothing. “Kendra, my bindings.” His gaze shot to the door, wondering how long they had before the others returned.

  She gave no indication that she heard him. “Kendra, cut the rope,” he commanded.

  Her body spasmed, and she swung her blood-spattered face toward him.

  “We don’t have much time, Corporal. Release me. Now.”

  On unsteady legs, she strode to his side and bent down to cut through his restraints.

  The door banged against the wall, and three smiling faces appeared. Then their dark gazes took in Kendra and their fallen comrade. Fury replaced the afterglow of their prior activity.

  After freeing his head and wrists, Kendra whispered in his ear and launched herself at the guards.

  “Kendra, wait—!”

  * * *

  A hand grabbed his shoulder and yelled his name. His world exploded around him.

  Coen came out of the darkness of his memory swinging. His forearm connected with something hard yet fragile. The sound of a cutoff yelp snapped the line tethering him to the past.

  His eyes cleared to find Riley leaning against her Jeep, holding her wrist.

  What had he done?

  “R-Riley.” He heaved her name past a throat swollen with remorse. He stared at her wrist. “I’m sorry.”

  She eased away from her vehicle. “It’s my fault. I startled you.” Still holding her arm to her chest, she met his gaze. “You were screaming… I didn’t know what to do… I tried to—”

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, interrupting her explanation.

  No one knew what to do for him. Not the military, not the professionals, and certainly not an ethnobotanist.