Reckless Deceptions

by Karen Rock

  Erica heard nothing save the drumming of her heartbeat, felt nothing but the delicious stroke of his tongue. He rubbed his thumbs over her nipples, and they beaded so tight they hurt.

  “Ah,” he said. “You like that?”

  “Yes.” She shuddered, her knees buckling. If not for the arm anchored around her waist, she would have toppled to the bed.

  “What about this?” His lips trailed all the way down her spine while his hands slid along her wet sides and stopped at her hips.

  “Wicked.” A decadent heat draped over her, thick with sexual urgency. She craved him so badly. Her hunger was a growling clench in her belly.

  “Beautiful,” he countered. Then he lavished her with his mouth the way she’d lavished him, tonguing her with amazing tenderness, the slow glide up her inner thighs, along the cleft between her legs, around her most sensitive spot until she was writhing in ecstasy.

  When her legs gave way, he followed her down to the bed, laying his full length on top of her, his hardness settling between the cleft of her buttocks. He reached into her nightstand for a condom, rolled it on and snaked a hand beneath her, lifting her ass high in the air. Then he nudged her thighs apart and, in one smooth thrust, buried himself inside her, causing her to gasp. His hands moved up to palm her breasts, his lips on her neck, sucking and biting.

  “I can’t get enough of you.”

  She arched her back and opened herself up more to him, moaning against the pillow. Every cell in her body, every breath in her lungs, every strum of blood pumping through her veins absorbed his presence. “Then take everything, all of me.”

  “Yes.” He plunged into her harder, making love to her with the desperation of a drowning man. “You’re mine. Every part.”

  Slowing, he eased out of her, inch by inch, then slid back in even slower, drawing out the exquisite friction, before pulling out again. He rotated his hips, grinding into her until she wanted to scream.

  He was incredible. Never had she felt this way with anyone else, and she probably would never again. She reached behind her and groped for him, her hand settling on his muscled thigh, nails digging into his flesh to pull him harder into her.

  “Don’t be greedy,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

  Feverish cries flew from her lips. Her inner muscles clenched his length as he thrust, her body begging for more. She wanted to breathe him into her and never exhale. His fingers found her pulsing core, swollen, aching, waiting for him. He stroked her, feather-soft, gliding over her throbbing center. A longing so sweet and severe gripped her hard enough to stop her heart. Her muscles flexed. Her world quaked.

  Time stretched into infinity. A steady humming vibration started deep in her throat, emerging as a delirious moan. She thrust herself against him. Her skin felt raw, tingling and tender.

  Erotic sensation drove her into a frenzy. In delicious anguish, she squeezed his hand and screamed his name into the bed. She was complete awareness, her body pulsing with sexual energy until her orgasm tore through her, leaving her shuddering beneath him and panting wildly.

  He withdrew, ending her orgasmic free fall, and flipped her over beneath him, then slid into her again, his hands in hers. He shook his head as he drove into her, his wet hair lifting around his head. One side of his lips curved in a sexy, lopsided smile. “Your eyes kill me, Erica.”

  When his mouth found its way back to hers, the ferocity of their kiss made her shake and sweat. Her thighs quivered. Her chest burned. Having him buried deep inside while he kissed her liquefied her body, and she melted into him, her mouth parting to grant his tongue entry.

  His fingers tightened around hers. With his thumbs, he traced small circles against her palms. Somehow that simple touch was utterly sensual. It ignited an even deeper ache in her. He was present, emotionally and physically, expressing everything she needed him to say.

  She watched his face, their eyes locked in as passionate a gaze as the meeting of their bodies. He belonged to her, and she belonged to him. She sensed the explosion igniting in him, and she felt it intensifying in her again. “Close,” she said, speaking the only word she could manage.

  “Come with me, Erica.” His body tightened around hers as his muscles tensed. A wild electrical storm coalesced in her center, growing narrower and tighter until finally Ryan exploded inside her.

  It all erupted in a universe of stars and colors and pulsing light as another release tumbled her headlong into some infinite space where she floated, detached.

  She was shattered, and Ryan with her, pieces of them mingling as they slowly—gradually—came back to themselves, then held each other tight, bodies quivering, arms twined. The world rotated on its axis again.

  “Wow,” she said when she could breathe. She was beside him, her head on his chest. “That was—”

  “I know,” he said. “Incredible.”

  “I’m completely wiped.”

  “Me, too.” He kissed her shoulder. “But I’m not done with you, yet.”

  “God, I hope not.” She rolled over in his arms.

  Later, freshly sheathed, Ryan lay on his side facing her, their hands languidly caressing one another’s bodies, kissing softly. Never had she felt so physically and emotionally connected to another person.

  Was it enough without words?

  Then he made love to her again, unhurriedly and thoroughly, until she was whimpering and shuddering against him once more. He whispered her name over and over as he came inside her, and she dissolved around him, her head spinning, crying out her love, a call into a cave with no echo back. Yet she couldn’t stop saying it. She must have fallen so hard for him that her heart had a concussion.

  When their breathing quieted, Ryan kissed her softly on her nose, her cheeks, and her eyes, then rested his head against hers, wrapping his arms around her. “I don’t think I’m ever gonna let you go.”

  “Same.” She snuggled into him, dazed from the pleasure wracking through her body.

  He ducked his head. “Even if I am a heartless bastard who can’t cry.”

  “You’re not heartless. And I don’t need tears. What I want is your—”

  He stopped her plea with a kiss. “Sweetheart. I’ll give you as much of me as I can. That’s all I can promise for now.”

  “But I want more,” she insisted. “What if you have to go back to Syria before we’ve figured it out?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  She mashed her eyes shut, hiding her hurt so she wouldn’t add to his pain. Only one of them would cross that bridge…and she’d be left behind.

  Would he ever be able to say he loved her? Did she need those words to have a committed relationship with him?

  Which was worse? Living without “I love you” or living without Ryan at all?

  She feared, in the end, it was a choice she’d have to make.

  Chapter 18

  Erica didn’t remember falling asleep, but she woke with her body snuggled against Ryan’s, her back to his chest and his arms encircling her waist, holding her close.

  His body was warm, like a furnace, and she wished she could stay like that forever, curled up in a limbo filled with streams of sunlight, her worries and cares banished while she lingered in the arms of the man she loved.

  A man who couldn’t say he loved her back.

  Pain welled like a sudden tide. It hurt that Ryan remained mute when she’d taken a risk and confessed her feelings. With the terrorist investigation wrapping up, he’d leave soon. What if, because of his dangerous and secretive work, she never saw him again?

  They were running out of time.

  The old her would have forced the issue. Now, she considered the future before acting. If she pushed him, his professions of love would be given under duress. And intelligence work had taught her that information gained with force was never as reliable as in
formation offered freely. She wanted Ryan’s love when he was ready to give it, and she hoped that’d happen once he had more distance from all the pain the last few weeks had brought him. Maybe that’d never happen, but she wanted forever with him, not just now.

  Forever would have to take a backseat, though, since their terrorist investigation kicked into high gear today. Khalid Muhammad al-Harbi, aka Al Monitor, awaited her questioning, her life’s work concluding, her chance to atone for past mistakes within reach. So why wasn’t she more excited? Exhilarated? Khalid personified evil beyond imagining, had eluded her capture for years, and had executed despicable acts, including his most recent assassination of former President Wilkerson.

  Yet the quicker they processed their detainees, the sooner Ryan would leave. She turned in his arms. As she watched him sleep, his handsomeness captivated her. She almost didn’t feel like herself as she gazed at him, more like she belonged to them. Her life had grown, stretched, becoming bigger than just hers since it now included him. At least…on her end.

  What would she do with her life after Ryan left? Losing him would be like having a hole shot straight through her, an absence she could never fill. She could return to taking shifts at the club, but it’d only been a cover, not a real career. Police work, perhaps…but just the idea of wearing a uniform made her skin itch. The FBI? Given her record, it was a long shot….

  And why was she obsessing about this when she needed to savor every minute left to them? She wanted to kiss Ryan, hold him and love him until time ceased to exist, and then she wanted to love him some more. She didn’t want him to ever feel unloved again, even if he couldn’t say it back. Imagining his emotionally repressed childhood ripped her heart to shreds.

  Carefully lifting his arm off her, she climbed out of bed and slipped on the white undershirt he’d worn yesterday beneath his button-down. It hit her mid-thigh and smelled of Ryan, and in that moment her idea of heaven was to spend the entire day in that shirt, wrapped up in the scent of him and the memories of last night, not questioning hardened terrorists bent on stonewalling, dissembling, and misdirecting her.

  She tiptoed to the master bathroom, her legs and lady parts sore from their bedroom antics. In the mirror, she checked her face, wondering what Ryan saw when he looked at her. She bent close, her nose almost to the glass. Her breath fogged a small white circle. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks pink, her lips still slightly swollen. All in all, she looked like a woman who was not only in love, but who’d spent the night making love.

  And she had to say, the whole scenario was damn good for her complexion.

  Her mood lightened, and she was smiling as she flicked on the TV and headed to the kitchen for a glass of juice. But her grin faded the moment she returned to the living room and spied the screen. A group of Middle Eastern men cheered in a news segment.

  Jabhat al-Nusra.

  She sank onto her futon and stared at the television, Earl curling around her bare feet. Potent, helpless fury rolled through. Some of the men waved black flags with a yellow circle. Others blasted volleys of bullets into the air. More chanted around a burning American flag. A scrolling bar beneath the footage announced that Jabhat al-Nusra had claimed responsibility for the assassination of former President Wilkerson.

  Turning up the volume, Erica strode to the kitchen, topped off a meowing Earl’s food bowl, and grabbed a carton of juice from the fridge. She poured a glass and leaned over the open counter separating her living room from her kitchenette. The onscreen picture gave way to a pair of news anchors.

  “Funeral services will be held today for former President Robert Wilkerson at Our Lady of Guadalupe Church in Dallas at one o’clock. His children, including President James Wilkerson, along with Vice President Daines and Speaker Hatcher will be in attendance.”

  A fluttering sensation roiled Erica’s gut.

  “Do we know why President Wilkerson’s family opted not to have a state funeral?” the female anchor asked her co-host.

  “Those decisions are determined beforehand by the president and first family. The Wilkersons have strong ties to Our Lady of Guadalupe. His ancestor dedicated the church in 1902. The more personal, intimate service is perfectly understandable.” The male anchor smiled, looking altogether too pleased with himself for sharing this trivia given the occasion.

  The female newscaster set down her coffee mug, eyes wide. “Intimate? The number of attendees is expected to be well over a thousand.”

  Orange juice burned, corrosive, as it slid down Erica’s throat. A thousand people in one building…along with high-level government officials. A ringing began in her ears. When a large hand landed on her shoulder, she jumped, her juice sloshing down the side of her glass.

  “Hey, beautiful.” Ryan nuzzled her neck. “Why so jumpy?”

  She turned in his arms, and the warm expression in his eyes melted her unease. “Watching al-Nusra celebrating President Wilkerson’s death.”

  Ryan swore. “Cheer all they want, but without Al Monitor, they’re done. Once we get him talking, or Mahdi, we’ll get enough intel to smoke out the last of them.”

  Erica stared up at his set jaw, his firm mouth, wishing she was as certain. “I don’t know….”

  “Hey. You’re going to do fine,” Ryan said, referring to the interrogation they’d agreed she’d lead. He lightly squeezed the back of her neck. “Khalid doesn’t stand a chance against you.”

  “Such faith.”

  “I’ve seen you in action. It’s not faith. It’s fact.”

  “What else do you feel about me?”

  His eyes skated from hers, and she wanted to punch her stupid self in her stupid mouth. Hadn’t she just vowed not to push him? Already, he was backing away…. Literally releasing her to fill up the teakettle.

  “We should probably get going,” he said gruffly.

  “Right. I’ll take a shower.”

  Be strong.

  She marched herself to the bathroom, sat on the closed toilet and reached over to flick on the shower. Only then did she let the tears come…but she’d be damned if she’d be ashamed of them.

  A couple of hours later, Erica sat in one of the CIA black site’s cramped interrogation rooms. Funny how no matter the country, they all had the same peculiar scent. It smelled of damp, poorly ventilated spaces and cheap cigarettes smoked one after the other. It smelled of unwashed hair and armpits, desperation and hopelessness, the end of the road, where spirits died while the flesh lingered, withering.

  Across the narrow table, within strangling distance, Khalid lounged, bandaged and stitched. He was tall, over six feet, and thin, with a long face and a pointed beard that ended on his concave sternum. His eyes drifted shut as he ignored another of her questions.

  Irritation flashed like a glare from the winter sun. Her foot lashed out and slammed into his chair, nearly toppling it. “Wake up!”

  Khalid’s eyes flew open, and for a flicker of a second, she glimpsed his surprise before he shuttered his expression. Her hands tingled as she curled them into fists beneath the table. The person with the most self-control had the upper hand in an interrogation. Didn’t matter who wore the cuffs.

  Damn it.

  She needed to harness her newly acquired patience. Khalid was a wily operator the likes of which she’d never faced before. Breaking him was a protracted mind fuck of a game she had to win. She’d waited too long for this chance. Once they sent him to a detention center, she’d never have the opportunity Ryan granted her. As he had in the past, he’d appointing her lead interrogator, his faith in her galvanizing.

  Time to shake things up.

  “You have twelve children, correct?” she asked Khalid in Arabic.

  Khalid’s pinky twitched. A tell. She’d watched him through the two-way mirror before starting the interrogation, observing his mannerisms and body language. His hands were more expressive than his f
ace. Clearly, he didn’t like talking about his family.

  “I wonder what ever happened to your oldest son, Behram?”

  Khalid’s dark eyes lifted to hers, and a tense look flashed across his face. She had his attention now. Behram had been killed in a black-ops raid three years ago, his body buried in a secret location, his fate unknown to his family.

  “Do you think he’s dead?” She cocked her head, silently urging Khalid to drop his “vocal cord paralysis” act and ask her about his child. Sure, it was cruel. Horrible, really. But to catch a monster, you had to think like one.

  “It must be hard to lose a child. To not know where he is…how he’s doing…”

  Khalid’s eyes narrowed, and his lips turned down at the corners.

  “I’d like to help you find out about Behram. Ram…that’s his nickname, right?” Erica softened her face, donning a sympathetic expression. The trick to interrogation was convincing your subject they had more to gain by helping you than by resisting. “I might be able to persuade the higher-ups to tell me what happened to Ram. Except, they’ll want assurances you’re cooperating…acting in good faith.”

  The tips of Khalid’s fingers paled as he pressed them into the tabletop.

  “Were you planning to blow up the Saudi Consulate before we found your explosive?”

  Khalid stared at her, stone-faced.

  “Is Speaker Hatcher your target?”

  He smiled slightly. More of a grimace, but she guessed for a terrorist it counted. Then he averted his head and remained mute.

  She blew out a rough breath, strode to the door, and exited without a backward glance.

  Ryan ended a phone call and pocketed his cell. “What happened?”

  “He’s not answering my questions.”

  Ryan arched a brow. “So, when has that stopped you?”

  “Someone told me to think three moves ahead. I’m playing a long game.”

  “Sounds like someone very smart,” he teased, eyes twinkling like two pieces of topaz.

  The urge to laugh with him was powerful, but she resisted; it’d only loosen her up when she needed to stay wound. Focused. “Not as smart as me, but then again, that’s a pretty impossible standard to meet.”