by Qwillia Rain
The painting beside it showed Lyssa’s sister asleep in bed, her curly hair tangled around her face, with only a pale cream sheet draped over her hip. The open curtains beyond the bed showed the glow of the full moon, her left hand, wedding and engagement rings glittering in the moonlight, resting on the rounded curve of her belly.
“Tell me this is only sex, Lyssa.” Mike motioned to the painting of Mattie asleep.
Tears prickled Lyssa’s eyes; she blinked to stem them. Her throat burned, and she could hardly swallow for the knot that seemed lodged there. Every brushstroke screamed adoration and devotion. There was no doubt about the feelings of the artist for his subject.
Mike stepped between her and the painting. The look in his eyes and on his face sent her mind reeling. Common sense encouraged her to ignore the desperate desire to believe the emotions visible in his expression were real and not merely the temporary side effects of misread lust. It was so sincere, so stirring, the way he watched her.
His broad palms cupped her cheeks, tilting her face up to his as he lowered his mouth to hers. Against her lips, he vowed, “If you were pregnant and beginning to show, maybe even before, one of my cameras would never be far from my hand.”
The dark intensity of his gaze stilled Lyssa’s breath. Her heartbeat stumbled, then resumed at a faster pace. The gentle prodding of his tongue enticed her lips to part and coaxed her tongue into play. The warmth of one hand cradled her neck while the other skimmed along her jaw to the curve of her shoulder.
Dizzy from lack of oxygen and the slow buildup of passion, she swayed in Mike’s hold as he lifted his head. Unbidden, her hands clutched his waist, tugging him closer. The hand at her shoulder lowered onto her chest, cupping her breast, thumb stroking the rising peak of her nipple.
“I would capture images of you from the moment the little stick turned blue until they put our baby in my hands, crying and wet in the minutes following her entry into this world from your womb.”
It wasn’t hard for Lyssa to imagine him smiling at her, teasing her from behind the lens. After hearing the emotion in his voice as he described the scene, it wasn’t difficult to picture pain darkening his brown eyes if he learned about the baby she’d lost. She pushed the thought aside before it could fully form.
“With the precautions you’re taking, there’s little likelihood I’ll get pregnant.” She hated to ruin the fantasy he’d built, but if she stood any chance of remaining steadfast, she couldn’t allow her emotions to influence her. No matter how similar his dreams were to hers.
“True,” Mike admitted as he lowered his other hand so both moved to her waist at the same time. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to photograph you.” He tugged at the T-shirt she wore, scooting his hands underneath to stroke the warm skin on her belly.
“What?” Lyssa stammered. A whisper of memory surfaced as she rocked closer to Mike, edging her hands under his shirt to caress the smooth muscles flexing beneath her fingertips. A private little bet between Mattie and her that Lyssa had lost.
“Pose for me.”
A bet left unpaid until now.
The press of his mouth against her throat didn’t distract her from the fact that Mike had eased her shirt up over her breasts. Twelve years ago, when he’d first asked her to pose nude for him, she’d dismissed it as an attempt to tease her. Eight years ago, when her repeated refusals didn’t deter him, she’d begun to think his requests were only to keep her off balance. Four years ago, when he stopped making the request, she’d denied the disappointment that seeped through her. She berated herself for feeling saddened that the attention he’d paid her for so long was gone. It was simply proof that he had realized what he felt for her was infatuation and his purposes would be better served if he turned them elsewhere. At least that was the excuse she’d given herself.
“Pose for you? Why?” she asked.
Tugging the shirt over her head, Mike smiled down at her. “Because you’re beautiful.”
Warm, callused palms rolled over her shoulders and along her collar as Mike smoothed aside the straps of her white cotton bra. Lyssa snorted. “Liar.”
Mike made quick work of the hooks. “No, I’m not. You are beautiful.”
He looked so serious, so determined she believe him, Lyssa found it hard to fight the tingle of joyous satisfaction that filled her heart. “Okay, to you I am, but why waste film?” she argued.
He cupped her breasts and teased her stiff nipples with his thumbs. “I want to have something to look at when I can’t be near you. Not that I ever intend to be very far from you for the next three or four decades.”
Again that damned sneaky feeling tried to burrow inside, but Lyssa pushed it away. “Mike,” she started to warn him, but he cut her off.
“Come on, baby; you know you want to.”
Lyssa rolled her eyes and grimaced. “I do not.”
“But you do,” he assured her, his lips pressing against hers in soft, swift kisses as his hands lowered to the button and zipper of her jeans. Unfastening both, he continued, “You get so hot and flushed when I watch you. Imagine how it’ll be: me off on an assignment that ended up becoming an overnight. I’m missin’ you so bad. I pull out your picture.”
Caught up in his story, Lyssa remained oblivious to the fact that she’d toed off her shoes until she helped him shimmy her jeans and panties over her hips and off her legs.
“Oh yes,” he growled hungrily, stepping back from her to run his gaze over her naked body. “These soft, plump breasts.” His hands squeezed her before he dipped his head for a quick nibble of each hard crest. “These curvy hips meant to fit in my hands.” He palmed her hips, rolling his hands over them before reaching back to grip her bottom and pull her close. “A perfect ass, round and tempting. Then there’s your thighs; they hold me so tight.”
The words blended with his touch, which aroused her, sent reason into the ether, and placed need and passion center stage. It wasn’t like he was wrong; since the first time he’d asked, Lyssa had wanted him to photograph her.
Mike used a camera like he used his hands or his words. It was another tool capable of seducing both the subject and the viewer. The pictures he took evoked responses. She wanted a reaction, even if it was just from him and only fleeting. Much as the confession shamed her, Lyssa wanted to know that he might one day look back on their time together with pleasant thoughts rather than disdain.
“I want to be able to wrap my hand around my cock and see your pink, bare pussy so I can pretend it’s your hot, wet body clenched around me tight,” Mike whispered.
Groaning at the heat filling the very place he mentioned, Lyssa succumbed. “Okay, yes, I’ll pose for you.”
“Thank you, baby.” His hands kneaded her bottom as his smile faded and his expression grew intent. “And after we’re married and you get pregnant, Lyssa, I want to record it all. Every change, every kick. I want to watch your luscious breasts swell, your belly get big and round. I want to listen to our baby’s heartbeat by pressing my ear to your stomach.”
Emotion welled up, startling her as tears again began to fall. She wiped at the tears sliding over her cheeks before she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed close against him. She wanted it too. She wanted him to share every minute with her. Perhaps if he did stay, she’d finally feel safe. The sensation of being cut adrift, separate from everyone even when in the same room—maybe if Mike was with her, that feeling would disappear.
When he lifted her in his arms, Lyssa secured her legs around his waist and buried her face against his neck.
“Tell me these feelings are only about sex.” The challenge was in his voice. He settled onto the closest cushioned surface and laid back, draping Lyssa over him, his fingers threaded through her hair, pulling the ponytail free and tangling in the long curls spilling over her shoulders, hiding their faces behind a curtain of golden silk.
Lyssa shook her head. She couldn’t acquiesce. Determined to keep control, she muttered, “Maybe n
ot, but I want you.” She fumbled at his waist. Their fingers tangled together as both of them worked to free the thick length of his erection. The crinkle of foil brought her attention to the distinctive black wrapper Mike tugged from his pocket and held out to her.
She rose onto her knees, straddling his thighs, to shove aside his jeans and boxer briefs until the hot length of his flesh warmed her palms. The rip of cellophane and the sound of latex sheathing skin mingled with the rasps of their breathing. With a shift and a gasp, Lyssa settled into place over him, taking the tip of his cock inside her. Her eyes met his, heat and passion flaring between them as she moved, sinking down over him, burying every thick inch deep within her.
His hands smoothed up her back from her hips to her shoulders, pulling her down, rubbing her full, aching breasts against his bare chest. What had happened to his shirt, Lyssa couldn’t remember, but she pushed the inconsequential thought aside. All she cared about was having him joined to her, their bodies melding into one as she rocked over him.
His mouth captured hers, tongues tangling, breaths shared, teeth nipping at lips before drawing away to come back together at a different angle, a deeper connection.
Climax exploded between them, dragging cries from each of them as their bodies convulsed, sliding against each other. Her internal muscles milked the pulsing length of his erection as they shuddered and clutched at one another.
Lyssa collapsed over him, her breathing rapid and out of control. Her hand trembled as she alternately clutched and stroked his shoulders and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to hold in the emotions tearing at her.
“I love you.”
The barely there whisper echoed in Lyssa’s ears. For the briefest second, she panicked. Had she said that? Was she insane? How could she do something so stupid as to confess—
Then it came again. “I love you.” It wasn’t her voice whispering the words. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Lyssa flexed her fingers into his hard, muscled flesh. And she clamped her mouth closed. Sealing in the words that clawed and scratched for freedom.
He didn’t mean it. He thought he meant it, but it wasn’t true. He couldn’t. And she knew the second she let herself believe in forever, it would all be snatched away. The ache seeping into her chest warned her she might already be too late. There’d be pain when he left.
But she hated to lose this feeling. Not yet. She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, snuggling closer. The way his body froze and his fingers hesitated on her back signaled his reaction to her silence.
She waited. Any moment he’d push her away, reject her as she’d done to him. Not that she wanted to reject him. It was the last thing she wanted to do, but it was better to have him walk away not knowing how she felt about him than to have him turn her into a needy, spineless mass, desperate to please him at any expense. It was frightening how being with him could make her start to forget the lessons of a lifetime, but the voices in her head weren’t easily silenced. It was inevitable that he would walk away. That would happen sooner rather than later if he ever found out about the pregnancy she’d kept a secret from him four years ago.
When he drew her closer, his hands stroking up and down her back, Lyssa breathed freely again. A reprieve. One more day. Twenty-four more hours to store up memories to pull out once he left and she was alone.
Again.
* * *
Mike shouldered open the door to his apartment and hit the light switch. He hadn’t wanted to leave Lyssa’s house, but there were some things he needed to organize for the photo shoot. Dust dulled every surface in the room. The broad windows let the morning sun in, highlighting the empty living space. The second, secured phone tucked into his pocket rang.
Adrenaline surged through his system; his heart increased its beat. The distinctive ringtone identified the caller before Mike flipped the phone open. “Tin Man, I’ve already contacted Aunt Em. I am not heading out again. I’m on leave.”
“I heard. That’s not why I’m calling.” Trent Beyrs’s East End accent vibrated in Mike’s ear.
Mike headed to the kitchen area of his apartment in need of something, anything to stop the sudden burn in his stomach. Much as he knew his importance on the team, Lyssa came first. From now on, she was his first priority. Now if only he could convince her of that.
“Did you get to celebrate your holiday?” Trent asked.
Mike grimaced at the bundle of mail he’d dumped on the counter days before. “Holiday? What holiday?”
The humor in Trent’s laughter was genuine. “Halloween. Wasn’t there a costume party at your family’s club?”
“The Midnight Masquerade?” Mike asked as he pulled open the refrigerator and reached for the milk.
“Yes, your masquerade. Did you miss it or do I have my dates askew?”
The sour smell of spoiled milk confirmed the container was past its expiration. “You don’t have your dates wrong. It was on Halloween, and I did attend.”
“The rumors that have circulated about that party have me curious.” Trent chuckled. “Most of the stories about your club have me wondering.”
Mike laughed. “Any time you’d like to come to San Diablo and take a tour of the Diablo Blanco Club, you only need to let me know, Beyrs.”
“Be careful. I may take you up on that offer, chum, if I can ever find the time.”
“You’re welcome whenever you want to show up,” Mike assured him.
Again Trent sounded amused. “It may be sooner than you think.”
Mike gave up on finding anything edible in his refrigerator. “Oh, getting a yen to check up on the American cousins?” The organization Trent and he worked for maintained units in each of the five nations contributing to the task force.
“No, to make sure Tumaini is nicely settled in with you.”
“Tuma? What are you talking about?” Mike demanded. He turned away from the refrigerator and tracked the empty confines of the living room. “She’s in Edinburgh. Working at the High Street gallery. Isn’t she?”
Trent cursed. “She didn’t contact you?”
“No, damn it, Trent. Would I be asking you about her if she’d contacted me?”
“She flew out of Edinburgh late yesterday afternoon. I received confirmation that she went through customs at JFK just after two this morning Eastern Standard Time. She should have arrived at LAX by now.”
Mike rubbed at the pain developing behind his forehead. “You should have kept her there, Trent.”
“Damn it, man, I have my hands full—”
“You’re supposed to be protecting her,” Mike snapped.
“So are you, Mike. She’s told you for years what her plans were. You just never listened,” Trent shot back heatedly.
Was this a sign that all the women in his life were going to test his limits?
“I did listen to Tuma. I thought she’d enjoy staying where her friends are.” He moved out of the kitchen and back to the living room. “LAX is only an hour or so from here. I’ll call you when she arrives.”
“I’d appreciate it,” Trent replied coolly.
“So was she the only reason you called?”
“No.”
He knew before he heard the words why Trent sounded wearier than Mike felt. The gruff sound of his friend’s voice gave evidence that the man hadn’t slept much in the time since Mike had left the Middle East. The plastic of the cell phone creaked with the pressure of his grip. His right hand tightened into a fist at his side. “They didn’t make it, did they?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
His eyes burned with angry tears as he glared into the morning sun. The profanities bubbling on his tongue ached to escape into the stark silence of his home. A lengthy string of curses wouldn’t change the situation. They would simply be a waste of energy. “Evidence?” There wouldn’t be any, Mike was sure, but he asked anyway.
“None.”
“Damn it, Trent, this can’t keep happening.”
“I know, but we can’t get any
one inside. He’s too bloody careful.” Trent’s heavy sigh carried through the phone. “Listen, I wanted to be the one to tell you.”
“It’s okay, man. I understand you’re as frustrated as I am. We’ll find something. Eventually.”
Neither of them said good-bye; they simply disconnected. Mike slid the encrypted phone back into his jeans. He curled his hands into fists. The urge to tear something apart, anything, surged along his tendons and muscles. It would do no good; he was fully aware that the fury bleeding through him was useless in bringing down the bastard responsible. He’d seen the results of what Trent had told him—little bodies piled one on top of another, so desperate to escape the darkness, the cold or heat, the cramped confines of the box that they clawed at the walls until their fingers bled.
Ten years of slow, steady investigation—first by independent agents and then the current team he’d been assigned to—had left the organization with a surprise suspect. A man who seemed both the most and least likely to perpetrate such horrendous acts. The first hint of his involvement came from a single photograph from four years ago. But there was still no proof that he was the head of the snake.
“This has to end.” Mike’s words were resigned, almost defeated. Feeling as weary as Trent had sounded, Mike wondered if he retained enough energy to follow this mission through to its conclusion.
A pounding on the outside entrance to his apartment kept Mike from descending further into his thoughts. Knowing who it might be, he slipped the locks free and yanked the door open.
Her dark, brown-black hair twisted into thin palm-rolled locks and secured in a ponytail, the girl on the steps grinned up at him. Her white teeth gleamed against her ebony skin. The pink of her full lips was enhanced by a sheen of colorless lip gloss, and golden brown eyes, clear as amber honey, gazed up at him.
