by Nalini Singh
“Some of it was Bonner’s—they cut out the transmitter there. From the high-velocity spray, he thanked the doctor for her help by slitting her throat. He’s never been this impatient before—we didn’t even have a chance to save her.”
Max shook his head. “The doctor was a necessity.” A tool. “She was too old to satisfy him in any other way—in his mind, she was probably happy to die once she’d outlived her purpose.”
The other cop shook his head in angry disbelief. “What do you need from us?”
“Any confirmed or credible sightings—send the details to me as soon as you get them. Even a general direction will help me narrow down possible sites. With the amount of money he has at this disposal”—and Max knew there were Bonner family members who still believed in the innocence of their blue-eyed boy—“he could go anywhere.”
“We’ve got the airports covered.”
“Good. He might try to fly domestic”—especially if his fixation on Sophia was stronger than his drive to find other prey—“but I don’t think he’ll leave the country. He enjoys being a star here too much.” Ending the call after a few more quick words, he went to sit beside Sophia on the couch. “Now we wait.”
Sophia couldn’t stand to see the weight on Max’s shoulders, the strain around his mouth. “Don’t hurt, Max.” She cupped his cheek, her emotions stripped bare. “Bonner doesn’t deserve to have you beating yourself up for his evil.”
“Sweetheart.” Max’s kiss was so tender, tears burned at the backs of her eyes. It felt different—more than sexual, more than intimate. If felt as if he was handing her a gift she didn’t understand. Holding on to him, she gave herself to the kiss, gave herself to Max. When his lips wandered over her cheek and down her jaw, she shivered and wove her fingers through the thick silk of his hair.
Nikita could wait, she thought. The whole world could wait. Tonight, this moment, she was stealing for her and the strong, loyal, beautiful man who’d seen every broken part of her—and yet looked at her as if she was perfect. “Max. Don’t stop. Not today.”
Lifting his head from hers, he rose to his feet in a smooth move that spoke of a very masculine strength. When he held out a hand, it felt impossibly right to place her own against his palm and allow him to lead her to the bedroom, to watch him put his fingers to the buttons of her shirt, slide them out of the slots one by one.
His knuckles brushed the side of one breast, making her shiver.
“Cold?” An intimate murmur against her neck as he dropped the shirt to the floor and moved to curve his body around hers from behind, a hard, sleekly muscled male with an arousal he made no effort to hide.
She’d never felt more alive, more sensuous in her femininity. “No.”
“Good.” His hands shifted up to close over her breasts through the practical cotton of her bra. “If I bought you naughty lingerie”—shaping her, possessing her—“would you wear it?”
Joy rippled through the sensuality, a piquant spice. He was as determined as her, she thought, to make this time theirs, something no one would ever be able to steal from them no matter what the future held. “How naughty?”
“Very.” He pinched her nipples lightly—a quick, sharp bite—rolled them between his fingers. “The pieces might even make you blush.”
Heat was already rising over her body, but it was a languorous, seductive thing. “That sounds like a dare.” Reaching back with one arm, she tangled her fingers in his hair, holding him to her. “And I accept.”
A smile she could feel against her skin as his hands slid off her aching flesh. Dropping her own arm to the side, she let him undo the clasp of her bra, then reached up to pull it down and off her body. “Why is it”—she shivered as he kissed the top of her spine, went lower—“that I always end up naked while you remain dressed?”
A husky masculine chuckle, his lips moving over her shoulder, his hands on her hips. “Because I’m a smart man.” Playing his fingers across her abdomen, he undid the top button of her jeans. “Take these off for me.”
That slow, slumberous heat flamed, burned, but she took a step forward, lowered the zipper and then—taking a deep breath—pushed down both the jeans and her panties. Leaning forward to pull them off her feet, she could barely hear anything through the thunder of her heartbeat. Max didn’t say a word until she straightened back to her full height. But then he spoke . . . and she melted.
CHAPTER 38
“Beautiful.” A rough sound, impatient hands that turned her to meet his kiss.
And oh, his kiss.
It held the same wild tenderness, the same protectiveness that had torn through her every shield from the very first. But it also held something else—a raw, dark pleasure, a hotly sexual aggression. Shuddering, she pulled at his shirt. Buttons went flying every which way as he cooperated with her frustrated need to touch him, but his attention was on her mouth, his hunger inexorable.
His hands back on her body as soon as his shirt fell to the floor, he squeezed and petted until she broke the kiss, unable to take any more. But he wouldn’t let her go. Kisses on her jaw, on her neck as he walked her backward, the heat of his chest an exquisite caress. She was more than ready to fall onto the bed when it hit the backs of her knees. Not waiting for him to nudge her, she crawled on and turned over to brace herself on her elbows.
He was watching her with a glittering kind of focus, one that made her skin tighten until it almost hurt. She swallowed as his fingers went to his jeans, as he undid the snaps and peeled the denim down his legs, along with his briefs. Her eyes were riveted to the thick length of his erection . . . to the hand he clasped around it. He stroked once, and her body arched. She couldn’t explain it, didn’t understand it, but the sight of him stroking his own flesh was the most erotic thing she’d ever seen. “Max.” A shuddering plea.
Coming over her as she lay back in unspoken invitation, he lowered himself just enough that their thighs brushed, the hardness of his erection pushing at her abdomen in blatant masculine demand. Sucking in a breath, she slid her hands up the beauty of his chest and over those magnificent shoulders. “Yes.” It was an answer to a question he hadn’t asked.
But he understood. Relaxing his muscles, he allowed his body to touch her all over. The full-body contact was an erotic lightning strike, an electrical storm. Moaning at the pleasure-pain of it, she tangled her fingers in his hair and took his mouth in a kiss of her own. He shuddered against her, his hand clenching on her hip. When he moved that hand to push at her thigh, she spread her legs in silent invitation.
He touched her slickness, and it made her tremble. But he didn’t stroke her with lazy patience as he had once before. This time, his touch was deliciously, demandingly rough, as he used his knowledge of her body to make her twist beneath him. “That’s it,” he murmured, his shoulder muscles bunching against her palms as he played with her. “Scream for me, Sophie.”
She managed to tighten her thighs, trapping his hand in between. “I,” she gasped out, “am not a screamer.”
A wicked, unexpected smile, that lean dimple flashing in his cheek. “Well now, a man’s got to take that as a challenge.”
She adored him. Tugging down his head, she pressed a line of kisses along the dimple, even as he began to tease her with small movements of his finger against her clitoris. Her breath caught. “Max, you’re rushing me.”
The sensual complaint made him chuckle. “Fair’s fair.” But he withdrew his hand, leaning down to kiss her slow and lazy though his body thrummed with tension above her. His hair was a cool stroke across her skin as he moved lower, nuzzling at her breasts before taking a tight little nipple into his mouth.
It was an agony of sensation, and it was magnificent. “Oh!”
Grazing her with his teeth, he released the nipple. “That,” he said, circling the wet nub with his tongue, “was close to a scream.”
“Gasp,” she breathed out. “It was a gasp. Now please do that again.”
“What?” Another w
icked smile.
“Max.”
Chuckling, he dipped his head to tease her neglected nipple, curving his hand possessively over the roundness of her other breast.
Shivering, she found she’d spread her thighs again, that she was cradling him in the most intimate of ways. The depth of pleasure was a knife, sharp and edgy—she shifted restlessly, her hands running up and down his back. Mine, she thought with a primal possessiveness, he’s mine. Her hands touched his buttocks when he raised his head to kiss her on the lips, and she found she really, really liked stroking her hands over the sleekly muscled strength of him.
A groan against her. “Stop that.” He nipped at her lower lip when she didn’t comply. “Or I’ll play the same game with you . . . in front of the mirror.”
Her hands went motionless.
Max braced himself on his forearms, intrigued enough to fight the pulsing need of his cock, the drive to sink into Sophie’s silken heat. “So, Ms. Sophia Russo has kinky fantasies about mirrors. Interesting.”
Heat colored her cheeks, but she tilted up her head. “Tell me one of your fantasies.”
He loved that she trusted him enough to not back down. Fighting fire with fire, he made a slow, deliberate move . . . until his erection nudged at her clitoris. Lord have mercy. It felt so good, he wanted to slip a few inches lower, take everything. But this was Sophia’s first time, and he damn well intended to drown her in pleasure—it was a matter of determined male pride . . . and of how much he felt for this woman.
Whose eyes drowned in black as she said, “Don’t think you’ll distract me.”
Smiling, he kissed her, nuzzling at her throat as he spoke, “You know those suits you wear? The prim ones with skirts to the knee and jackets that button below your breasts?”
“Mmm.” She made one of those little movements that drove him insane, rubbing herself against his cock. “My suits are boring.”
It took him several seconds to find his voice. “Au contraire.” Husky words, his breath caught in his throat. “Those suits give a man ideas. Like, for example, catching you alone in a deserted office”—he gripped her earlobe in a quick, teasing bite—“bending you over a big wooden desk, pushing up that sedate skirt to find you wet for me.” The image drove him one step closer to insanity.
Then Sophie said, “Would you touch me?” in a sultry voice that wrapped around his cock and squeezed.
Shuddering, he lowered his head, sucked hard at her neck, leaving a little red mark. “No, this is a Neanderthal fantasy”—one of his favorites—“I just rip off your panties and thrust into you.”
“That—” She swallowed, wet her lips. “I have . . . um, nothing against that fantasy.”
Now that deserved a hot, open-mouthed, inferno of a kiss. “I have another version,” he told her afterward.
Fingers clenching on his biceps, her breasts rising up and down in jagged breaths.
“This time, I get you to stand in front of me, and I push up your skirt inch by inch, while stroking my thumbs along the insides of your thighs.” Rising to kneel above her, he mirrored actions to words, parting her thighs to afford him the most delicious of views. “I know you’re not wearing anything underneath—though sometimes, I let you wear silk stockings and a suspender belt—”
Her breasts turned a hot blush pink as heat rolled over her body. “Max.”
He moved his hands over her in a sweeping caress. “Shh, this is getting good.” She shivered under his touch. “And so I shove the skirt to your waist, bare you all pink and damp for me”—sliding his hands under her bottom—“tug you close”—positioning himself lower down her body—“and eat you up like candy.”
And then he took her. Hot and deep and with an open possessiveness. She bucked under him, lush in her femininity, making small sounds of pleasure that urged him to drive her ever higher. But today, he didn’t want her to go over without him. He needed to hold her in his arms, feel her pleasure. So when he felt intimate little muscles clench, her breathing alter, he took one final taste and rose over her body, his hand on her hip. “Together this time, Sophie.” The words were so deep, so hoarse, as to be almost unrecognizable.
Sophia realized her cop had reached the end of his control. “Yes, oh, yes.” Feeling wild and needy and hotly female, she wrapped her leg over his hip, opening herself even further for him.
He didn’t ask again, kissing her with a gut-wrenching blend of tenderness and an almost violent need as he nudged at the entrance to her body. The sensation was . . . indescribable. It might have driven her to madness if she’d tried it when they first met. But now . . .
Burying her face in his neck, breathing in the intoxicating blend of his scent, she gripped his body tight as he slid inside her. His entry burned a little, but that was a small thing subsumed in the agony of sensation. Shaking, she wrapped her other leg around him. The sudden act opened her up, made him slide inside faster than before.
They both cried out, and Max froze above her. “Sophie?”
She ran her teeth up the line of his throat. “Yes.” Always, yes for this man.
Tugging off her hands, he twined them with his own as he pressed her to the sheets, his mouth claiming hers. She felt deliciously exposed and shockingly exhilarated as he flexed his hips and buried himself to the hilt inside her. Her cry was torn out of her, her body arching toward his in primal response. When he began to move, she tried to follow. She was a fraction of a second out of sync . . . but only for the first few strokes.
And then, there was no more thought. Just the slick, hot glide of his body against hers, inside hers, the rasp of his jaw against her cheek as he lowered his head . . . and finally, the turbulent beauty of a sexual storm that threw them both against the rocks and broke them wide open.
“Hey you.” Braced on his side beside her, Max ran his hand down her front. “You look like a well-fed cat.”
She scrunched up her face. “That is not a sensual image, not when I know it’s Morpheus you’re likely using as a comparison.”
The tart response got her a kiss, a deep, intense claiming. “How’re you feeling?”
“Fine. My inexplicable”—but viciously strong—“shields are still holding on the PsyNet.”
“That’s good, but I was talking about the physical.”
Her body flushed. “Oh.” She’d made a visit to the bathroom, had looked at her face in the mirror, amazed at the rumpled, pleasured woman with the kiss-bruised mouth who’d stared back at her. “I’m a little tender, that’s all.” It felt strange to have such a conversation, and yet she could. Because it was Max.
He smoothed his hand over her abdomen. “Let me know when you’re ready for round two—like I told you, practice, lots and lots of practice, makes perfect.”
Catching the teasing light in his eyes, she punched him lightly on the shoulder, before turning to face him. “Thank you for making the experience so very . . .”
“Interesting?” A flash of the lean dimple she adored.
“Yes,” she said, tracing the laughter with her fingertip, feeling her own lips curve. “It was supremely interesting. That’s a high compliment.”
“I’m so glad.” Sliding one arm under her head, he draped the hand of the other over her hip. “For a Psy, you were okay.”
“And you weren’t bad for a cop.”
They looked at each other, both of them utterly delighted in the moment. She wanted to snuggle closer to him, but her body was still humming with sensation. Better to wait a while, she thought, let things quieten a fraction. “Turn around.”
To his credit, he didn’t pretend not to know the reason for her demand. Scowling, he did as asked. The tattoo ran along the length of his spine, a sword with the tip just below his nape and an intricate hilt at his lower back. It was a gorgeous piece of art.
Fascinated by the spare beauty of it, Sophia pushed down the sheet so she could view the whole thing. “When did you have this done?”
“Sixteen,” he said. “I thought I
was hot shit.”
She considered the boy he must’ve been—tough but slender, his musculature still developing, and wanted to trace every inch of that tattoo with soft, adoring kisses. “The blade’s so empty in comparison to the artwork on the hilt.”
His muscles bunched. “I left it blank on purpose. For you.”
Her throat locked. She wanted to give him a gift, too . . . a gift as precious, as enduring. “It’s near lunchtime in Port Vila. You could probably catch the professor in his office.”
Turning to face her, he said, “I know.”
Sophia stroked her hand down his arm, worried. “Why do you sound the way you do?” As if he was holding something tightly in check.
He shuddered, bending his head so his forehead touched hers. “I’m afraid.” A stark admission. “What if it isn’t River? Or what if it is . . . and he doesn’t want to see me?”
“Why would he reject you?” Max had fought for his brother, tried to save him.
“I’ve always thought that he went down the wrong path partly because of the guilt he felt at the way our mother always treated us so differently.” River had been her golden child, Max the whipping boy. “I tried to shield him from it, but I couldn’t, not in the end.”
Sophia’s fingers twined with his on the sheets between them. “If this is your brother, if he’s the boy I saw in that flash of backsight, he cares for you to the depths of his soul.”
“Sometimes, that isn’t enough.” Max knew he sounded harsh, but it was the only way he could handle this. If he allowed it to matter, it would hurt too fucking much. “I wouldn’t blame him if he doesn’t want to be reminded of the past.”
Sophia squeezed his hand, leaving the decision up to him, those violet eyes warm with an intense, unbreakable loyalty.
In the end, there was only one thing he could do, his love for his tormented, damaged younger brother stronger and far more tenacious than the fear that sought to hold him back. Picking up his cell, he made the call—the conversation with the professor took less than a minute, with the elderly man promising to pass on Max’s details to this River who might be his brother. Hanging up, Max released a long breath and drew the scent of Sophia into his lungs.
