Thrill Me to Death

by Roxanne St Claire

  The most ridiculous sense of contentment rolled over Max. Years faded, time evaporated, and they were just a happy couple who spent hours playing cards, making love, and spinning dreams about the future.

  “None, I’ve got two pair,” he said.

  She dropped her cards with a sigh. “Okay. What’s your question?”

  “Would you take off your top?”

  She laughed easily. “No.”

  He shrugged and scooped the cards. “It was worth a shot.”

  On the second deal, he knew she had something good. Her eyes shone, and her transparency twisted something inside his chest.

  “What?” she demanded at his look.

  “Nothing. Just observing your poker face.”

  She stuck her tongue out, and he took three cards and got zilch. She laid down three tens with an evil grin, and leaned back against the window seat. He flipped his cards and waited for the inevitable.

  What did you mean when you said I was just like my father?

  But she didn’t say a word.

  “You can ask me to take off my shirt,” he coaxed. “I’ll say yes.”

  “This is answers, not strip. And I have a question that you can’t avoid anymore.”

  Here it comes.

  “Why did you take this assignment?”

  “I told you—”

  She held her hand up. “I know what you said. Now I want the truth.”

  “I don’t turn down assignments. No matter how difficult.” That was the truth. Sort of.

  “Did you want to get back at me?”

  He frowned, shaking his head. “God, no.”

  “Did you think you’d sleep with me again?”

  “I didn’t know what would happen.”

  “Did you tell your boss why we broke up?”

  “She never asked.”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it, regarding him warily for a moment. “It’s my deal.” She shuffled wordlessly, and then dealt him a brutal hand.

  “You sure you don’t want to play for favors?” he asked, pulling out a card and flipping it between his fingers. “I have a deuce.”

  She shook her head. “I have a question.”

  Her tone piqued his interest. “Shoot.”

  “Have you…” She took a breath, then exhaled. “Have you thought about me…much…in the past five years?”

  The cards froze in his hands. “Yeah.”

  “How much?”

  Why lie? He leaned over, so near that he could smell her shampoo. “Every. Single. Day,” he said softly. “Sometimes I would go on Cori binges that lasted hours.”

  His confession hung in the air, as real and powerful as the heat between them.

  Her gaze never wavered. “Me, too.”

  The admission hit his solar plexus like a power punch, followed by another as she leaned forward to kiss him. He pulled her into him, burying his fingers into her long hair. Their tongues fused, fire licking through his veins as she melted onto his lap.

  Greedily, he thrust his hand under her flimsy top and enveloped her breast, groaning as her nipple pressed against his palm.

  He eased her back and she wrapped her legs around his hips, arching into him. She lowered his face to her breasts with a soft plea, and he slid the tank top off, then licked, kissed, and gently bit her nipples.

  She stretched her arms above her head, her eyes hooded with desire. Her black hair spread over the pillow and floor, and she struggled to breathe evenly, her crotch pressed against his furious hard-on.

  “Guess we’re playing strip after all,” she said raggedly.

  “Guess I won,” he said, placing his hands over her round breasts, tweaking the buds of her nipples. He kissed one, nibbled the other. The tips glistened in the moonlight, wet from his mouth and pulled taut in an enticing circle.

  “If you don’t want this,”—he slid his hands down her sides, pulling her hips up so his cock could rub her—“tell me now.”

  “I do,” she whispered. “I want this, Max.” She placed her hands over his heart, then curled her fingers into his chest hair. “I want this. Every. Single. Day.”

  He pulled her back up to kneel in front of him, then started a long, slow skim down her body again. Resting his hands on her hips, he slid his thumbs lower to the V between her legs, and gently spread her flesh.

  She arched back, bracing her elbows on the window seat, completely open to him. He reached down for the card at his side, then slid it between his teeth.

  She flicked the card so it vibrated in his mouth. “Deuce of spades,” she said. “My favorite.”

  He dipped his head and lightly scraped her protruding nipple with the edge of the card; she breathed in sharply, lifting her chest to increase the contact. His teeth locked over the card, he brushed her nipple again and again, then moved to the other breast. She arched into him, releasing a helpless moan.

  He grazed down her ribs to her belly with the card, leaving a trail of goose bumps. Lower…lower…until the card grazed the tight curls between her legs.

  Spreading her flesh, he flicked the card over her pink, swollen nub. Once. Twice. She grabbed his shoulders and quivered into him.

  He flattened the card against her wet flesh, then he slid it away and blew on her. Using only his tongue, he jiggled the card. Faster, faster, until it fluttered like the wings of a hummingbird against her delicate flesh. Her body shivered and he felt her slip further and further out of control.

  Her fingers dug into his shoulders and her breaths quickened as she ground into the card, into his lips.

  Suddenly, he opened his mouth and the deuce floated to the floor. She almost buckled, but he licked her gently, quickly, hungrily, blowing softly against her and curling his tongue into her, again and again as her orgasm gathered strength. She ground out his name, begged him not to stop. Just as she rode up the edge of a climax, he stopped and kissed his way up to her stomach and breasts, ignoring her frustrated whimpers.

  Then he stood, towering over her as he unbuckled his pants and undressed, his gaze locked to hers. His quick, ragged breaths matched the rhythm of his pulse. He wanted her. He needed her.

  Now.

  She reached for him, closing her hands over his insistent erection, opening her mouth for him, but he crouched down, eliciting another frustrated moan.

  But he would come if she touched him. If she even looked at him. And when he exploded, he had to be inside Cori.

  “C’mere,” he rasped. Sitting, he pulled her back onto his lap, flesh against flesh this time. He took her face in his hands and kissed her slowly and deeply, invading her mouth with his tongue the same way he was about to invade her body.

  He never closed his eyes, and neither did she.

  Just as a sob rose in her throat and threatened to escape, he slid his hands under her arms and lifted her, holding her over his erection, almost entering her, burning hot.

  “Max,” she whispered. “Please.”

  He eased into her one inch and held her there, his biceps flexed hard, his eyes narrowed with the need to make her understand. He dipped her down a bit more and dragged his gaze to where their bodies met. She followed, mesmerized by the power of his swollen, aroused body, poised to take her.

  “I think about this.” He entered her completely. “Every. Single. Day.”

  She gasped as her muscles constricted around him, and he started the slow, steady rocking of his body into hers. A bead of sweat ran down his temple and he moaned, low and long and lost.

  He held her waist in a hand grasp, sliding her up and down over him, each thrust intensifying in power and depth and intensity. Blind and crazy, he hammered into her as his aching, burning need finally erupted. He climaxed just as she did, exploding in silent fury, holding in his groans by biting his lower lip until he tasted a drop of blood. As he finally relaxed, finally released his grip on her, she covered his mouth and suckled his lips.

  He grazed her cheek with a feather touch, then took her hand and placed it ov
er his heart again.

  Chapter

  Nineteen

  S weetness never worked on the Mexican bitch, so Breezy didn’t waste time on a fake smile. “Let me in, Marta. I need to get something from Cori’s room.”

  The demand was met with a distrusting gaze. “I’m sorry. Mrs. Peyton’s bodyguard left explicit instructions not to allow anyone in the house.”

  “I don’t think that included me.” Breezy put a hand on the door and gave it a push. “Outta my way, chiquita.”

  For a moment, she thought the maid would actually stand her ground. But she backed off, and Breezy bounded into the house, only to realize Marta was following her up the stairs. Breezy spun around. “I don’t need an escort.”

  “I can’t let you go into her room alone.”

  Breezy looked skyward. “Jesus H. Christ. I slept in that room when her husband died. I’m her goddamn best friend. I can go get a sweater from her closet if I need to borrow one.”

  “No.” Marta took another step, making herself even with Breezy. “I’m coming with you.”

  Breezy leaned way back, making sure her disgust was visible. “Maybe you have something else you need to do, Marta. Like time in jail. For…what was it?” She tapped a finger against her cheek. “Oh, I know. In this country we call it prostitution.”

  Marta just blinked.

  “Or,” Breezy added, “perhaps you could drop by your sister’s new job and mention how she had the same gig out in California.”

  “Uh, excuse me?” A voice from the kitchen pulled both of their attention. “I’m just about done now, ma’am.”

  “Who is that?” Breezy demanded.

  Marta glanced toward the kitchen, obviously pulled. “The man who is taking Mr. Peyton’s boat,” she said softly. “I have to help him.”

  “By all means, go. I know my way around here.”

  “Miss?” Footsteps accompanied the voice, and a man came from the back of the house toward the stairs. “I’m taking off now. You’ll need to—oh, hello.”

  “You’re the new owner of Peyton’s Place?” Breezy asked, keeping a smile plastered on. “Congratulations, she’s a lovely boat.”

  He nodded. “Thank you. I’m Brad Hamilton. And you are?”

  “Just a friend of the family, Brad.” She gave Marta a solid tap on the shoulder. “Go take care of him, sweetie. I’ll just be a moment.”

  She tore up the stairs without turning to see Marta’s face.

  In the room, she shut the door behind her and leaned against the wood as she caught her breath. She could do this.

  She had to.

  By the time Marta barged into the room, Breezy was stripped down to her bra, an array of gorgeous sweaters strewn over the chaise in Cori’s closet.

  “I’m looking for one in particular,” Breezy said smiling at the woman who would be her witness. “That Versace thing with the pearls on the collar.”

  “It’s at the dry cleaner,” Marta said, her eyes still suspicious.

  “Oh.” Breezy gave a casual shrug. “A shame.”

  The sun had already risen over Sonoma Valley when Max went downstairs, drawn to the aroma of fresh brewed coffee. In the kitchen he could hear Chase Ryker’s baritone. Since there was no response, he assumed the Rocket Man was working the phones, learning what progress the detectives had made on the arson at the construction site.

  Arson was obvious. But embezzlement, based on the fact that subs were paid in advance, might be harder to prove. Like Cori, he had a feeling it all led back to Miami—and William—but he needed a nice long session with the contractor first.

  No, he needed coffee first. Then more of Cori. Then, Doug Nash.

  Chase was looking out the kitchen window as he spoke on the phone, and didn’t see Max enter. They’d never worked a detail together, and Max was impressed by the former commander’s focus and attention to detail.

  Chase laughed softly. “Define ‘well,’ Lucy.” A pause. “Yes, I’d say they get along very well.”

  Very attentive to detail. Well, Bullet Catchers were trained to observe.

  Max cleared his throat and Chase turned and grinned. “He’s here now. You want to talk to him?”

  The last thing he wanted to do while he still wore the scent of sex with his principal was chat with Lucy Sharpe. He wanted two cups of coffee, then he wanted to go back to the warmth of Cori’s body and bed.

  “All right, I’ll tell him. Take it easy, Luce.” Chase flipped the phone closed and gave Max an apologetic smile. “She was worried. You didn’t answer your cell.”

  Max looked toward the ceiling. “Like I need a mother.”

  “Lucy Sharpe doesn’t have a maternal bone in her body,” Chase said dryly. “But her calls are expected to be answered, as you know.”

  “I’ve worked for her longer than you have, Commander,” Max replied, opening a cabinet. “I know the drill.”

  “Then why didn’t you take her call?”

  “Why don’t you mind your own business?”

  He continued to search for coffee cups and heard the sound of a chair scraping the floor as Chase pulled it from the table.

  “You know,” Chase said, “this is in direct contradiction to everything I’ve ever heard about you.”

  Max found a shelf full of white ceramic mugs. “What? That I’m not a morning person?”

  Chase laughed. “The way you’re acting. Dan says you’ve got ice water in your veins, and Alex—”

  Max slammed a mug on the counter. “Romero? I don’t give a rat’s ass what that hothead thinks of me. He doesn’t have a brain, anyway.”

  “Like I said,” Chase continued, unfazed, “I didn’t expect you to be so…involved.”

  “I get involved in every assignment,” Max said, pissed that he had to defend himself. “It’s part of the job.”

  Blessedly, Chase didn’t answer. Max continued his task, eyeing some fruit in a basket, then opened the refrigerator. Maybe she’d like yogurt or—

  “Actually,” Chase said, “Alex does have a brain.”

  Max closed his eyes. He didn’t feel like discussing his least favorite colleague, he wanted coffee, food, and more sex. Maybe not in that order. He did not want to get into the mysterious folklore that surrounded his legendary rivalry with another Bullet Catcher. He had no intention of telling anyone why he hated Alex Romero, and he knew the Latin lover certainly wasn’t going to spill the rice and beans.

  Still, Chase had been a huge help and Max had no issues with him. “Maybe being married will activate Romero’s dormant gray matter,” Max said, slipping a little humor in his voice. “At least it should keep him out of the bed of every woman he protects.”

  As soon as he said it, he could have kicked himself. With a wry smile, he turned to Chase. “Go ahead. Give me shit. I deserve it.”

  But Chase just grinned. “No sir. This is obviously more than casual lust. Which brings me back to my original comment: I heard you were a pretty detached kind of guy.”

  He couldn’t even remember how detached felt. “Is that what you were talking to Lucy about?”

  “Don’t worry. I covered for you.”

  “Thanks, but don’t be so sure you succeeded.” With two well-placed questions, Lucy probably got far more information out of Chase than he realized. She was a former trained CIA operative and an expert in elicitation. And if there was such a thing as mind control, she’d probably qualify for expertise in that, too.

  Max picked up the coffee and grabbed a peach. Sharing that could be interesting. “Any news from the arson investigator?”

  Chase nodded. “They found Nash last night and he has a rock-solid alibi for the time of the fire.”

  “Can you get me a home address for him?”

  “Got it already. Courtesy of Raquel, the Wonder Girl.”

  Max grinned at the mention of Lucy’s assistant. “Our secret weapon.”

  “She sure as hell is,” Chase agreed. “You going to talk to this guy today?”

 
; “That’s the plan.”

  “I heard you’re very good at interrogating,” Chase said.

  “Is there anything at all you don’t know about me, Ryker?”

  “Don’t know why you hate Alex Romero.”

  A swift pounding at the side door sent Chase to open it, finding Johnny Christiano holding a laundry basket full of magazines and papers.

  “Mail call,” Johnny said as he entered.

  “What’s that?” Max asked.

  “The neighbor picks up Mrs. Peyton’s mail.” He dropped the basket on the table with a thud. “Nice lady. Makes wine, too.” Johnny shook his long, dark hair off a face that looked like a Roman gladiator’s. “Just like my grandmother did. Although I get a feeling this Napa stuff is better than Nonna’s Dago Red.”

  Chase, his dark blue eyes twinkling, glanced at Max. “Dago Red? Isn’t that a little politically incorrect?”

  Johnny shot him an incredulous look. “Guinea Red would be politically incorrect.”

  Max merely raised an eyebrow.

  Johnny dumped the basket over on the table, sending envelopes, postcards, and coupons flying. “She’s a nice lady and I promised her I’d bring her laundry basket back.”

  “Making friends with the neighbors?” Chase asked.

  Max chuckled. “Don’t even try to stop him. Once we were on a diplomatic detail in Hong Kong and this one”—Max indicated Johnny with his coffee cup—“spent all his downtime teaching the Chinese housekeeping staff how to make red sauce.”

  “Gravy,” Johnny corrected, a serious look in his hooded dark eyes that he’d no doubt perfected as a young wiseguy on the streets of New York City. “It isn’t Ragù from a jar, man. It’s gravy.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Chase said.

  Max just smiled. Lucy’d saved Johnny from the clutches of the mob and made a hell of a Bullet Catcher out of him. He was tough, smart, and could outcook them all.

  “You want to take any of this mail up to her?” Chase asked. “Or will you be too busy eating peaches?”

  Johnny choked a laugh. “Whoa. Harsh.”

  Max glanced at the envelopes strewn over the table. “There’s nothing that can’t wait until after breakfast.” He picked up the coffee cups and peach.