by Anne Stuart
He moved his hand down her neck, a slow, sleek caress that caught the narrow strap of her bra and pulled it down her arm, and he moved his mouth to her jaw, to her wildly beating pulse, sucking at it, as he pulled her other bra strap down. She felt the faint sting of his teeth against her skin, and then he rolled her partway, and she felt the bra give way. He pulled it from her body, and she was lying beneath him in nothing more than the sensible white panties. She would have said something, would have tried to cover herself, but he slid his hands up over her, covering her breasts, his fingers on her nipples. Arching against him, she shivered in sensation as his mouth moved back up, first to kiss her again, a brief, claiming kiss, before he slid down and bit her ear, hard.
Reaction shot through her. She wanted his mouth on her breasts, between her legs, she wanted him now, before she could regain her caution and common sense. She wanted to be naked with him, wanted him inside her.
“Please,” she whispered.
He was kissing his way down her neck, over the soft swell of her breast. “Please what, Parker? Please leave you alone?”
The words filled her with despair, and she shook her head wordlessly.
“Please put your mouth on my breasts and suck?” he suggested softly. “Is that what you want?”
“Yes.” She couldn’t believe it was her voice. “Please,” she said again.
“Yes, please,” he echoed with light mockery, and she felt his mouth at her breast as desire flooded her. He wasn’t gentle, and she didn’t want gentle. She wanted him to take her, to bite and suck and lick her, and when his teeth grazed one nipple when he pinched the other one she jerked in a swift, powerful reaction.
She hadn’t even realized that he was taking her panties off until they were halfway down her legs, and he pulled them off before she could protest, would protest.
“I don’t think . . .” she said, suddenly frightened of him once more, of his size, his strength, his hands.
“Good. Don’t think,” he said, his hands sliding up her calves to her thighs, and he put his mouth between her legs.
For a brief second it tore her from her erotic daze. No one had ever done this for her—no one had used his mouth, his hands—and the feel of his tongue was a shock, as he slid one long finger inside her, withdrew and slid two. She was tight around him, the invasion a surprise, but he caught one thigh with his hand, holding her still for him. She reached out to push him away, when the first wave of pleasure hit her, and instead she wound her fingers in his too-long hair, caressing him as he licked her, as thorough as he’d been with her breasts, pumping his fingers into her until she stiffened and cried out in unexpected climax, her hips arching off the bed.
He didn’t stop. The second climax was even more powerful, shaking her to the core, and she let out a soft sob, her fingers digging into his scalp. He needed to stop—she couldn’t take any more—but he kept on, and it went through her like a lightning bolt, her skin sizzling, her eyes blind, her entire body spasming in an orgasm that was almost painful in its intensity.
He slid up and over her, wiping his mouth on the sheet, and she realized he’d lost his shorts at some point, though she couldn’t remember when. She should touch him, pleasure him, get him ready—the thoughts swirled through her brain—but then she felt him, rock hard against her, and his solid thrust went in deep, so deep, and she slid her arms around him, pulling him tight against her. Her nipples were so hard they hurt, pressed against the silky smoothness of his muscled chest as he moved, sliding his hands under her butt and lifting her up so he could go deeper still. He was huge, so big she wasn’t sure she could take all of him, but he whispered in her ear, his tongue tracing her lobe, reading her fears. “You can take me. Just relax.”
Relaxing was the last thing she felt like doing. Her entire body was rigid with the renewed onslaught of desire, and she lifted her knees, cradling him, pulling him deeper, so awash in sensation she couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. He was all around her, in her head, in her heart, in her cunt, and she wanted to devour him, own him, never let him go. His slow, steady thrusts made her gasp, getting her used to the size and power of him, stilling her apprehension, stoking her desire, as sweat slicked their bodies until they were slapping against each other, hard, fast, again, again, again.
Jenny cried out as she felt one last, sweet climax, and she wanted to hold him against her, hold him in her arms until he reached his own, but he wasn’t finished with her. He slid his hands between their bodies, put his thumb on her clitoris, rubbing, and she exploded off the bed, just as she felt him go rigid in her arms, flooding her with his semen.
He was holding her, partway off the mattress as he slammed into her, and he lay her down carefully, gently. He pulled out, and she wanted to protest, but she was beyond words.
He looked down at her for a long moment and said succinctly, “God damn it to hell.” A moment later he was gone.
What in God’s name had she done? It was growing light in the room, when Jenny wanted nothing more than darkness to cover her. Shame washed through her, at war with the lingering incandescence of his possession, and she curled up into a ball, burying her face in her arms. He hadn’t used a condom. For God’s sake, she’d just had the best sex of her life with a man who’d hurt her to get information from her, a man who’d kill her baby brother if he got the chance, a man who was dangerous and heartless and cruel.
But there had been nothing cruel about his lovemaking. Should she call it that? No—it made it sound too pretty. They’d fucked, like rabbits, like animals in heat, like . . . She couldn’t think of anything basic or shameful enough. And it had been her fault. He’d warned her, and instead of pushing him away she’d kissed him, invited him with her mouth, and there was no going back.
And she was lying to herself again. He would have stopped at any time—for some reason she knew that. He had the kind of self-control that he could have pulled away from her if she’d gained an ounce of intelligence and told him to. But she hadn’t, and he hadn’t, and now she was lying alone in a bed in a seedy hotel room with his semen between her legs, and she hated him and she hated herself.
She heard the shower, and for a brief moment she wondered whether she could slip into her clothes and simply disappear. The thought of facing him again, of the knowing smirk on his face was more than she could bear. How could she have been such an idiot? It was all the fault of her dreams, sabotaging her. It had been so long since she had slept with anyone, felt a strong, warm body entangled with hers when she was at her most vulnerable, that it was little wonder the dreams had come.
But she knew the difference between dreams and waking, and she’d known exactly what she’d been doing, even if she hadn’t allowed herself to consider it too clearly. She had been warm and needy as she lay sprawled on top of him, and she would have done anything he wanted her to do.
Instead, she hadn’t even touched him. She realized that with sudden shock—she’d lost count of how many orgasms she’d had, and yet she’d done nothing for him. He’d gone down on her, something no man had ever done for her, and expected nothing back.
She just needed to move, to get out of there before he came back in, get away . . .
The bathroom door opened, and Ryder walked out, unashamedly naked, ignoring her as he went to his duffel and grabbed some clothes. She immediately closed her eyes, keeping her head tucked down. Most people slept after sex—she was one of those few unfortunate ones who ended up feeling more energized.
She heard the creak of the other bed as he sat down on it, but she didn’t move. Go away, she thought fiercely.
“I know you’re awake, Parker.” His voice was flat, cool. “I’m going out to see what I can find about Soledad. Don’t even think of trying to disappear.”
She turned her back on him, ignoring him, and she heard him sigh. “Don’t be a baby, Parker. We fucked. Get over it. It wasn’t like it was my idea.”
Shame flooded her, and she blinked away sudden tears. “You real
ly are a rat bastard, aren’t you?” she said in a muffled voice, keeping her face turned.
“Did you just figure that out?” She heard the sound of his zipper, the clank of his belt, and then he rose. “Stay put. I’ll bring back something for breakfast. In the meantime you can beat yourself up for your sins.”
Enough was enough. She turned, her eyes narrowed to hide the brightness of tears. “Just tell me one thing, Ryder,” she said in a deceptively cool voice, when she wanted to scream and weep. “Do you always go down on the people you torture? Is it your way of making up for it?”
She’d hoped to infuriate him. Instead he laughed, sounding almost lighthearted. “That’s my girl,” he said obscurely, and a moment later he was gone.
Chapter Sixteen
She was right, he really was a rat bastard, Ryder thought as he strode out into the early morning air. She’d been half asleep, groggy from whatever erotic dream she’d been having, and for all he knew she’d been fantasizing about having sex with some movie star, not him. Except when she looked at him all that slumberous arousal had been for him and no one else, and when she’d kissed him he’d stopped thinking. What was that line . . . God gave man a brain and a penis but only enough blood to run one at a time. He’d certainly been thinking with his cock last night.
If she just hadn’t kissed him.
Hell, who was he kidding? He’d been looking for an excuse, any excuse, to take her in his arms. He’d wanted to be inside her so badly he hadn’t stopped to think about the ramifications, and even if he had he still would have taken her.
Or maybe he would have given her more time to change her mind. Parker wasn’t someone who lost her mind that easily—she’d been so aroused it hadn’t take much to make her come, again and again, and if he really wanted to, he could have her on her back once more in a matter of moments.
He really wanted to, but he wanted to find Soledad and the smartphone first. With Parker all bets were off. In a better world he could spend days in bed with her, discovering her. But not right now, for God’s sake, in a hostile country looking for a treacherous woman and a phone that could give someone the ability to start up the human trafficking all over again.
But God, she’d looked so pretty, lying there in his arms. She was a restless but heavy sleeper, and he was more than happy to have her end up half on top of him, breathing on his skin, the skimpy underwear no barrier to his imagination. His motives had been pure when he got into bed with her—he’d just needed her to get past her skittishness . . .
Who the fuck was he kidding? He’d wanted to lie in bed with her, wanted to hold her, and he wasn’t quite sure why. Never in his life had he let his libido make decisions for him, and the older he got, the smarter he should have been. Fucking her had been a major mistake, and all he could do was move on from it.
In fact, it could all work out for the best. People who slept together gave off a certain tell, an intimacy that anyone with an ounce of perception could read. He would have known whether Parker was sleeping with someone, and for some reason the very thought pissed him off. He was feeling oddly possessive, when he’d never wanted to possess a woman in his life.
But right now he wanted Parker. Maybe it had to do with the dangerous situation they were in—he felt responsible for her, unaccountably guilty for what he’d had to do to her, and they were alone in a foreign country with very little backup. He wasn’t a jealous man, but the fact that there’d been no man in her life for the past few years had pleased him, and he’d foolishly thought the lack of a condom would keep them apart.
Nothing could. She’d never admit it, but he knew she’d been wanting him just as much as he’d wanted her. He’d felt it in her body two nights earlier, when he’d kissed her. He’d felt it in her shocked betrayal when he’d climbed on the bed and hurt her. He’d felt it when he’d pulled her up against him, under duress, and her nipples had hardened in the warm darkness.
He’d turned a mess into a royal clusterfuck this morning. He couldn’t afford to be thinking about the taste of her, the sweet hitch in her breath, the soft noises, her funny shock each time he brought her to orgasm. He was good in bed but she must have had particularly lousy lovers to be so startled by her own response.
He had to stop thinking about it. He had a job to do, and the first thing he needed was to find Tomás and see what he’d heard about a woman matching Soledad’s description. He could only hope she still had the smartphone with her, but they couldn’t afford to waste time.
He could moon over Parker later. For now they had work to do.
Jenny had showered and dressed by the time Ryder returned. She’d given in and wept in the shower, where no one could hear her, but enough time had passed that she was calm and clear-eyed, sitting on the bed, waiting for him.
Her nerves were strung so tight she jumped when he opened the door, a paper bag in his arms. He kicked it shut behind him, then turned to look at her in the shadowy room. She hadn’t turned on the lamp, and daylight filtered in through the thick curtains, but she hadn’t wanted people to be able to look in their window so she’d left them closed. The first thing he did after setting the bag on the table was open the drapes, flooding the dingy little room with light.
She wanted to hiss like a vampire confronted with sunlight, but she merely blinked, keeping her face stolid. “I brought you breakfast,” he said, unpacking the bag. “A carton of orange juice, some lukewarm coffee, and some kind of egg sandwich. It’s not good, but it’s food.” He dumped the purchases on the table.
“I’m not . . .” she began.
“Don’t tell me you’re not hungry, because I’m not in the mood to force-feed you. But I’d do it—I can’t have you fainting with hunger. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.” He took one more thing out of the bag and set it on the table. A box of condoms.
“I don’t suppose you’re on birth control,” he said evenly.
Color flooded her face. “No.”
“Where are you in your cycle?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“I’d rather fuck you. And that’s why I’m asking. If it’s a bad time of month I can get you a morning-after pill . . .”
“Please just stop talking about it,” she begged, getting up and taking the cardboard cup of coffee. “It’s not going to happen again.”
“Then answer my questions.”
“You’re safe from impending fatherhood,” she snapped, ignoring the heat in her face. She glanced at the condoms. “And you’re not going to need those.”
“I like to be prepared for emergencies. Hurry up and drink that coffee. We need to be on the road.”
She looked up at him in surprise. “You’ve found something out? In that short period of time?”
“It doesn’t take long when you have resources already in place. Finish your breakfast or bring it with you—I don’t care which. We need to get on the road.”
“And just how will we manage that?”
“I procured us a jeep. It doesn’t look like much, but it will get us where we’re going.”
“And where are we going?”
“In the jeep,” he ordered.
If the coffee had been hot she would have thrown it in his face. No she wouldn’t—even cold, bad coffee was coffee, and she needed it quite badly. She drained it, then held it in her hand. “Should I bring this with us?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
She flushed. “I don’t know. DNA or something?”
“I think we left plenty of DNA on the sheets, don’t you? Leave the cup.”
It was already hot and humid when they stepped outside the stuffy motel. Parker had lived most of her life in New Orleans, but this thick, sweltering heat felt even more oppressive.
The jeep had seen better days. It was mud-spattered, dented, and beaten up, the seats were held together by duct tape, and the windshield had a long crack in it. She didn’t say a word, simply climbed in the front and fastened her seat belt. If he thought it would g
et them where they needed to be going, then she believed him. Asking questions led only to sharp answers, and she was beginning to think his nasty tongue was a more painful form of torture than what he’d done to her arm.
Which had stopped hurting. She glanced down at it and saw that the bruises were already yellowing. She was wearing a tank top and khaki shorts in deference to the hot weather, and she’d managed to braid her hair to keep it from flying into her face. He surveyed her critically.
“I don’t know if that’s enough to keep your hair under control.” He climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the engine on. It ran smoothly, which perversely disappointed her. She should have known he’d find a reliable vehicle, no matter what it looked like. “We’re heading into the mountains,” he said.
Sweat was already sliding down her spine, and she leaned back against the seat in relief. “At least it’ll be cooler.”
“Marginally,” he said, putting the jeep in gear and heading down the road. “But the bugs could be worse.”
“Great,” she grumbled. “I don’t suppose you feel like telling me where we’re going.”
“Someone with Soledad’s description arrived in town twelve hours before we did and was met by members of the Guiding Light. Word has it they took her back to the mountain town that’s their current stronghold.”
She looked at him in astonishment. “The Guiding Light? The soap opera?”
He made a disgusted sound. “Don’t you ever read the newspapers? La Luz is the rebel army around here. They like to think of themselves as freedom fighters but they’re mainly into kidnapping, drugs, and extortion. And now it appears they’ve added human trafficking to their list of sins.”
