by Sydney Croft
Damn that extra hour.
“Now, Tommy,” she whispered.
Before he could move, she swung a leg up, wrapped her arms around his neck, and clambered up him like he was a tree.
He barely had time to grasp her butt to support her before she lowered herself onto his cock and impaled herself deep.
“Jesus, Kira,” he growled, and, oh, God, his voice alone…her climax blasted through her.
She screamed with the intensity of it, with the sweet, sharp pleasure that went on and on. Searing flashes of light exploded behind her eyelids, and she writhed against him, felt him lift her up and down, drilling into her core. The incredible strength it would take to do something like that barely registered because all that mattered was finding relief that orgasm couldn’t bring.
Not her orgasm anyway.
“Come, Tommy, please…”
She fell forward, burying her face in his neck. The stroke of his shaft against her pulsing inner walls brought her to the edge again, and she dug her nails deeply into the ropy muscles between his shoulder blades. He was so strong, so raw, and she could only bear so much. Groaning in exquisite pleasure, she ground against him. A shudder went through her, appreciation for the hard body holding her softer one. The sensation of skin sliding against skin fogged her brain until all she could do was feel.
And the things she felt…fire where their bodies joined, her juices flowing down his cock, his tawny chest hair rubbing her hard nipples…God, she’d never get enough.
She tightened her secret muscles around his shaft, squeezed so hard she felt his pulse in the sensitive ring of tissue at her entrance.
“Oh, man,” he panted, and he swelled inside her, his release so close she could feel it coming.
“Tommy, fill me…”
He grunted, rammed upward so hard she nearly lost her grip, and then his hot wash of seed spread through her insides like the caress of a million tiny fingers, and she came apart again. Flexing so violently she felt a pop in her spine, she bucked against him, let her channel clench and milk every drop he could give her.
Slowly, the sexual haze receded, and she eased back on her gyrating hip motions that made Tom’s body jerk reactively.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice quavering, and he merely nodded, his breathing still coming in panting rumbles.
Her legs felt rubbery and liquid as she let them slide down his magnificent body, let his semi-erect cock slip from her sex. He watched her, his eyes hooded and not giving anything away, but she got the impression he didn’t know what to make of her. No one did, no matter how hard she prayed to find someone who could.
When her heel caught on a baling twine, his hand flashed out to steady her, and this time his gaze took on a slightly protective gleam. Now might be the perfect opportunity to set some ground rules for the safety and best interests of all involved.
“Look,” she said, as she retrieved her clothes from the hay bales, “we need to get a few things out in the open.”
He arched an eyebrow and pulled up his shorts. “And those would be?”
“You are never, ever to come into my bedroom unless I invite you. Don’t even knock unless there’s an emergency.” She slipped her tank over her head. “And just because you’re servicing me, don’t think that gives you any special privileges around here.”
He nodded, and she swore one corner of his mouth twitched in an amused smile before it twitched right back to Mr. Grim Face.
She pulled on her shorts. “And last, but not least, don’t think sex equals a relationship. You don’t own me, you have no claims to me, and you have no say in my life. I do what I want, and I see who I want. And, of course, the same goes for you.”
Now he didn’t look amused at all. In fact, his lips pulled into an even deeper frown, though no other outward signs that he’d even heard her were visible. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.”
Slipping past him, she headed toward the exotic-animal pens to make her night rounds.
Hopefully, if she needed Derek—or anyone else—soon, Tom would remember what she’d said about seeing whom she chose. She’d also set some of her limitations, something she’d learned long ago she needed at this critical time. A tight rein on her life, especially during the spring, kept her world as controlled as possible, a vital element since the fever made her vulnerable.
A tight rein also kept her alive.
The C-130 leveled off, bouncing in the turbulence. Dev kept one hand on the yoke to steady the plane and prepared to go home.
“Dream Catcher, this is Ghost Control—we’ve got Deltas lookin’ for a ride home.” The controller on the radio issued lat and long, and Dev checked the charts.
“Ghost Control, this is Dream Catcher. Roger, copy your coordinates. We’ll see you in thirty,” Dev said. He gave a nod to his copilot and banked the empty plane around, reversing course. The unusual order piqued his curiosity—and his sense of foreboding. Somewhere, something had gone wrong if his crew was being tagged for a last-minute pickup.
They entered a cloud deck, and immediately the ping of rain on metal echoed in the cabin. The craft shuddered and jolted in the light chop, and then the mid-level clouds thinned out, and they were in the clear.
“This weather’s shit,” Monty observed.
“What weather? It’s smooth, blue, and what else can you ask for?” Dev shot Monty a concerned look, because the guy had been stressed out lately. Trouble at home; he’d married too young to a woman who hadn’t adjusted to military life. He saw storms everywhere now.
“Yeah, whatever,” Monty muttered, and they flew in silence until the purr of the engines lulled the residual tension out of the air.
Their descent took them through more clear air, but Monty grumbled about clouds and Dev decided the copilot needed a serious decompression session when they got back to base.
It was ridiculously good weather, but for a brief second, on final approach, Dev’s vision clouded and then returned. He blinked, but shook it off, because ahead the runway beckoned, smooth as shit and glinting beneath the Afghan sun. He pulled back the throttles. Oh, yeah, this landing was going to be a beauty…
Monty shoved the throttles up again. “What the fuck are you doing? Pull the fuck back! Don’t you see the fucking explosions?” He grabbed the yoke and pulled back, his eyes wild.
“Get your hands off my controls!” Dev yelled. “What the hell is wrong with you? I’ve got a perfect landing!”
The cockpit came alive with lights and blaring alarms, low-altitude warnings, and…what the fuck? The whole craft had gone mad, the copilot had lost his mind, was fighting for the controls. They were going to crash.
Dev unbuckled himself and lunged, slammed his fist into Monty’s face. The other man grunted and fell forward against the instrument panel. Panting, Dev regained control of the aircraft, eased her in toward the runway.
The next thing he remembered was the heat, blistering his skin. Burning fuel seared his nasal passages and lungs, and even in the midst of the chaos, he knew he’d never forget the crackle and creak of superheated metal.
SLOWLY, DEV BECAME AWARE of his screams, almost inhuman. The nightmare hit out of the blue, and thank God he’d chosen to spend the night alone. He’d even sent home the guard dog Ender sicced on him before he left for his mission last night, an excedo with superstrength nicknamed Trance because of his hypnotic stare and powers of persuasion that went beyond the norm.
He’d known the stress would get to him, whether it was tonight or tomorrow or next week, knew it was going to wake him up, make him relive each and every painful memory.
At times like this, he liked to blame everyone but himself—the old guard at ACRO, the military…hell, Mother Nature herself for the weather that hadn’t even caused the crash at the LZ.
Pilot error. It would’ve shown up right in the black box. Should have. He knew Ender was good, but even he couldn’t have made pilot error disappear. And still, Ender was the one who was cou
rt-martialed, put in lockup for two years with the worst of the worst after the crash investigation.
Ender, who still blamed himself for everything—accused of the most horrible of crimes. He was supposed to have spent the rest of his life in jail. Would have, if Dev hadn’t joined ACRO and gotten him out. And still, Ender resisted heartily. Didn’t want any fucking favors from you, he’d spat from behind the bars of the solitary confinement cell where he spent twenty-three hours per day. Even now he refused to admit that he’d been the one to save Dev’s life. Told Dev to his face that he had no problem killing friends, so why would he save someone he barely knew.
Dev never bothered telling the military that Ender could’ve escaped anytime he wanted to. The fact that he never bothered to was something that concerned Dev the most.
It’s the leak at ACRO that’s doing this to you.
There was most definitely a mole at ACRO—whoever it was had wormed his or her way into the deepest recesses of the organization, had made themselves privy to all pertinent information and had nearly gotten Remy, Haley and Wyatt—all ACRO operatives—killed several months earlier.
And the weather machine was still out there—although it hadn’t been confirmed, Dev could feel it in his bones. Itor had something big planned.
It was the one and only reason he’d sent Creed and Annika to his old family house in Syracuse. The ghost that had mysteriously haunted him for years as a teenager, the same one that had come back on the terrible night Dev crashed his C-130 into the side of a mountain, and again nearly four years ago, was still there, banished to a portal inside the deserted mansion.
“It was a fucking badass in real life and it’s looking for revenge,” Oz, his former lover and the most powerful medium ACRO had ever seen, had told him when they were still just teenagers. “It’s trying to find that way through you.”
At the time, Dev hadn’t known or cared why the entity sought him out specifically—he’d grown up with psychic parents and otherworldly crap all around him and all he’d wanted was normal. Which he’d been until his plane crashed ten years earlier and his second sight came through loud and clear. After that, he’d wanted to know more about the spirit.
The spirit wanted Dev—craved him—promised to reveal seductive truths about Dev’s past, about enemies current and future—even about Itor Corp. Things that Oz always convinced him he was better off not knowing. And Dev hadn’t ever wanted to hear what it had to say when he was a teenager, had blocked it out with Oz’s help and banished it from his being.
When he’d summoned it four years ago, it had been for a specific purpose, to try to locate an agent lost in Itor territory, and again Oz had to rescue him. Oz had exorcized it from Dev, was strong enough to lock what he’d deemed as a truth-spirit seeking redemption into a special portal in Dev’s childhood home.
And then Oz had left him—a huge blowout over Dev sacrificing himself for the greater good of ACRO. Dev never thought he’d even attempt to use the spirit again, but the leak at ACRO had him backed into a corner.
Yes, the spirit definitely knew things crucial to the success of ACRO. This time, Dev wanted to hear—needed to, although he wasn’t sure if he was ready to pay the price.
Creed claimed that the ghost was still there—free from the portal it had been banished to, but not free from the actual four walls of the house itself. Which meant it was still controllable.
Dev hadn’t been able to bring himself to make the trip there yet, even after all these months. He’d thought about calling his former lover, laying it all out on the line, but in the end figured he was better off going it alone.
One A.M. and he wasn’t nearly ready to return to bed, figured a swim might relax him.
He stripped as he walked down the stairs, tripped when he got to the bottom of the flight on the first floor and clung to the banister tightly, his heart hammering in his chest.
He never tripped, not even when he’d first lost his sight, and certainly never in his own house. Not when nothing was moved an inch without his okay. And even if it did it wouldn’t matter—his second sight was always there.
He checked the area around the bottom step. Nothing. He’d gotten tangled in his own feet.
Let it go.
Naked, he slid open the glass doors and let the night air swirl around him. It smelled like rain, tasted sweet like the summer, heavy like his favorite brand of port. There was a definite storm brewing to the west.
Remy and Haley must be having a field day. That thought at least got a small smile out of him. His two operatives worked quite well as a team—Remy controlling the weather and Haley the only one who could control him.
His own cock stirred, not that it ever took much anyway, but the thought of rough, hot sex was almost too much. There were people he could call in for that specific purpose, people who wouldn’t talk to him or ask questions. ACRO trained Seducers well in that area, and whether they were in the field or helping out one of their fellow employees, they lived up to their names.
But tonight he needed to be alone.
He dove into the water, kept icy enough to chill the worry right out of him. His head pounded as he stayed under as long as he could—he kicked hard and came up at the other side of the pool, his feet easily touching the bottom of the shallow end.
He pushed up out of the water and walked toward the house. When he felt a hand touch his back he turned, even though he knew no one human was there.
He struggled to breathe as he grew light-headed. Because it was happening again.
You can’t control everything, Dev, it whispered.
He backed up in the direction of the house, his second sight trying to cover him in all directions. But his calves bumped one of the lounge chairs before he could stop himself and he sat down hard.
A warm hand touched him again, middle of his shoulder blades, traced a path down his spine, and he sat motionless. The touch was soothing at first, comforting, meant to lull him into a false sense of security. The stroking got harder, more forceful, a two-handed caress from strong fingers that tried to knead the tension from his muscles.
He fought the urge to scream, bit his lip instead, so hard he drew blood.
You invited me, Devlin. And I’m here to stay.
No, this couldn’t be happening. Creed told him that the spirit remained in the house—free of the portal but not free.
But there was no denying that the spirit had escaped Dev’s childhood home and found its way to Dev.
God, he was in trouble. His mind immediately shifted to the one man he knew could help him, and he felt the spirit wipe away the single tear that rolled down his cheek.
CHAPTER
Six
WEDNESDAY 2:30 A.M. MST
The sound of growling woke Kira. Bloodcurdling snarls, followed by sudden, urgent barking. She sat up, looked at the bedside clock. Two-thirty A.M. She’d have awakened soon anyway, her body needing to find Tom.
Thumping noises in the hall made her jump. Angry male voices.
She leaped out of bed, threw on the same shorts and tank she’d worn earlier and opened the door. Derek and Tom stood in the hallway. They faced each other, teeth bared, doing some impressive growling of their own. Behind her, the dogs were nosing her legs, eager to join the action, but she stopped them with a quick mental command.
“Son of a bitch,” Derek snarled, red spittle from his split lip splattering on her floor. He took a menacing step toward Tom. “Nice trick with the fucking lemonade.”
“You’re just pissed you fell for it.” Tom kept his angry gaze on Derek as he took his own step forward. “Kira, get back. Lock yourself in your room.”
“Kira,” Derek said in a low, simmering tone, “come here. Remember what I told you about him? I’ll protect you.”
The scent of danger, of hatred, of blood, made her stomach churn. Dear God, these men weren’t engaging in a minor testosterone-induced dispute over territory. This was life or death.
“Don’t do it, Kir
a,” Tom snapped, and she looked between the two men, confused and more than a little frightened.
Around them, a dozen dogs watched, some whimpering, others crouching, hackles raised. A black shadow slipped past; Luke, creeping through the crowd of spectators, low to the ground, his lips curled in a silent snarl.
“Luke! No!”
Too late. The shepherd lunged, sank his teeth deeply into Derek’s calf. Shouting, Derek twisted, brought his fist down on Luke’s head with such force that the dog sank bonelessly to the floor.
“Bastard!” she screamed, and then Tom was there in a blur of motion, had Derek in a headlock.
They both slammed into the wall across from her. Somehow, Derek broke free, spun Tom and put his fist into Tom’s back so violently that Tom grunted and his knees buckled. Tom hit the floor. Derek smiled, sent a roundhouse kick into Tom’s ribs. Tom flew into the wall with a sickening crunch.
Oh, God. Kira slipped behind them, gathered Luke into her arms, checked his breathing. Still alive. Relief washed over her, until Derek shifted his weight to throw another kick. Inside she screamed at him to stop, but nothing came out. Her heart hammered. Her teeth chattered. She gripped fistfuls of Luke’s fur as she watched Tom roll and sweep his legs out.
Derek crashed to the ground. Tom’s fist slammed into Derek’s jaw, and blood splattered the walls.
“That,” he ground out, “was because you touched Kira.” He pounded Derek again, the slap of fist on wet skin sickening. “That was for fucking Sergeant Jones’s wife while he was getting killed.” Another punch. “And that was for working for Itor.”
Derek silently wrapped his hands around Tom’s throat. Tom struggled for a breath, brought his leg up hard between Derek’s. Derek shouted in pain, must have released his grip just enough, because Tom shouldered the other man’s arms away, and then, in a motion so fast she didn’t see it until it was over, he smashed his hand into Derek’s throat.
Derek made a half gasp, his eyes wide, shocked. Then they glazed over, and his chest stopped moving.
