“All right,” he said quietly. “Let’s get you to bed.”
• • • • •
Isabelle woke with a start but managed not to scream. Even so, she pressed her hands down over her mouth to make sure. Laying on her side, turned away from Mac, her open eyes stared into the darkness. This time she hadn’t dreamed of Prentiss, she’d dreamed of his victims.
They’d stood in a line, walking slowly from left to right, limping past her, the solemn group led by his mother wearing a dirty, pink, house robe. Though Isabelle tried to talk with them, get their attention, no one would look at her. The blinding white room without walls showed everything. Their tired eyes, the cracked and peeling lips, the awful wounds in their knees that made them all lurch.
As the end of the line had approached, Isabelle had seen herself. At that point the dream had abruptly ended. Now she squeezed her eyes shut.
A victim, like the others. I could have died. Maybe I should have.
No longer able to fight back the emotion, Isabelle quietly cried.
• • • • •
Mac had woken when Isabelle had but she’d lain so still that he’d hoped she’d gone back to sleep. One after another the nightmares had woken her. But maybe now the dark was more soothing. She hadn’t screamed.
Though he lay on his back, he silently turned his head to look at her. Even though she was turned away, he saw the subtle tremble of her body and, when she tried to quietly suck in a breath, he realized she was crying.
Without a word, he turned to her, wrapped an arm around her midsection, and brought his knees up behind hers. The bare skin of her back was cold against his chest and her entire body shook with the silent tears. Though he gently grasped her, he didn’t say a thing. He’d already said that he was here, that she was safe, that she was okay, but clearly she wasn’t. She needed to cry and he simply let her.
Suddenly, a racking sob was torn from her throat and she covered her hands with her face. The pitiable sound lanced into his chest, wrenched his gut, and yet he knew there was nothing he could do but hold her.
“I read him,” she blurted out. “Oh god, I read him.”
Mac froze.
“What?” he couldn’t help but say.
And then it all came tumbling out. How she’d been taken, how he’d tortured her, how she’d tried to stall for time, all the readings–everything. Though Isabelle had broken down into sobs at several points, Mac didn’t dare try to stop her. But when the long gush of words finally ended, he realized she was gripping his arm fiercely.
“We’re going to get through this,” he said quietly, just behind her ear. She nodded but didn’t say anything, still crying. He couldn’t take it any longer. Gently, he rolled her to her back, then toward him, and completely enveloped her in his embrace. She buried her face in his chest but still she didn’t hold him. “I know it’s hard,” he whispered into her hair, as he stroked her back. “But I promise you, we’ll make it through this–together.”
Her hands moved against his chest and he realized, to his dismay, that she was pushing him away. Reluctantly, he let her go. But as he looked down at her, he could see what she was doing. She was unfastening one of her gloves.
“Isabelle,” he said, shocked. “What are you doing?”
She paused and looked up into his face, her eyes brimming with tears.
“Together, Mac,” she said, her voice and chin trembling. “I almost missed my chance.”
He stared at her, not fully comprehending, but able to guess.
“You don’t have to do that,” he said, putting his hands to either side of her face. “Not now. It’s too soon.”
“No,” she breathed. “It’s not.”
Though she never took her eyes from his, he could feel her taking off the glove. Despite the apprehension that roiled inside him and the pain clearly visible on her face, Mac couldn’t help but feel a sense of hopeful anticipation.
“Isabelle,” he said slowly. “Think about this.”
“I’ve thought of nothing else,” she said, as the glove came off and her palm pressed against the middle of his chest.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The moment had come so quickly that Isabelle hadn’t steeled herself for the images that would crash into her but, to her surprise, they didn’t. Instead, Mac’s consciousness seemed to hover at the edge of hers before the images began to flow. Whether he controlled it or she did, Isabelle didn’t know, but this reading was unlike any she’d ever experienced. Instead of an onslaught that swept her along, Mac’s emotions and images streamed through her.
And the first emotion was love.
She shut her eyes to the unutterable beauty of it. Mac’s love was strong, deep, and so incredibly sure–like him. God, she’d been a fool not to have done this sooner, she thought, shocked at being able to hear her own thoughts so clearly.
Suddenly, though, her hand pressed hard on Mac’s chest as she felt his rage at the jailhouse. He had come close to killing her torturer. And then…Lynn.
The dark-haired woman, Isabelle thought. Now I’ll know what–
A funeral, the mourners in black, Ben giving Mac his condolences. The intense grief, the loss, and…guilt? Mac had been in love with her and–Isabelle’s eyes opened though she only saw gray–Lynn had been killed in protective custody. Her burial had taken place in the rural farm town she’d been from. Isabelle’s own memory flashed back on Mac’s nearly out-of-control reaction to Ben’s suggestion that Isabelle be used as bait. She felt Mac’s fist go though a wall. Oh my god. What he’d been through.
Isabelle removed her hand. Though she couldn’t see Mac, her gloved hand found the side of his face.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
“Sorry for what?” he said quietly.
“For what I asked you to do,” she said, her voice trembling. “For what Ben asked you to do.”
“You didn’t know,” he said quietly, his hands still cupping her face. “You were trying to do the right thing.”
“Mac, I’m sorry,” she said again.
“Don’t say that,” he said as she felt him lower his face to hers. “Not ever.”
Then his lips gently pressed into hers.
• • • • •
As though Isabelle could break in his hands, Mac kissed her so lightly it almost wasn’t a kiss. His lips barely brushed against hers but it was enough. As though the moment couldn’t be real until their lips had touched, Mac felt a deep sense of peace settle over him. He’d come close to losing Isabelle–very close–but he had been equal to the task. He allowed himself a little smile and realized it felt strange, as though the muscles in his face hadn’t worked that way in a very long time.
In the dim light, he ran his fingers into Isabelle’s silky, dark hair, smoothed it back behind her ear, and put his forehead to hers. Their road to recovery might be long but he would be equal to that too.
And though it was the last thing he expected, Isabelle’s lips tentatively sought him out. Incredibly soft and feathery light, they only clung briefly. But their effect was devastating. They spoke more than any words could have, her need for comfort almost tangible. Gently, Mac rubbed her back. But as he did, he remembered the bruises on her stomach and side, on her right side.
“You should lay on your left side,” he whispered. “Not on the bruises.” No wonder she was awake. “Maybe it’s time for a pain pill. It will help you sleep.”
“No,” she said quickly. “That’s the last thing I want.”
Her face was in shadow but he could guess that, if he could see her, he’d see fear.
“That’s okay,” he said calmly, his hand moving slowly up and down her back. “You don’t have to sleep. We don’t ever have to sleep again. But I want you to roll over so I can rub your back.” He felt her hesitate. “I won’t let you fall asleep,” he said, kissing her lightly on the forehead. “Promise.”
He felt her give a little nod, then she rolled away from him and settled on her le
ft side. Mac let his hand drift over the curves of her hips and her lower back. As she adjusted her pillow, Mac rubbed his hand up the dip of her spine and then back down. His fingers and thumb kneaded the soft flesh next to it lightly, her satin-smooth skin gliding by beneath them. At her shoulder, there was tension. Mac worked slowly, his thumb circling behind her neck, then behind her collar bone, and then up to her shoulder. He pinched gently, moving back toward her neck.
As she inhaled and exhaled, her rib cage expanded for a moment and some of the tension in her neck disappeared. Head propped on his hand, Mac smiled to himself, enjoying the feel of her warm skin. He took the back of her neck between his fingers and thumb and massaged, feeling the long strands of her hair drift along the back of his hand. Everything about Isabelle was soft and smooth, delicate and tender. The streetlight from the window cast bluish shadows, tracing the curves her skin and the waves of darkly shining hair.
As he slowly rubbed his hand down her spine and smoothed his palm up the left side of her back, Mac imagined himself seeing Isabelle in all kinds of light. He slid his fingers between her left shoulder and the pillow, massaging her shoulder. He could picture the early morning sunrise in Virginia lighting her amber eyes. They would sleep on the beach. He would show her the Appalachians.
“That feels so good,” she whispered dreamily.
Mac smiled. She was relaxing. Despite what he had said, she needed to sleep. But if another nightmare woke her, he’d be here.
Though he could have touched her forever, he slowed his hand, let it meander lightly across her back, his thumb dipping into the little hollow at the base of her spine before his palm came to rest on the outside of her hip. Isabelle inhaled deeply and seemed to settle into the sheets. Mac lay still, watching the dim curve of her waist rise and fall. She breathed steadily and deeply and Mac watched the subtle movement as though he were in a trance.
But as Isabelle’s arm slowly moved, he realized she wasn’t asleep. Her gloved hand came to rest on his. He stared hard as her fingers intermeshed with his and, before he realized what was happening, their hands disappeared, dipping in front of her. Her flat abdomen slid by under his fingers and, with a start, he realized where they were headed. As the downy curls of her mound flowed by under his hand, his arousal flared to life.
• • • • •
Isabelle felt Mac’s hand pause.
“You need to rest,” he said quietly.
His touch had been so incredibly gentle. As the tightness in her neck and shoulders had disappeared, Isabelle had marveled at how soothing Mac’s caress could be. And though she felt as relaxed as was probably possible, she needed more than that.
“I need you,” she whispered.
Not twenty-four hours ago, she’d believed she was going to die. Now something in her wanted desperately to affirm that she hadn’t. As Mac’s hand continued to move lower, she exhaled in relief. Behind her, she felt his weight shift. Warm breath drifted along her neck, moving higher, even as Mac’s fingers crested her mound. His thumb rubbed lightly through the curls even as his breath wafted across her ear.
Isabelle lay still, eyes closed, and realized she was holding her breath. But as Mac’s lips lightly closed on her earlobe and his fingers found her sensitive spot, she let that breath go in a long, shuddering, wordless whisper.
His tongue fondled the flesh in his mouth and the breath from his nostrils tickled her ear. On her sweet spot, his fingers drew a tiny circle that Isabelle realized moved in time with his tongue.
“Oh god,” she gasped, almost inaudible.
If Mac had heard, he took no notice. Instead, he took his time–and that was fine with her. And suddenly Isabelle realized how much she needed this side of Mac as she savored the gentle suckling of his mouth and the slow circling of his fingers.
His lips lightly touched down on the skin just behind her ear. He kissed her there and then a little lower as his other hand pressed underneath her and his arm pushed through the gap between the bed and her waist. The lower hand slipped to her abdomen and he kissed the side of her neck. For several long moments and a few succulent kisses, he simply held her like that, his fingers still circling the little bit of tender flesh. Not even the memories of the last few days could intrude on the utter safety she felt in his arms.
His kiss was tender, not insistent. His touch was soft, not demanding. Mac was giving, without expecting anything in return. And as the awareness of that dawned on Isabelle, something stirred deep inside.
• • • • •
Despite his straining arousal, Mac moved slowly with Isabelle. She’d barely stirred but her deep sighs had let him know that she was finally beginning to unwind. Maybe now that she’d been able to talk about what had happened, been able to take what comfort he could give, she might truly be able to rest.
As much as he wanted to make love to her and feel their bodies join, there would be another time. There would be many. Instead, he contented himself with the feel of her moist and petal-soft entrance. His lips pressed lightly on the satin curve of her neck and his hand spread over the taut skin of her tummy. Again, he felt her body relax, something in the easy way she rested in his arms. She felt perfect there and Mac closed his eyes to burn in the memory of it.
But as he lightly slid his lips toward her shoulder, he felt the barest pulse of her mound into his palm. Without thinking, he rubbed his fingers across her sweet spot, and her body responded with a tiny shudder.
He couldn’t deny that he wanted her but Isabelle had to be exhausted, even traumatized. It was better to wait. Slowly, he withdrew his hand.
“Please, don’t,” she whispered, not bothering to hide the desperate longing in her voice.
“Isabelle,” he murmured against her neck. “You’ve been through a lot.”
“Don’t stop,” she whispered.
Mac left his arm below her but lifted his other hand to the side of her face and gently turned it toward him. Even in the dim light, her lips were pink and swollen, her skin suffused with the glow of passion, her eyes seemingly alight with desire. For a moment, he could hardly believe it. But as her gloved hand gently pushed the hand on her tummy lower, he had no choice but to believe.
“Isabelle,” he whispered, as his lips met hers.
He willed himself not to simply crush her mouth with his, sensing without really knowing, that it wouldn’t be right. Her lips brushed lightly against his, still tentative, as though she wasn’t sure and with a sudden, blinding insight, Mac realized she wasn’t.
But did she want to be?
As his fingers found her sweet spot, his other hand gently cupped the soft, rounded flesh of her breast. With a little gasp, Isabelle’s clinging lips separated from his for an instant but he didn’t let her go. He kissed her as softly on the mouth as he’d done down the length of her neck. Gently, he squeezed the swollen flesh in his hand and stroked the sensitive spot beneath her mound. A shivering sigh coursed through her and Mac felt as though she were melting in his hands as her lips parted and moist warmth radiated between her legs.
He reversed the stroke at her entrance and felt her hips move ever so slightly, rubbing herself against his fingers. Her breast seemed to quiver in his light grasp, full and soft, and his thumb grazed the creamy center of it. He fondled the tender tip, feeling it slowly harden. Between her legs, slippery softness let his fingers easily circle the little button of flesh there. He circled one way and then the other, occasionally brushing against it. Little jerks of her pelvis said that it was sensitive. Her kiss was as tender as his, only closing lightly on his upper lip with a trembling touch that was soft and warm. The hardened peak of her breast pushed into his hand and, as he moved to her other breast, his palm skipped across the rigid nub and Isabelle softly moaned.
It wasn’t the frenzied fury that sometimes fueled them but, in this moment, her subtle reactions were perfect. As Mac slowly ended their kiss, he gently rolled Isabelle to her back. Easily and without hurry, mindful of the bruises on her s
tomach and side, he held her to him as he began to roll backward with her. He brought her thigh up outside his hip and, as he landed smoothly on his back, Isabelle was astride him.
• • • • •
As Isabelle pushed up on her hands, her arms trembled with the exhaustion she’d refused to acknowledge. Mac quickly supported her at the shoulders, helping her sit back. Beneath her, she felt the long and heated shaft of his arousal pressed between them. As though her aching entrance moved of its own accord, a little wriggle of her hips had its tip pressing into her, nudging inside her, and then up into her.
She hadn’t known how badly she’d wanted this but, as the hot, distended flesh began to fill her, a convulsion immediately seized her abdomen. Her entrance tightened on him in desperate need even as she tried to take him further inside. As she spread her knees, Mac pushed slowly upward. She looked down at him, his abs rippling with the movement. But as her eyes drifted over his magnificent chest, as they usually did, she suddenly remembered she’d removed one glove. She had imagined running her fingers into the fine hair on his pecs so many times, it almost seemed like she had. Though she’d been about to touch him, another spasm rocked her and her slow slide down the rod of Mac’s arousal stopped again. His shaft throbbed inside her and she couldn’t help but suck in a startled breath at the sudden tightening around him.
Mac’s hands gently moved her shoulders as he continued to slowly thrust and Isabelle sat back, sank lower, and felt him move into her. The fullness she’d been seeking pushed at her walls, stretched her, impaled her and her moan mixed with Mac’s as his hips continued to slowly rise.
But as her back began to arch, Isabelle realized that Mac had grasped her hand. Confused, she forced her eyes to open. Even in the dim light, she could see what he was doing. He had unclasped the closure on the remaining glove. Slowly, he rolled the fabric down her hand, lightly tugged at each of the fingers in turn until her thumb came lose first. Tension coiled inside her as, one by one, he released her other fingers. And as the fabric slipped completely away, the anticipation was nearly too much. She stared at him, his fingers on her wrist, sliding higher, tugging her forward. She had no choice but to lean toward him and for an instant, she imagined the fine hair of his chest under her palm or the thick hair at the base of his neck running between her fingers. Her breathing quickened and her heart leapt into her throat and the night air seemed cool on the back of her hand. But neither of those things was to be. Instead, something she had never envisioned happened. As Mac’s gaze locked with hers, he brought her hand to his mouth, gently turned the palm to him, and kissed it.
Taken (Second Sight) Page 7
