Tam muttered something bitter and incomprehensible.
“She is grown,” Val soothed. “She can choose. She has chosen. Obviously. Let it go. Come with me.”
“Now? Seriously? Now is an intelligent time for her to make a choice like that?”
“Now is the only time,” Val said.
The door shut, but he heard Tam’s acerbic voice receding down the stairs. “Don’t you get all zen on me when I’m this pissed.”
“And when are you not pissed?” Val’s plaintive voice faded away.
The last strength that had kept him upright drained away. He was boneless, spent. Clinging to her, as much to get comfort as to give it.
With their audience gone, the tears leaked faster, but he didn’t want to lay that on her, so he kept his face buried in her silken swirls of hair, inhaling the scent. His ears roared and his body shook, and he was squeezing too hard, but he could not relax. His muscles were locked in that hungry vise grip of mine, mine, mine.
At some point, he must have kicked off his shoes. He found himself on top of her, entwined. Madly kissing her. He hadn’t meant to. It was the wrong time, after what had happened, and he was a prick and a lout to come on to a girl who’d been through an ordeal like hers.
But they were dragged down, as if by the kraken from the deep, into one of those end-of-the-world kisses. Her shirt got shoved over her breasts, her legs twined, pulsing her crotch against the bulge of his cock. She kissed him back like her life depended on it, honey sweet, all open to him, offering herself. So blitzed, she’d forgotten to hold herself back.
Instinctively, he took full advantage of that. How could he not?
She made a protesting sound as he dragged himself from her embrace and got to his feet. He gestured at the door.
“Privacy,” he said.
“They won’t burst in on me,” she assured him.
He flicked the knob lock shut as he tossed his shirt away. “You might be willing to bet your life on that, but I won’t.”
Sveti smiled. “Tam overreacts,” she said. “But you were the hero today. She knows that.”
“Whatever.” He kicked off jeans and underwear; then he was on that bed, caging her in, with his heat, his bulk. Mine.
She had goose bumps. She needed to be sucked, licked, squeezed. He jerked her flannel pants down, along with the scrap of underwear.
Oh, God, every damn time, it wiped him out, how beautiful she was. All those dips and curves, strong muscles and delicate bones. Scrapes and bruises, too, marring the porcelain glow of her pale skin.
He started with the hurt places, kissing scraped and scabbed hands and feet, skinned knees, the bruises on her thighs. Then he got waylaid by the warm nest between her legs, those secret pink folds.
But Sveti had ideas of her own, and she grabbed his hair and yanked him up, positioning him right where she wanted him.
Right down to business, no frills, no fuss. Fine with him.
He sank into her, with a choked groan. It was inevitable and amazing and perfect, his cockhead pushing into that tight, moist nest. Loved and squeezed as it forged slowly deeper. The in stroke was a wet, slow, dragging kiss all the way down to his base, and on the outstroke, her pussy squeezed and suckled him. A few of those slow, agonizing thrusts and he was wedged to the max in her plush depths. She squirmed and whimpered, lifting herself for more, more, more.
Easy does it. He rocked inside her, eyes squeezed shut, feeling for the sweet spots, the strokes, the pace that would take her to shivering pieces. They heaved, surged, rocked. He felt the glow inside her on some inexplicable level of his being, shining like a star about to supernova.
Juicy, scalding. No latex. But the thought had no teeth, not while frantically fucking. Their hands twined, clutching as his hips thudded against hers. Their eyes locked. The contact was charged with power.
Heart-stopping. So beautiful, so painful. So fucking real.
She was right on the edge, so he slowed it down and toyed with her clit, sliding his cockhead relentlessly against that magic place that made her sob and writhe and flop, eyes wild, gasping for air—
Ahhhh, yes. Off she went. Long, hard, clutching throbs. She grabbed him, crying out. Nails biting deep.
She lay, splayed and limp after, dragging in shuddering gulps of air. He just rocked, waiting for her eyes to open. Waiting to pounce.
They fluttered open, all unsuspecting. He lit into her without mercy. “You left the hospital without telling me.”
She blinked, nonplussed. “I didn’t . . . Tam just organized—”
“You could have called.”
“You didn’t have a phone,” she protested. “You were—”
“Bullshit. You had Horvath’s number. He gave you a card after he took your statement. He could have passed on a message that you were going to Cray’s Cove. I had to go to the hospital and get an adrenaline spike when I found someone else in your bed. I did not deserve that.”
She hid behind her eyelashes. “It was a very intense morning,” she said. “I don’t know the etiquette of—”
“My ass. I killed for you today. I spent the whole day sorting that shit out. You owed me a phone call.”
She twined her legs around his, swiveling with subtle, pulsing movements around his cock. “I’m sorry,” she said simply.
“Good.” He swiveled his cock inside her, with a slow, seductive deliberation that made her squirm and gasp. “That’s a start.”
“Don’t be angry,” she said. “They gave me some sedative, and I didn’t even know what I was—”
“Stop it right there.” He forged inside, savoring her delicate clutch and drag. “Don’t even try to act delicate and confused and wounded on me. I see right through that crap. You are as tough as a steel cable.”
She let out a jerky sigh. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
He shook his head. “Not good, not bad. Just true. You blew me off because you didn’t know how to deal with me.”
“And you? Do you know how to deal with me?” she asked, canting her hips eagerly to receive the slow, sensual slide.
“I’m learning,” he said. “I think I’m starting to get the hang of it.”
She reached up, cupping his face. “Strong is good,” she said with sudden vehemence. “The strong ones stay alive.”
“I like your strength,” he conceded. “It makes me hard.”
“I’m glad it has this effect. You’re the first it ever did.”
“Good,” he said, staring down at the tender, shining pink petals of her cunt clinging to him on the outstroke. He gleamed, steaming hot from plunging into her sweet depths. “Stay strong, babe.”
“I try,” she whispered. “You’re my weak spot.”
He froze, breathing down the rising energy of his own orgasm. He was not done with her yet, not by a mile. There was something very wrong with her reasoning, but all his red blood cells were getting busy down in his groin, and he couldn’t be bothered to thrash it out.
“Which weak spot was that?” He held his hand over her heart. “This one? Or are we talking about this one, down here?” He diddled her clit delicately with his thumb.
“Oh, Sam.” Her breath hitched, hiccuping. “Oh . . . oh.”
“That’s not weak,” he said. “That’s soft and juicy and hot and alive. There’s a difference, and you need to learn it.” He worked the sensitive pink pearl of her clit, lifting her mound up, so he could look at it in all its shiny, flowerlike, pink glory, his cock gliding in and out.
The wave was breaking over her again. She pulled him along with her this time. He lost control, clutching her as he exploded.
He rolled to the side, after his moment of oblivion. Cold air intruded against his sweat-dampened skin. He let his cock slide out, reluctantly. They were drenched. “I didn’t use a condom,” he said.
She opened her eyes. “You have no diseases. I have the implant. As long as you’re not sleeping with anyone else, what’s the problem?”
His cock twitched with enthusiasm at this sentiment, but the words burst out of him just the same. “No,” he said harshly. “You ditch the latex when you’re committed. Not for a throwaway fuck buddy you’re blowing off some steam with before you climb on your plane.”
She sat up. “Blowing off steam? Are you scolding me? You should have given me this lecture before you came inside me, not after!”
“Yeah, I should have,” he agreed.
“I never saw you as a throwaway! Or a . . . a fuck buddy!”
“Guess what, Sveti?” he said through set teeth. “That’s what you call the ones that aren’t keepers.”
She made a pained sound, folded up, and pressed her face to her knees. Oh, Christ, why? He was being a raving asshole to her. Again.
“Sorry,” he said gruffly. “I didn’t mean to give you a hard time, particularly not tonight. It just popped out. Really, Sveti. I’m sorry.”
She shook her head, still hiding her face.
He tried again. “Listen. I appreciate that you trust me, about unprotected sex. But trust is a dangerous thing. If you’re not sure—”
“You think I don’t know?” She looked up, eyes blazing. “Jesus! Do you think I was still a virgin at my age because I am so trusting?”
Sam blew out a savage sigh. “No, but you don’t owe me sex, because of what happened today. Shit, I don’t know what I’m saying. Just don’t do anything that’ll hurt you. Protect yourself. From everyone. Including me, because I can’t seem to stop ranting at you.”
Her lashes swept down. “That’s sweet of you.”
“No, actually,” he said through his teeth. “On the contrary.”
“But if you were wondering, I did not drag you into my bed to thank you for saving me, Sam. That was a completely selfish gesture on my part. That was all for me, me, me. Rest assured.”
He was obscurely comforted by that. “Ah. Okay.”
“Everybody has their vice. Some like tequila, some smoke crack, some skydive, some crave chocolate chip brownies. All I want is your . . . cock. Deep inside me.” She flung her leg over him, a just-try-to-stop-me look on her face, and danced over him, her hair tickling his chest as she wedged him slowly inside her snug little hole. They gasped, rocked.
Sam held his breath, teetering on the brink. “I am willing to bet money that the word cock has never spontaneously come out of your mouth in your whole life before you met me,” he said.
Her lips twitched. “Could be,” she said primly. “It’s a word I don’t have cause to use much in my daily conversations.”
“Another first, huh?”
Her smile widened to a beautiful grin, all perfect teeth and dimples. “You get off on that, don’t you? That really yanks your chain.”
He rolled her over. “Oh, yeah.”
They went at it again, nothing held back. She kept stripping layers off him. A person could get so spoiled, being known like that. Having his soul laid bare, offered up to her. Here. All yours. Take it.
His last thought, as he sank into the pit of adrenal exhaustion, was that it was going to suck serious ass when she shut him out again.
CHAPTER 9
Sveti watched the masked figure lift Mama’s writhing body high and hurl her over the stonework railing. A shriek of denial was torn from her throat. She struggled, taped to a chair, arms wrenched back. She heard a flapping sound. Silk, whipping. Her mother’s red evening gown, spread out like a parachute as she plummeted toward the churning sea.
The masked figure was moving toward her. Pale eyes glittered in the slits of the mask. His breath smelled dead. He pulled off the mask.
Yuri. He licked his fleshy, purple lips as he lifted the knife—
Sveti jerked upright with a sharp gasp. Sam shifted in his sleep without waking. She was glad. She didn’t want to be seen like this.
Stay strong, he said. It was good advice. She would try.
She drew her knees up tight around the sour ache. She’d expected this, even before she got nabbed. Dreams of Mama’s suicide were routine. Yuri was a classic, too. But her subconscious had never tossed the two anxieties together. They were bad enough singularly.
She stared up at the intricate moon shadows on the ceiling. Her mother had never worn a red dress in her dream before. In fact, she’d never noticed Mama’s clothes at all. And she’d never known nor wanted to know what her mother wore the night she jumped. The day’s fog of terror was starting to lift, just enough for her to realize the implications of what her tormenter had said. It’s amazing, the resemblance to Sonia. . . . And she wore a slut red dress, just like yours, the night she died.
This man had known Mama. What she looked like, what she’d worn. As if he were suggesting that he was the one who had killed her.
All these years, Sveti had wondered why Mama had not asked for help. Why she had not talked to someone, checked into a hospital. Or at least called her daughter to say good-bye. All Sveti had gotten was that photo in the mail, covered with cryptic scrawls. Cold comfort.
It would seem those scrawls weren’t so meaningless after all.
Her mother had urged her to take the opportunity to study in America. She’d been a focused, dedicated professional, teaching French and English poetry at the university before the bad stuff happened. Absorbed by her passion for photography. Madly in love with Sveti’s father. Devastated by his death. She hadn’t been particularly maternal, but Sveti had loved her all the same, and had felt loved in return.
Then, suddenly, she was gone, leaving Sveti tormented by the stupid, awful fucking empty waste of it all. The terrible quiet.
But if Mama had been murdered . . .
She shied from the thought. It was a trap. She longed to blame someone besides Mama, Papa, Zhoglo. That crowd gave her no satisfaction. Just the vast silence of the dead from their direction.
But if it wasn’t Mama’s choice, if there was someone else to punish . . . oh, God, yes. Her hunger for that scenario could corrupt her good judgment all to hell. She had to watch herself, and keep it real.
She stared out the big window of the bed nook at the ocean. The big cloud had blown past, and the moon left a bright trail of light.
Until this morning, she’d had no reason to think anyone might have wanted to hurt Mama. Now that the possibility was unleashed, it was blundering around in her head, knocking everything into disarray. All her deepest assumptions about the world, her mother, herself.
It hurt to think about it, but she was accustomed to the trail of pain and tension certain thoughts made as they burned through her body. And at least this was a different kind of pain. It was preferable to be angry at a murderer than at Mama. At least, the sad, pitiful version of suicidal Mama that she’d been forced to swallow in place of her brighter memories. A brave, intrepid Mama, tragic victim of a terrible injustice . . . a Mama who could be avenged . . . that suited Sveti’s fantasies so much better, she dared not trust it.
Dawn was glowing faintly in the sky, and she was as far from sleep as she’d ever been. Sam slept heavily on. She was tempted to wake him and tell him her realization, but that would be selfish and unfair, exhausted as he was. Besides, he would be restless and mercurial, full of strong opinions about everything she thought and said. She would end up struggling against him. Striking sparks.
The thought exhausted her.
Better to lie there, savoring the contact with his hot, naked skin, staring at his beautiful face. He looked so different sleeping. She barely recognized his bold eyebrows when they were not frowning or furrowed, expressing some strong emotion, usually about her. He seemed younger. His mouth so soft. Kissable. The tenderness that stirred inside her as she watched him sleep was strangely unsettling.
His hair was wild and snarled. She ran her fingertips just barely along the tangled locks. No hair goop, just the salt of his dried sweat.
That timid, careful caress woke him instantly. His eyes snapped open. The sudden shift in his energy made her body tingle and tighten.
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“What?” he said. “What is it?”
It burst out, uncensored. “The guy who questioned me,” she said. “He was the one who killed my mother.”
Sam gazed at her, unblinking, for a long moment. His eyes narrowed. “I thought your mother committed suicide.”
“So did I,” she said. “Until now.”
“What made you change your mind?”
She closed her eyes, to keep her mind from being scrambled by his direct, blazing gaze. “The guy said it was amazing, how I resembled her. How she wore a red dress like mine the night she died.”
He processed that. “And why would this mean he killed her? Did he say that he killed her, in so many words?”
“No,” she admitted. “But taunting me about how much I looked like her, taunting me about the dress—how would he know what she wore that night if he wasn’t there? If it wasn’t him?”
His gaze slid away from hers. Her frayed patience snapped. “So?” she demanded. “What are you thinking? Say it.”
“Okay.” His voice was carefully even. “I think that guy would have said anything to hurt or scare you. And you’ve got a truckload of problems already. You don’t need to go digging for problems from the past. Their outcomes are fixed, and can’t be changed. They can wait.”
She shot upright. “I’m not digging! These problems came after me, Sam! Do you think I went out looking for those guys who snatched me?”
“Of course not,” he said. “Don’t get twitchy. I’ll keep an open mind, but I will not open it so far that my brains fall out. I would not be doing you any favors if I did.”
“I’m not asking you to! But that guy asked me about Mama’s photo, Sam. And The Sword of Cain. Whatever that is, it’s not in the past! He would have cut me to pieces for it. If it hadn’t been for you.”
Sam’s face was unreadable. “I will concede. Him asking you about your mom’s photo is very strange.”
“I had this dream, and now I . . . oh, never mind.” She swallowed the words back. He was going to think she was a fatuous fool. Dreams.
“Yeah?” he said gently. “Tell me.”
She bit her lip. “I’m watching her fall. But this time . . .” She swallowed, to steady her voice. “This time she’s wearing my dress.”
In For the Kill Page 13
