by Reinke, Sara
He pulled her near, tangling his hands in her wet hair and kissing her deeply. Water streamed down her face, spilling against his own. He touched her, running his hands hungrily along her sleek, soaked curves as she straddled him in the shower chair, placing her lean thighs on either side of his hips. He cupped her breasts in his hands, kneading the bullet points of her nipples between his fingertips as his lips trailed from her mouth to her chin, the angle of her jaw, and from there, along the graceful, downhill slope of her throat.
She leaned back and gasped, clutching at his hair as he slipped her left nipple into his mouth. Using his tongue, he traced circles lightly against the sensitive flesh; with every sweeping pass, her fingers closed more fiercely in his hair. God, he had wanted to taste her for so long; her skin was sweet against his tongue, flushed with blood and desire, hot and wet from the shower’s downpour.
His left hand still wasn’t worth much of a damn, but with his right, he reached between them, slipping his fingers against her apex and then between the wondrous, warm folds. Tessa began to move against him, undulating against his hand as he touched her at her core, the place that obviously pleased and pleasured her. She moaned lightly, catching his face with her hands, pulling his mouth from her breast and up to her own. She kissed him again and he slid his forefingers inside her, up her hot, slick sheath. She was tight, but another moan and a sudden increase in the pace of her hips let him know she was eager for him.
He whispered her name against her mouth, pulsing his fingers in and out of her, touching someplace deep inside of her and palpating, making her breath hitch against his tongue, her fingernails dig into the muscles of his shoulders. He was fully aroused; hot, hard and throbbing with aching, urgent need. The tip of him brushed with repeated, excruciating friction between her buttocks every time she writhed against him, and at last he had to pull his fingers away and hold her still, catching her hips between his hands.
“Stop,” he whispered breathlessly, hoarsely. When she tried to move again, grinding against his lap, kissing him and whimpering, he laughed softly and again, forced her to stillness. “Stop, pischouette. Sie tu plais.”
She blinked at him, her large, dark eyes round and confused, somewhat wounded. “What is it?” she whispered, afraid she’d done something wrong. God, it had been so long since he had last been even this close to making love to a woman face-to-face, let alone see it through—close enough that he could read her every thought and emotion, even without his telepathy, all through the subtle nuances in her face. It had been so long since he’d last known a woman well enough to read her so well and goddamn, but he’d forgotten how good it could feel.
“Nothing,” he told her, smiling and kissing her. “You’re just…saint merde, woman, you’re going to make me shoot off like a clumsy goddamn kid on his first time.” He grasped her hips again and maneuvered her atop him until the head of his arousal pressed against her, sliding up between her folds and resting lightly—agonizingly—against her threshold.
He looked up into her eyes and held her here, prolonging the moment, savoring the hungry, veiled look in her eyes, the way her body trembled against him in eager anticipation, water streaming down her every curve and contour in steady, intertwining rivulets.
“Rene…” she whispered, and then he plunged into her, pulling her down against him and entering her fully in one deep motion. She gasped sharply, and he caught it against his mouth with a kiss. He kept one hand against her hip and pressed the other against the back of her head, drawing her near. As they kissed, he guided her to move again, setting a slow pace at first but letting her build it steadily, each stroke deeper and more powerful than the last. Again, he touched that visceral place inside of her, that deep recess of pleasure, and knew by the way she moved, her hips grinding more quickly, with ever increasing urgency; by the way her breathing grew sharp, hitching, that she was on the brink of climax.
“C’est lui, Tessa,” he breathed, lapsing into French without even being aware of it. That’s it. “Venez pour moi.” Come for me.
When she came, he could see it—something he had not enjoyed since Irene. He watched her eyelids flutter closed, her brows lift, her mouth slightly ajar almost in a delicate “O.” She tightened around and against him, writhing, digging her nails into his skin, her voice escaping her in a breathless cry. It was too much for him to take; he arched his back from the chair, clamping his hands against her hips and spearing into her one last time, crying out hoarsely in release.
When they were finished, he drew his arms about her, holding her against him, tucking his head against her shoulder and gasping as water pelted the back of his skull.
She turned her face down toward him; he felt her lips brush against his ear through his sopping wet hair, and looked up at her. “You all right?” she asked with a smile, her cheeks flushed brightly.
I’m in love, he thought as he kissed her lips. He touched her face, tracing her lips with his fingertips, her nose, lighting against the bruises. Goddamn, you’re beautiful, pischouette.
“I’ve never been better,” he told her, making her smile widen all the more.
Chapter Nineteen
That night, Tessa slept peacefully, likely the first sound and restful sleep she’d enjoyed since fleeing Kentucky. When she woke the next morning, it was dawn, the first hints of rosy sunshine seeping through the window curtains and Rene was spooned against her from behind, his arm around her waist. She had slept well, but not long; after the shower, they’d tumbled into bed together for another round of lovemaking, a pattern that had repeated itself frequently—and fervently—throughout the night.
She lay there for a long moment, a soft smile playing against the corners of her lips as she enjoyed the simple closeness of him, the warmth of his body. His bandaged hand rested lightly at her stomach, as if even in sleep, he felt protective of both her and the baby. She slipped her fingers through his, still smiling, and drew his hand to her mouth, kissing the back of his knuckles lightly.
He groaned softly as he roused, moving behind her, and when she felt the first hints of arousal, the hard, dim heat of him poking her lightly, it stirred sudden, almost immediate want within her, the way even a glimpse of blood, a momentary whiff of it in the air would stoke her bloodlust.
“Good morning,” she said, wriggling her buttocks against his groin and making him groan again.
“Good morning,” he murmured groggily, delivering a light kiss to her shoulder but when she rolled over, crawling atop him, straddling him beneath the sheets, he grew tense, his expression apprehensive. “Tessa…”
He kept doing this; never in a million years would she have guessed that Rene would remain insecure about the matter of his leg. Every time they made love, Tessa would think that it would be enough; he’d realize it didn’t bother her. But then the next time would roll around, so to speak, and he’d grow shy and anxious all over again—so uncharacteristically so, it charmed her.
“Shut up,” she told him, grasping him by the wrists and halfheartedly pinning his arms to the mattress. She leaned over, brushing the tip of her nose against his until he smiled. “Now kiss me.”
He arched his brow slightly. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, obliging her request. As the kiss lingered and deepened, she could feel him growing, the hot, hardened length of him pushing up between them. He didn’t need an invitation; she didn’t offer him one. She raised her hips slightly, then lowered them again, letting him sink into her, sliding in, deep, slow and full.
“Mon Dieu…” Rene breathed, closing his eyes. It was all she let escape his mouth; she fell into a swift, grinding rhythm against him and he could do nothing but gasp and cup his hands against her breasts for the ride. By the time she was finished some twenty minutes later, he lay beneath her, gasping and trembling, the muscles in his chest, stacked in his abdomen all sharply defined with a gloss of exhausted perspiration.
“You’re going to wear me out, pischouette.” He looked up at her and smiled, his hands s
till covering her breasts, his fingertips lightly, almost idly toying with her nipples.
“Tough shit,” she replied, giving a playful wiggle against his groin.
“Ah, vraiment?” His brow arched again in amusement. Oh, really? “Is that so?” His fingers slipped from her breasts to hook beneath her arms, and she shrieked, writhing in a sudden, convulsive jerk as he tickled her.
“Rene, stop!” she squealed, pitching sideways, landing on the mattress. He leaned after her, catching her again between the ribs, and she laughed, kicking and struggling. “Rene, stop! That tickles!”
“Est-ce que c’est ainsi?” he asked, laughing and ducking as she slapped at him. Is that so? “Tough shit.”
They tussled together for a few moments and at last fell still, lying side by side and face-to-face in bed, laughing. As his laughter subsided to a soft smile, he brushed her hair back from her cheek.
“How does it look?” she asked. She felt better, the soreness in her body from her fight with Martin all but vanished, but hadn’t gotten up to look in the mirror yet that morning. She’d have to face her brother soon; Brandon would see the bruises on her face and at last learn the shameful truth about Martin’s abuse, and she wasn’t looking forward to it.
“Beautiful,” Rene replied, his fingertips lingering against her face.
Her cheeks burned with bashful heat. “I meant the bruises,” she said, slapping his hand lightly away. She rolled over and slipped out of the bed, not missing the way he self-consciously drew the blankets across his waist, keeping his leg from view.
She walked into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Her healing had helped fade the bruises, but they still remained, unmistakable. She had makeup in her bag, another luxury she hadn’t been afforded as Martin’s wife, and wondered if some powder and foundation, if applied heavily enough, would camouflage the damage.
“You could feed from me, take care of all that this morning,” Rene remarked from the bed.
She turned and glanced past the doorway at him. “No.”
“There’s still time. We’re not hooking up with Lina and Brandon again until later on this afternoon,” he said.
“No,” she said again. “I just can’t, Rene. Please stop asking me.”
He sighed, sounding frustrated, nearly exasperated, and she closed the bathroom door, cutting him off before he could even begin to argue.
After dressing, she watched as he sat against the edge of the bed, shook baby powder into his hands, then rubbed them briskly against the end of his right thigh. He slipped the stump down into a pale, silicone sheath at the top of his prosthetic, a sleek set of gray and blue metal tubes affixed between the mechanized knee joint and the frame of his foot. She’d never seen anything like it before, and found herself staring, curious and fascinated.
Rene noticed her attention and seemed embarrassed but resigned. “It’s something else, no?”
“It’s neat.” She reached out to touch the cool titanium shaft of his calf. “Does it hurt to wear it?”
“Not usually.” He shrugged. “As long as this top part fits right, it’s okay.” He patted his hand against the silicone sleeve. “I had to go and have it resized several times after the surgery. As the swelling went down, the fit would change. It took it a while, and I’ll probably need to have it adjusted a time or two more.”
He leaned over, tossing the little bottle of Johnson’s baby powder into his bag. She watched as he hooked his jeans with his left foot and pulled them toward him, slipping them on as he sat. “How did it happen?” she asked in a quiet voice. “Your leg, I mean.”
Brandon had told her about the incident in general terms, but it was the first time Rene had seemed willing enough to even remotely open up to her. “Well…let’s see…” he said, and she worried all at once that she’d pressed too hard too soon; he wasn’t ready to confide in her and would be angry with her for prying.
“That’s okay,” she said quickly, kicking herself mentally in the ass. Why do you have to go and try to push things, spoil it all, just when it’s going so good again? “Never mind, Rene. I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s all right, pischouette. I don’t mind,” he said, surprising her. He dropped her a wink and a smile. “I mean, we’ve seen each other naked. Not much point in keeping secrets anymore, no?
“Lina and I were partners, you know, both of us on the police force. So one night, we get this call down in the projects, this ratty twelve-story tenement complex, a 10-103—domestic disturbance.”
His smile grew somewhat forlorn. “I still remember all of the call codes. I’ll never use a goddamn one of them again, but they’re filed away up here.” He tapped his brow with his fingertip. “I never had much thought about what I wanted to do with my life, but I sure liked being a cop. I was good at it.”
Another sad smile, this one directed to her. “That’s the way it goes, no? So anyway, Lina and I show up for this 10-103, knock on the door all official like, and while one guy answers the door, the other tries to duck and run out the window. Since most folks aren’t inclined to run from the cops unless they have something to hide, I took off after him while Lina cuffed his buddy. We found out later it was a drug deal, the guy out the window was a mule with a half kilo of cocaine crammed up his ass—about fifty grand worth. So no wonder he didn’t want to get caught.”
His eyes took on a distant cast. “It was cold out,” he said, his voice low, nearly a murmur. “I remember that. And it had been raining. You could feel the moisture in the air, see it in the way your breath would mist around your face. The steps were slick. I was trying to hold on to the rail with one hand and unholster my gun with the other. I saw him below me. He stopped for a minute, and I remember I had this crazy thought that hey, this son of a bitch is going to listen to me after all, he’s going to stop the chase. Then he holds out his hand at me…” Rene pointed his index finger at Tessa’s nose. “And the next thing I see is a big flash of light.”
He stood, tugging his jeans up, hiding the prosthetic from her view again. “I must have blacked out. I don’t remember it hurting when he shot me. He missed me the first time, but caught my knee with the second round. I remember falling down the stairs, praying to God that I didn’t spill ass over elbows over the side of that goddamn fire escape. And Lina crying—I remember that, because it scared me more than anything. I knew I was fucked up pretty bad if it made Angelina Jones bawl.”
He blinked as if coming out of a reverie. “Sometimes my leg hurts. Or at least I think it does. It’s like the nerve endings don’t know there’s nothing there…they forget or something. Phantom sensations, that’s what my doctor calls them. I’ll wake up in the middle of the night thinking I’ve got some hell of a leg cramp. Either that, or like my foot’s turned all cockeyed.” He glanced at her. “Crazy, I know.”
A cell phone rang, loud but slightly muffled, startling them both. Rene laughed, reaching reflexively for his pocket. “I bet that’s Lina,” he said as he pulled out his phone. “Wish me luck as I feed her another line of…” His voice faded, his expression puzzled. “It’s not me.”
Tessa quickly crossed the room, grabbing her purse off the back of a chair. “I don’t know who might be calling me,” she said, with a bright moment of panic seizing her. She’d called her father only two days earlier and had hung up on him abruptly after delivering the news of Caine’s death—news she hoped had reached the Elders by now. As she fumbled around inside the small bag, she hoped like hell it wasn’t Sebastian. Because then I’d have to explain to Rene why my dad would be calling, she thought. And I bet he’ll be pissed as hell to find out.
She frowned when she pulled out her phone only to find it dark and silent. “It’s not me, either,” she said, bewildered, even as a cell phone rang again from somewhere in the room.
“Ici,” Rene said as he grabbed a dark coat from atop the air-conditioning unit. Here. “This is Martin’s coat. I grabbed it when we left the other motel. I didn’t want to le
ave anything behind the Elders could track us by.”
He reached into the interior pockets as the phone continued to bleat, pulling out Martin’s cigarettes and lighter, tossing them aside with a disgusted little snort. Finally, he pulled out a slim, silver phone. By then, Tessa had moved to stand beside him, and peered around his arm to see. Martin had obviously set the phone to both ring and vibrate; it thrummed, nearly jumping, like something alive against Rene’s outstretched palm. She didn’t recognize the number on the caller ID display, but she sure as hell recognized the name, which had been preprogrammed into the phone.
“It’s Monica,” she said, just as the phone at last fell silent. At Rene’s curious glance, she added, “Martin’s first wife. She’s a real bitch.”
“Ah.” Rene raised his brow.
“She stole something from me once, a necklace my grandmother Eleanor gave to me,” Tessa said, bristling even now to think of Monica yanking the green sapphire from around her neck. It’s mine now, she’d hissed.
“Well, maybe we should call her back,” Rene remarked, tucking Martin’s cell phone into the hip pocket of his jeans. “Offer her a little trade. Speaking of which…I bet our little pal in the trunk is ready for another doping.”
“I’ll come with you,” Tessa said, and he blinked at her in surprise.
“No, pischouette. You stay here. Let me deal with that salaud.”
“No,” Tessa replied. Brandon had faced his demons when he’d stood up to their brother Caine. Rene had stood up to his by letting her see him without his prosthetic in place, by confiding in her. Everyone around her had made some measure of peace with their pasts. Now it’s my turn, she told herself firmly. She might not have been able to confront Monica or take back Eleanor’s necklace, but there was one score at the moment she could settle. I need to stand up to Martin.
“I take it you were close to your grandmother, pischouette?” Rene asked as they walked outside together.
