The door to room 812 swung open, even before Alyssa had a chance to knock.
And then there he was. Sam Starrett. Long hair down around his shoulders. Five o’clock shadow on his lean face. Neon blue eyes. Long legs and broad shoulders.
She’d pulled him out of bed. She could see it, rumpled behind him. He’d attempted to pull up the bedspread, same as he’d attempted to put on a T-shirt. Both attempts were pretty laughable.
His shirt was inside out.
But even with the seams of his shirt showing, with the ratty shorts he was wearing, with that almost-but-not-quite beard on his face and the slight red of fatigue rimming his eyes, he was still the most physically attractive man Alyssa had ever met.
He stepped back to let her in, and she moved past him, aware of how good he smelled, aware of how easy it would be just to reach for him and . . .
He closed the door, still not saying a word, just looking at her with those eyes.
He’d kissed her just a few hours ago, down by the swimming pool. Then, she’d run away. Now she couldn’t wait for him to kiss her again. Funny what a few glasses of the local spirits could do to even the most steadfast resolve.
Only Sam didn’t kiss her, didn’t move, didn’t even speak. He just watched her, almost warily.
So Alyssa did it. She dropped her fanny pack on the floor and reached for him.
And she kissed him.
At first it was like kissing a statue. He didn’t move, didn’t respond. But then he exploded, yanking her hard against him, forcefully deepening the kiss as she clung to him, his tongue sweeping into her mouth.
Yes. Yes. This was what she wanted.
His hands were rough against her breasts, against her rear end, and she could feel him, hard and hot beneath his shorts as he pressed himself against her. She opened to him, wanting him now, right now. Quick, get rid of their clothes. . . .
But just as quickly as he’d started kissing her, he pushed her away. “I thought you came here to talk.”
She was breathing hard—he was, too. He didn’t want to talk any more than she did. She took a step toward him. “Sam—”
She was right. He didn’t back away. He kissed her again, just as fiercely as before. She slid her hands up beneath the edge of his shirt, touching the smoothness of his back, angling her head so he could kiss her deeper, deeper, and he groaned.
But again he pushed her away. “Jesus, I’m going to get drunk myself, just from kissing you. You taste like a fucking distillery. What the hell were you drinking?”
“Shots of the local moonshine,” she admitted. “It was stronger than I thought. But Ian from the SAS started making cracks about Americans not being able to hold their liquor and—”
“You can’t hold your liquor worth shit,” Sam told her. “All you did was prove them right.”
She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want him angry with her. She wanted him gentle—the way he’d been on the phone. Or she wanted him laughing. Naked and laughing and in her arms. She took a step toward him but this time he took a step back, reaching up to run his hands through his hair, his movement jerky with anger.
“So here you are. Shit-faced and in my room again,” he said. “What’s that about, Alyssa? Do you really have to get trashed to be with me?”
She took a step toward him, and again he took a step back. He was serious. He wasn’t going to let her touch him until she answered his question.
So she answered it. Honestly. “Unless I’ve been drinking, I can’t . . .” Alyssa struggled with the words, suddenly wanting him to understand. “I can’t admit—to myself—that I want you.”
She’d taken that first drink tonight, knowing full well that she could end up right here. Hoping that she’d end up right here.
When Sam had kissed her by the swimming pool, when he’d asked her to go to his room in that low voice roughened with desire, she’d been scared out of her mind. She’d wanted him, too. Desperately. But if she’d gone with him then—cold sober—she would have had to acknowledge everything she was feeling.
Alyssa searched his eyes, praying she’d see him soften, but again he was like a statue. Hard and cold and unrelenting.
Uncertainty hit her. After the way he’d kissed her by the pool, she hadn’t considered that he might change his mind. That he might not want her here tonight.
But she’d said some harsh things to him. I don’t even like you.
She nervously wet her lips. “Do you want me to go?”
Did he want her to go?
No. There was no fucking way Sam was letting Alyssa walk away from him. He’d take her however he damn well could get her. So what if she was drunk. So what if most men—honorable men—would walk her back to her room and gently put her to bed, alone, because they wouldn’t want to take advantage of her in this condition.
He’d taken advantage of her before. Why the hell should he stop now?
Besides, he wanted her too much. There was just no fucking way she was leaving here, not after she’d told him that she wanted him, too.
But, shit, he was angry. At her, at himself, at the world.
Three steps brought him threateningly close to her.
There was a flare of surprise, of uncertainty—and Jesus—of hope in her eyes.
So he pulled her toward him harder than he should have, and kissed her, harder than he should have, too. But she melted in his arms, molded herself to him, as if she wanted whatever he could give her and would still be ready to beg for more.
So he kissed her harder, pushing her so that her back bumped the wall with no small amount of force. He yanked her shirt up and over her head and unfastened her pants, all the while still kissing her.
Still being kissed by her. She was kissing him as if she’d been starved without his mouth to feast on.
Dammit, it felt too real. Too much like a reunion with a real lover, not just someone who wanted to fuck him only when she was drunk enough not to care.
Anger burned in his stomach. Tomorrow she would wake up, and this would have turned into another bad idea. Another lousy mistake. And she’d leave him. Again. Raw and bleeding and alone.
Again.
But it wasn’t tomorrow yet.
He roughly pushed his hand down her pants, down inside her panties, and then, God, he was inside of her.
She made a sound that might’ve been pain, and he started to pull back, angrier than ever at himself. What the hell was he trying to do? Did he want to hurt her?
But she caught his hand and, looking into his eyes, she pushed him even more deeply into her.
That sound had been pleasure. She was slick and wet and completely ready for him.
She gazed up at him as she unfastened his shorts, as she, too, reached down into his briefs and touched him. It felt so good, he almost started to cry.
“Please,” she breathed. “Sam, I need you so badly.”
Need.
He knew all about need.
He moved fast then, pushing down her pants, pulling them off her long, perfect legs. He tried to unfasten her bra, but got distracted by her breasts, pushing away the stretch lace so he could taste her, loving the way the tautness of her nipples rasped against his tongue.
She climbed on top of him, her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist and—
“Whoa.” He held her perfect derriere with both hands to keep her from pushing him hard and deep inside of her.
But she was ahead of him. She had a condom already open in her hands.
“Sorry,” she said, as she reached between them to cover him. “I meant to do this first. You make it hard for me to think straight.”
No, it was the fifteen shots of the local rotgut that made it hard for her to think straight. But apparently it hadn’t made her forget to grab a condom on her way up to his room.
Or maybe she’d brought it with her when she’d left her room to meet Rob Pierce for dinner.
The thought made him crazy.
Jesus, he
had to stop thinking. He had to lose the jealousy, the gut-churning anger. He had to just feel. Experience. Enjoy this for what it was—not for what it couldn’t be.
It might well be another six months before he had this chance again. And that was thinking optimistically. It might never happen again.
So he slowed himself down and watched Alyssa’s face as she finished covering him with the condom, as she looked up at him with those sea green eyes and smiled.
That almost-shy smile was the one from his dreams. It was the one she gave him before she kissed him and told him that she loved him.
But that wasn’t going to happen here. She didn’t even like him. She’d made that more than clear. This was pure sex for her.
Sam couldn’t smile back at her. He was probably never going to smile again. But he held her gaze and slowly pushed himself inside of her, pushed himself home.
She . . .
Don’t think, you stupid shit! Just feel.
Was . . .
Bring it down to pure pleasure. Sensation. Alyssa surrounding him with her sweet heat. Alyssa’s mouth there to kiss as he slowly pulled out of her, slowly thrust back in. Pure sex.
What . . .
The bite of alcohol blended with the sweet, familiar taste of Alyssa, as if he were having an exotic bar drink. An intake of breath. Her legs, tight around him. Smooth skin beneath his hands. A ragged exhale.
He’d . . .
“Oh, Sam,” she breathed, and he couldn’t keep himself from thinking anymore.
She was what he’d been missing all those months.
It wasn’t just great sex that he’d been longing for, as much as he’d tried to tell himself otherwise. It was Alyssa. Her voice in his ear. Her smile lighting up his world. Her take no shit, take no prisoners attitude. Her ability to take what he dished out and give it back to him in large quantities.
He didn’t just want her, he loved her. And he didn’t just love her, he liked her. The world was fifty-two thousand times a better, more interesting, more exciting place to be when he was with her. And that was when they weren’t having sex.
“Please,” she said. “Oh, please . . .”
He knew what she wanted, knew she liked sex hard and fast, but he didn’t change his rhythm. He wasn’t in control of very much here, but he was in control of that. And he was damned if he was going to give up what could well be the only opportunity he’d ever get to tell her that he loved her.
To anyone looking in from outside, it might seem as if he was nailing her. With her back to the wall, his shorts around his ankles, they were the very definition of carnal lust and pure desire.
But he’d slowed them down. He kissed her tenderly, thoroughly, taking his time. From the outside, it might look like pure sex, but god damn it, in reality, he was making love to her.
He pulled back from the sweetness of her mouth, willing her to look at him, to meet his eyes as he slowly pushed himself impossibly deep inside of her, as he slowly drew himself out.
“Alyssa.”
She opened eyes that were glazed and heavy lidded with pleasure. “You’re killing me,” she breathed. “I’m going to die, this is so good.”
Her soft words combined with her soft body pushed him closer to the edge. He didn’t know what gave him away, but he could see in her eyes that she knew damn well what she did to him.
She started to close her eyes as he began the slow slide back. Shifting all of her weight to his left arm, he reached between them and touched her, gently at first, excruciatingly lightly. He knew just where to touch her. He remembered. Even if he lived to be four hundred, that was something he would never forget.
“Alyssa, look at me,” he commanded.
She was seconds from climaxing—he was, too. When it happened, he wanted to be right there, watching her face, gazing into her eyes. And he wanted her to do the same, to see him come, to see the love in his eyes, love that he wouldn’t be able to hide while his body shook and his world blew apart.
Because there was no way he could ever say the words aloud. I love you. Yeah, right.
Courage wasn’t usually something he lacked, but he didn’t have even half the courage he needed to do that.
“Sam—”
She exploded around him, and he hung on for what seemed like forever, desperately fighting his own release until her eyelids fluttered, until she was coming back to earth.
“Look at me,” he growled through clenched teeth.
The instant she did, the instant her eyes met his again, he came with a rush of pleasure that was blindingly intense. It was physical pleasure and emotion intertwined, each heightening the other so much that death seemed a real possibility. How could he feel this and continue to breathe? Still, he forced his eyes open, holding her gaze.
Then, Jesus, there they were. Face-to-face. With their eyes wide open. Both spent and breathing hard.
The silence was terrifying, so Sam said the first thing that popped into his head. The first thing that wasn’t a declaration of undying love, that was. “Well, happy fucking birthday to me.”
Surprise and confusion flitted across her beautiful face. “It’s your birthday?”
“No, but it should be. It sure as hell feels like it.”
She nodded. “Happy birthday to me, too.”
Still looking into his eyes, she smiled.
Sam somehow managed to smile, too. And he kissed her. Because he knew that tonight wasn’t over. Not yet, anyway.
Sixteen
Gina was getting frustrated. “It just doesn’t make sense.” She could hear an echo of Max’s warning. Whatever you do, don’t insult them. Don’t make them angry. Don’t give them any excuses to lash out at you.
But Bob the terrorist wasn’t insulted. He smiled. Shrugged. He looked exactly like the guys who came to her dorm room to hang out, maybe listen to music. Easygoing. Too cool to get angry about anything.
“Not much in this life makes sense,” he pointed out.
She tried another tack. “What could it hurt,” she asked, “to let the women and children off the plane?”
She was holding the radio microphone on her lap, and the send button was pressed. Somewhere, in one of those ugly buildings that she could see out the windows, Max was listening to every word they said.
Bob scratched his neck. Yawned. Gestured to her bare legs. “Do you know the police would arrest you for wearing that in my town?” His smile seemed apologetic. “That’s if the . . .” He muttered something in his own language, searching for the word. “People,” he said. “The regular people, not the army or the police—”
“Civilians?” she offered.
“Yes.” He gave her a brilliant smile. “Thank you. Civilians.” He pronounced it with four distinct syllables. “That’s if the civilians didn’t beat you to death, first.”
Nice.
“Well, these shorts are acceptable in America,” she told him. “They’re even considered conservative.”
“I know what’s acceptable in America. I watch TV. I watch Dawson’s Creek and Buffy. I watched Survivor and MTV.”
Gina couldn’t believe it. “They have MTV in Kazbekistan? Where women are killed for wearing shorts in public?”
“Of course not,” he said. “But I have some friends who have access to a satellite dish. We watch what we want. Purely in an attempt to understand the evils of Western thinking, of course.”
He was making a joke, wasn’t he? He’d all but winked. Gina laughed despite the tension that was increasing hourly throughout the plane. Snarly Al had been about ready to jump out of his own skin just a short time ago, and Bob had banished him from the cockpit.
Bob was official barometer of the hijackers. As long as he was relaxed, there was no reason to be more afraid than usual. And as long as Al stayed away from her, she was safe. If someone was going to hurt her, it wasn’t going to be Bob.
He liked her. She knew he did. If they’d met on campus, they would have been friends.
“Why
are you doing this?” she asked him. “How did you end up here? Holding a gun on innocent people. I don’t understand.”
He gazed at her silently for a moment, but then he shook his head. “You know, I watched Survivor.”
“Yeah,” Gina said impatiently. “You said.” She didn’t want to talk about TV shows. She wanted to get some of these people off the plane. “You and ninety percent of the free world’s population.”
“The whole time I watched it,” he told her, “I was thinking, they wouldn’t last a day here. Susan and Gervase and Richard. What they survived was nothing.”
When he looked over at her, she could have sworn there were tears in his eyes.
Gina’s heart lodged in her throat. What atrocities had he lived through? What horrors had he witnessed on a daily basis? She waited for him to say more, but he was silent.
“Please,” she whispered. “Let the women and children off the plane. Let everyone off the plane. You’ve got me as a hostage—you don’t need them.”
Bob gazed at her, his expression unreadable.
But then the radio squealed, and she quickly released the talk button on the microphone.
And Max’s voice came over the speaker, strong and clear. “Flight 232, come in. Over.”
Bob wiped his eyes. Squared his shoulders. “Ask him if our demands are being met,” he instructed her.
Crap, she had been on the verge of some kind of breakthrough with him. She knew it. And yet she knew why Max had interrupted them. Never offer anything that you aren’t immediately prepared to deliver. And never make it personal.
Gina thumbed the mike. “Bob would like to know the status of their demands, please. Over.”
“The senator—your father—is in a meeting with the president,” Max said. She knew it was total bullshit. The United States didn’t negotiate with terrorists. The end. This guy they wanted released from prison? He wasn’t going anywhere. Not a chance. The senator could meet with the man in the moon and it wouldn’t change a thing.
“Bob,” Max spoke directly to the hijacker. “It’s time for a good faith gesture. Something big, something generous. Something that will tell the U.S. government that you’re serious about keeping the people on that plane safe and alive. Something like—send Karen off the plane. Let her walk off, Bob. Let her just walk away. That’ll send a positive message, I guarantee it. Over.”
Over the Edge Page 27
