On that note, she ran her nose along him, breathed him in and then lowered her mouth to his crown, where she ventured a taste—just a lick, really, but enough to make Luc shudder above her, and she met his eyes and smiled.
Look at me now, she thought as she took him into her mouth, slow, slow, filling her, so ripe and lush and perfect until it was too much and she withdrew, a touch out of breath but ready for more.
More, oh God, more. She might have actually said it, because he released a noise that sounded like aching and pushed into her mouth a little deeper, another time, even deeper, until she took him in far, and then his hands pulled her up.
“Come on, Abby. Not like that. Not on the floor like that.”
She stood, and her shirt was gone, rent open with nothing but the echoing ping of eight tiny buttons to remember it by. It took her a second to realize she’d been the one to rip it off. She’d paid ten dollars for this shirt today. Too much, but she’d liked the color. The stupid thing was the exact color of Luc Stanek’s eyes. Beneath it, she wore her first modern bra—complete with underwire, which held her in a way she found erotic against her skin.
She didn’t get rid of the bra like she had the shirt. Instead, he yanked the cups down, baring her, opening her up, thrusting her breasts even higher, served on a platter. He stroked a nipple, not nearly hard enough when she wanted him to bite. Abby stopped breathing, her underwear suddenly too tight. The blue jeans lost their appeal. Too complicated, too…constrictive.
“Would you…would you bite it? Please?”
And his face—Luc’s furrowed face, too tender and full of surprise, focused on her breasts for one, two, three seconds before he leaned down and touched his lips to her. Not the bite she’d been craving, but she knew he wasn’t the brute he pretended to be. And oh, the noise from her lungs deflated. Half scream, half pained moan, her head flopped back, and her hips… Why did they do that? Rocking, rocking, in search of something.
He took his mouth away, hot and wet where it had sucked at her nipple, and brought it to the other one, pinching the first and lifting them both, drawing them together, muttering. What was he saying? He sounded lost. Some of it was in French. She liked the way those words tore at her, a little at a time, but some of it came out in English, and it was crass.
“You missed me, Abby? Did you? Because I could not stop thinking of you. Every day. Every fucking minute.” He didn’t look happy about it.
“Lord, yes,” she bit out, taking hold of his hand and putting it between her legs. When did I get this bossy? she wondered as he rubbed her through her jeans.
And there it was again, that pressure in her abdomen, warm and electric. Hands at her waist, fumbling, the sound of a zipper, stiff material scraping down her legs, his rough hands following it down. At the bottom, the fabric got stuck in her boots, and with a frustrated sound, he squatted, yanked hard at one boot until it gave and the fabric slid off with it. Without doing the other side, he paused where he was.
Inhale. Exhale. She took in what felt like her first breath since this all began. No wonder things were out of focus.
“Come here,” she said, her voice hoarser than she’d ever heard it.
“Wait.” He was looking at her—not her face, but down there. His breath was warm on her, and she could smell it: her own female scent. The one she equated with pleasure—with him.
“Come here, Luc. Hurry. I want…” Everything. Her hands—God, they had a mind of their own—tried to pull him up. “Now.”
Instead of obeying, he reached out and touched her, right where the hair sprang up in unruly curls between her legs. And while his hands had been a bit rough when they had rid her of the trousers, now they were gentle, even shaky.
The back of his knuckles brushed against the hair, before his hand twisted and cupped her, one finger straightening and reaching beneath, between her lips, where it slipped and slid. Back and forth once, twice, and back, circling her opening before sliding in.
Ah, sweet relief.
Her knees loosened and almost gave. Downstairs, the music was turned up a notch, and the floor shook rhythmically under her feet, but here the only noise was the messy, slick slide of his finger pressing in and out of her body. She looked down to find his brow furrowed, his features tight with concentration, gaze fixed on where his finger disappeared between her legs. She’d never seen that look on his face, none of the peace he showed when he worked or the light humor he’d shown other times. He looked intense, focused.
“From that first day, Abby, I’ve been yours. Yours,” he said, the words sounding torn from his throat. And Lord, for a moment, she thought she might cry.
Instead, she pulled at his hair, reached for his face, because right now, she wanted him thick and deep. She wanted him so deep she’d never forget.
“I want you to fuck me, Luc,” she said, her voice more decisive than she’d ever heard it, that word lighting her up.
It worked though—seemed to wake him from his daze, got him up and moving, tugging at his pocket, pulling open his wallet. What on earth was he doing with his wallet?
She tried to slap it away from him, but he kept on, pulled something out. A foil square like the one they’d used last time. A condom. How strange. And serendipitous.
She watched him rip it open with his teeth and pull it out before slipping the ring over the tip of his cock. She’d just had it in her mouth, but still it surprised her, made her want to taste it again, which felt like a tragedy, since she couldn’t keep doing this to him. She had to get Sammy and go. That was it. Get Sammy and go.
Stop it. Enjoy this moment.
She held her breath and let her eyes meet his. They watched her. Waiting.
He’d stopped. “You want this, Abby?”
“Yes,” she admitted.
“I’m not good at…talking about things. Making them pretty.”
“I know,” she said, but she also knew it wasn’t true. He’d made her feel special with his words, but also his looks, his touch.
“I want to fuck you so hard.”
Oh, that sent a new wave of heat into her face. It prickled her scalp.
“Do it.” That felt like a challenge. She liked the way his fingers pinched her nipple in reply.
“I want to forget about everything.”
What? What did he want to forget about? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered when he grabbed her hard at her hips and pushed her back, back, back to the chipped Formica edge of the kitchenette counter, lifted her up. It didn’t matter that the surface beneath was wet with water or that she was just as wet between her legs.
And hungry. Terribly hungry.
“Don’t forget,” she muttered, pulling at him, trying to, but he wouldn’t let her. He caught her hands in his, held them behind her back with one of his, and kissed her. Slow and deep and wet.
This. This was the kiss she’d remember for the rest of her life. This was the kiss that would warm her bed when she was far from here. This was the kiss that would make her forget what Isaiah might still be doing to the others on the mountain when she and Sammy were long gone.
This was the kiss.
* * *
Luc hadn’t meant to go all sweet. He’d wanted to fuck her, hard. But then he’d caught sight of her face and those lips, and the kiss just happened.
One moment he felt nothing but animal desire and the next…
Soft lips, softer whimpers, soft breasts against his chest. Why did it make his lungs go tight? Instead of keeping her hands trapped behind her back, he let them go, begging, “Put your hands on me, please,” in a hoarse voice. He waited as she slid one in his hair; the other stroked down to his waist and up to his chest, where her nails dug in.
He’d never experienced anything like Abby’s touch. Nothing was better than the soft edge of her tongue against his or the way she nipped at his lip. Nothin
g more satisfying than the rasp of his chest against her pointy, pink nipples.
No. That wasn’t entirely true, he knew, pulling away long enough to catch her eyes with his.
“You want this?” he asked, looking down at where his cock stood up, thick and demanding. Aching, aching to press into her.
“Yes.”
“You want to put me in you?” he asked.
“Me?”
“Yes,” he breathed, barely controlling his voice. “You do it.”
What was that on her face? Surprise? Some anticipation? Her hand was hot on his cock. Just her fingertips, at first.
“Hold me harder.”
“Like this?” Her palm tightened, but not enough. Not nearly enough.
“No.” His voice was harsh as he clasped his fist over hers, tightening painfully. “Like this.”
“Oh goodness.”
“Squeeze and pull.”
He took his hand away, because leaving it would mean taking control. Shoving in, thrusting, fucking.
“Put me in you, Abby.”
“Wait, I want to see you first. I need to—”
“Please,” he interrupted, his voice threaded with need. Her gaze rose to meet his.
One pass of her fist over him, as they held each other’s eyes, and fuck, he was a goner. Worse than before, because he understood that she’d hurt him. How could she not when he was already so chafed and raw? She scooted to the edge of the counter, lowered the tip of his cock, and slid it against her.
Luc’s breathing filled the air, along with her smell. He glanced up, catching her looking at him. Together, their attention flicked down, up and down. As her hand found her opening, he took that last half step into her body so they did this together—the giving and the taking. And together, their voices entwined in the air between them, wordless grunts on his end, a long, whimpering moan on hers.
His attention was fixed firmly below, his forehead pressed hard to hers, and fuck, it had been too long without her. His balls were high and tight, slapping gently against her at first, before her legs went around his hips and pulled him in harder.
She was as hot and snug as his own skin, and those curls between her legs made him want to tug. He’d do that next time, take his time. Now, though, he couldn’t, because his hands were planted on her hips, where he could pull her in, tighter, tighter, harder, with every thrust of his body into hers.
He was going to orgasm too fast, he realized. Too fucking soon. But he couldn’t slow down. Instead, he pulled one hand from her and slid it between them, to bury into that hair, find her clit and rub. No time for slow, no time for pretty. He used everything he had to make it quick, rough, the pad of his thumb and the side of one finger going fast and furious.
“Oh, oh, oh.” Abby’s noises were beautiful, musical, as he slowed his hips and quickened his fingers, almost stopping altogether when she clamped both hands to his wrist to slow him down.
“Let me. Let me make you come.”
“I can’t…”
“You need me to stop?”
Her eyes flew to his. “No. No, just…lighter.” She bit her lip. “Make it last longer.”
He almost chuckled at that, but it turned into a groan. “I’m not sure I can, mon amour.”
“It’s coming too fast,” she said, sounding slightly frantic, and he slowed his pace, and oh fuck, this was almost harder. Watching each long, slow slide into her was excruciating. Torture.
“I’m going to come,” he warned, and her eyes shot up to meet his.
“Okay.” She nodded. “Do it. Make me come, too.”
Christ, he loved how direct she was. How could she be like this after everything? How?
She convulsed around him tighter than he’d ever been clasped, and he couldn’t have stopped his climax for anything in the world. He lost it, deep inside her, holding her hard against him and wondering how on earth he was ever going to let her leave.
26
They moved to her bed, which was small and sagging but clean—none of which mattered with her in his arms.
They’d lain there for a while, her head on his chest, when she broke the silence.
“I’m getting him out tonight.”
He stiffened.
“I’ll drive.” He paused. “Shit.”
She leaned up on an elbow. “What is it?”
“I don’t have my truck.”
She looked at him, confused. “What do you mean? How’d you get here?”
“It’s a long story.”
She sat up and leaned forward until the numbers on the microwave came into view. “We’ve got time.”
“You have this planned out then?”
She shrugged. “I leave here at two.”
“How were you planning to get there?”
“Walking.”
“Jesus, Abby. And then, what? You and Sammy would walk back here?”
“Yes.”
“You weren’t going to tell me, were you?”
Slowly, she shook her head, softening the blow with sweet, shiny eyes and a soft hand to his cheek. “This is your life, Luc. I can’t ruin your life.”
“No?” He mirrored her movement, touching the backs of his fingers against skin that was crushingly soft. “Non, mon amour?”
She put her ear back to his chest and her vigil over his heart, which was quickly breaking beyond repair.
When her breathing grew deep and regular and he was pretty sure she’d fallen asleep, he pulled away as carefully as he could, got out of bed, and dressed, shocked that she didn’t wake. He wanted to kiss her again before leaving but couldn’t risk it.
The hardest part, as he left her small nest above the Nook, was nudging Le Dog back inside and hoping he didn’t start crying or doing something else that would wake her. But it was a risk he was willing to take. Bringing the dog—or the woman—with him was not an option.
He crept down the stairs and out the back door into the cold, clear night. Above the parking lot, a single bare bulb shone, a solitary glow against the night. Nothing like the fancy streetlamps on Main Street meant for the tourists; this mean bulb was purely utilitarian. No prettiness here, nothing to distract from the dumpsters and the stink and what was possibly a puddle of vomit a few feet along the gravel drive.
He sucked it all in on a whoosh: the stench, the remorse of leaving her. A look around showed a dead downtown, cars congregated around this building, but nothing else moving. Luc didn’t want to go back into the bar. Nor did he want to call a cab or an Uber. Nobody else should be involved in what he had to do right now.
* * *
Abby woke up alone and groggy, in the half-light of her new apartment, sure that something was wrong. It took a few beats for things to click into place, but once they did, she was up and getting dressed. It was still before two, the bar downstairs audibly winding down for the night. Luc couldn’t have left that long ago, could he?
How dare he? How dare he leave when this was her mission to accomplish? Le Dog got up and stretched as she pulled on her new clothing—suddenly too tight rather than freeing. At the last minute, she remembered to grab the keys she’d have to get used to carrying around. Someday. Someday this would all be normal, and then maybe she’d wish for her old life again.
Doubtful.
She patted Le Dog on the head and, after a few seconds’ hesitation on the landing, went toward the bar instead of out the back door.
Rory blinked when he saw her.
“You here to help close up, love?” he said above the loud music.
“Oh, I hadn’t—”
“That was a joke.” He paused, eyeing her closely before his eyes flicked over her shoulder. “Where’s your bloke?”
“He left.”
Rory frowned. “You give me the word, and I’ll—”
&n
bsp; “No. I just… I need to go after him. What’s the best way?”
“You can’t call an Uber in Blackwood, love.”
Abby blinked. She had no idea what that meant.
“Right.” Rory went to grab something from behind the bar and threw it at her. A set of keys that dropped to the floor before she could catch them.
“The truck’s old, but she runs fine. Just don’t too push her too hard on the uphills. She’s out back, parked beside the rubbish.”
She blinked. “Oh, I couldn’t—”
“Go catch him, love.” He paused. “Go on.”
She turned to go and then stopped to turn back. “I’m sorry, Rory. But I have another favor to ask.”
His brows rose. “Go on then.”
“There’s a dog upstairs. Luc’s dog. I hope that’s okay.”
“As long as it doesn’t piss all over, I don’t mind what you do up there.”
“Thank you, Rory. I owe you—”
“Go. Go on. Catch your bloke and give him what for.”
He shooed her out and went to calm a loud group of men insisting they hadn’t missed last call as Abby went out back to find the truck.
* * *
The walk to the mountain was long and cold, despite working up a sweat inside his parka. Somewhere around mile five, it started snowing, which would have added insult to injury. But by that time, Luc had developed such a steady rhythm that he hardly noticed it at all.
Jesus. He was really going to do this, wasn’t he? Forget about everything he’d worked for, ignore the danger to his land, his livelihood, and himself, and attack the crazy cult next door.
Not attack. Stealthily infiltrate.
The strange thing, though, was that there was no regret when he considered everything he risked losing. Not an ounce of fear, either, which he couldn’t possibly attribute to the glass of wine he’d consumed earlier.
In His Hands Page 29
