A Harmless Little Plan (Harmless #3)

by Meli Raine

  Drew wouldn’t let me do that. And now here he is, loving all the pieces of me until they work together again, as one.

  Helping me to be whole.

  Desire lives inside his gentle touch, his intent clear. The hot bath is both soothing and cleansing, invigorating and sensual.

  So is he.

  “Lindsay,” he whispers, moving close, his mouth against my ear, kissing me lightly on the soft skin beneath my earlobe. “You’re my wife now.”

  I shiver at the word wife.

  “You’re mine. No one else’s. I’ve spent all these years trying to find my way back to you. No one will ever keep us apart. No one. Do you hear me?” He looks into my eyes, dark and firm.

  “I do.”

  “Good.” His body rises up out of the water, sliding against mine. My nipples tingle and pinpoint as his chest hair, wet and flat against his pecs, rubs along my skin. He drips on my good arm as he stands before me.

  I’m eye level with his naked torso.

  I take my time looking.

  He lets me.

  In that space, I let my emotions come without judgment, my body responding to the pure sexual rawness of his naked body so close, so wet, so obviously aroused for me. Drew doesn’t make a move, his taut muscles rippling with compact energy, defining a body made for protection.

  Made for me.

  How can I not want him? How can I not want him to make love to me? My thumb worries the thin gold band of my ring.

  I’m scared.

  I’m scared and stuck with the muscle memory of stress and terror.

  It’s time to replace it all, though.

  Time to let love live in my bones and muscles, in my tendons and vocal cords, to replace all the dominant worry with a force stronger than hate.

  With Drew’s love.

  Our love.

  For four years my entire world was the Island. Schedules and routines, confessions and pills, the conspicuous putting back together of the pieces of me the world saw.

  My inner life didn’t matter.

  I protected it like a secret treasure.

  As I stand, the residual bubbles clinging to my thighs and belly, Drew gives me a long look, taking his time, too. There is no pretense. The room smells like vanilla as I inhale deeply, blurting out the first true feeling that comes to mind.

  “I shouldn’t want you,” I say, touching his bare chest, my palm scraping against his wet nipple, his eyes turning soft as he tries to understand. I step into his embrace, my sling in the way. Our thighs meet and I can feel how much he wants me.

  “What?”

  “I – shouldn’t want you this much. It’s so overpowering. It’s all I can think about now.”

  “Why shouldn’t you? You can feel whatever you want, baby.” His hands are strong on my good shoulder, my hip, then up my back, feeling me, bringing me here and now, pulling me in from the wide distance where I’ve been living for too long, out on the edges.

  “I’m in a million little parts, scattered to the winds, trying to collect them all and put them back together again.”

  He kisses my bad shoulder, then my neck, my cheek, my nose. “Every kiss is a piece of you coming home,” Drew whispers. “How many kisses do you need?”

  “All of them.”

  “I have more than enough to bring back all the shattered pieces of you, Lindsay. You get all my kisses, forever,” he says, and then he stops talking, mouth on mine.

  The warm, wet heat of his body makes me feel more grounded, his tongue slipping in to tell me all the ways I can be close to him. I only have one hand, my movements drawn down, wanting to find his solid muscle, marveling at the hard lines of his body. Drew is kissing me with the quiet urgency of a man who is holding back for reasons of honor, of respect.

  I don’t want that.

  I want him to make love to me with wild abandon, with the synergy of two people who find refuge in letting go.

  Chapter 20

  Drew

  I really was prepared to spend our wedding night celibate. I was. If that’s what she wanted, I was prepared. Stilling my desire was hard, but I’m accustomed to meeting challenges.

  Lindsay’s change of heart is an honor. It’s a sign of trust, of commitment. I’ve served her well if she can feel passion and excitement, crave intimacy and caring.

  I have to do this right.

  I have to make it so good for her.

  Steam surrounds us, left over from the bath, making her skin dewy and her eyes so big and round, pleading with me to touch her everywhere, kiss away the hurt, make her remember what it’s like to be loved and wanted with an all-consuming need that she’s the center of everything, of the world, of my universe.

  She’s damn close to being holy, a goddess, an altar for me to worship. Maybe my kisses are enough. My hands, rough from work and years of field exercises, feel so unworthy of her flesh as she matches me, touch for touch, sound for sound, breath for breath.

  We step out of the bathtub and I reach for a towel, thick and abundant, drying the ends of her hair, patting her back, her shoulders, her arms, then sliding over her breasts, belly, ass, and legs with the attentive care of a man who can’t get enough.

  “Drew,” she whispers, like moonlight spins itself from her heart and comes out through her mouth. The rush of my name from Lindsay makes my heart beat double time.

  We’ve had sex twice since she came home, my body fully inside hers, once reverent, once playful and fast, speedy and insistent.

  This time she is my wife. We are connected by choice, by law.

  They say that an orgasm is a little death. If that’s true, then what is the resurrection? We come back to each other after the divine, after relinquishing our bodies, our blood, to the mad rush of climax. We bond over shared flesh, by opening ourselves to each other, by saying I do.

  As I lead her to the bed by her good hand, help her under the covers, then prowl up her sweet, fine body, her curves tight and bruises lessening, I find myself wanting to die a thousand times while inside her.

  And only her.

  “You lead the way,” I say softly, breathing hard, practically shaking from holding back. Part of me wants to kiss her, slide into her, ride hard and make her moan until she goes hoarse from pleasure, until all her fear has been fucked out of her, until we’re both boneless and nothing but our bodies and mutual pleasure exists.

  That’s her call, though.

  The other part knows she needs a tender touch to tease her out of the remaining fear that lingers on her skin, a tight, taut feeling that is tangible. I give her a long, languid kiss, wet and slow, waiting for her cues. When she starts to squirm under me, moving her legs so she’s pressed against my thigh, rubbing against me with a rhythm as she turns breathless, I know what to do next.

  “My shoulder,” she gasps. “How can we do this? I’m -- ” She laughs as if this is crazy, as if her gunshot wound is her fault. As if she’s embarrassed by it.

  “We’ll do it,” I respond, moving down her body, brushing kisses on her nipples. “Between your shoulder and my broken finger, we both have to adjust.” I continue kissing her in the fine valley between her breasts, down her creamy belly, then finally where she tastes like wordless nirvana.

  I open her and she widens for me, urging with little sighs and her fingers in my hair. The pure joy of being invited to do this makes me rock hard. I want her so much. She wiggles, her body taking on a rhythm I follow, her voice begging as she says my name with increasing fervor.

  My good hand slides under her, cupping her ass as my face and tongue move in whatever way I need to give her this. She deserves all the pleasure I can create, and I want her to take until she’s sated.

  Abruptly, she stops me, her hand fisting my hair and pulling up. Our eyes meet and she is blazing, fired up with passion and trembling. She breathes hard, each exhale loud and hot.

  Then she says,

  “Let’s make this official. I want you in me, and I want you to make love to me.
Please, Drew. Please. I want to come with you inside me. I want you more than I thought I could.”

  Lindsay

  “I will. Just wait,” he whispers, one hand on my breast, his thumb and index finger curling around my nipple, the taped pinkie finger hard and strange, but endearing. His other hand moves between my legs and oh! Oh!

  He slips a finger inside me, three sensations all combining at one. Breast, clit, and that finger all work together in a choreographed way as all my thoughts dissolve, my body moving in whatever way it needs to seek more pleasure.

  And then he licks me until I see heaven explode, his attentions so urgent, so determined to give me pleasure that I have to submit, have to give in, have to trust and release and thrust and lose myself in him.

  I’m moaning his name, biting the end of my pillow, making sounds I didn’t know I could make, seeing colors that surely don’t exist anywhere but here as Drew drives home again and again that I am enough, that I count, too, that I deserve this and that he deserves me. He moves to make me confront my own ecstasy, not letting me avoid the orgasms, and then I explode again, as if the first time was just practice.

  I go cold and numb, burn and feel everything, my exquisite ride along his tongue so dirty, so filthy, so perfect.

  And then he’s kissing me, hard and loose, his mouth lingering with my taste, his hands everywhere, nowhere, and I have never wanted anyone to be between my legs so desperately as I want him now.

  As he starts to enter me, my shoulder screams and I gasp, then cry out from panic.

  “Wait,” he says, gently moving me over, pulling out. “You be on top. Sit up. Ride me, Lindsay. Ride me.” His eyes flash with erotic anticipation as I awkwardly trade places with him, our bodies slick and sweaty, until I’m on top of him, my thighs against his, my legs open and my good hand holding on to his abs for balance. As I slide down over him I suck in my breath, Drew imitating me.

  My diamond glitters in the darkness, shining in the moonlight, splayed across his belly button, a reminder. All the rolling muscle of his torso moves like a pond rippling as a stone is thrown in, his body working hard to thrust up and catch me, his ass tightening with each wave.

  “Lindsay, you feel so good. So hot. Oh,” he rasps as we move together, trying to find the right speed, the right angle.

  I feel a keening deep within, a spark of recognition as he moves inside, with each thrust, each shift, each growing layer of love. The screams of demons and tormenters inside make way for cries of ecstasy as Drew's soul warms the dark corners of my own. My body is exposed for him, my sling bulky and in the way, but it’s all right.

  This is real. This is real love.

  This is real lovemaking.

  He reaches up and squeezes both breasts at the same time, then skims my skin with his rough hands, finding my hips, grinding me into him, making me move just enough until my clit is in a new position, the extra friction wet and perfect against him. An orgasm starts in the core of my belly, riding through my lower body, rising up to the hollow of my throat, spreading to my nipples, my tongue, my back and shoulders. It takes over like a spirit animal soaring over sacred ground, riding over the plains in twilight, seeking truth.

  “I love you,” Drew groans. “I’m about to -- ” He goes rigid, then moves fast, groans deep and resounding, a vibration that adds to my pleasure. I tip, too and struggle for balance as I lose all sense of my body in space and time, clinging to him, later leaving small marks on his belly with my fingernails. I tell myself I’ll kiss them when this is over, greedy for the intoxicating rush of orgasm, reveling in his body and mine using each other with so much trust and love.

  “Drew, I can’t, I can’t stop, I -- ”

  “Don’t, baby. Don’t stop. Go. I’ll be here when you come back. Right here,” he says, reaching down between us, his thumb stroking the spot where I need him most, my body rising high, a thin cry making lightning shoot through me, Drew’s other hand on my hip, pinning me in place with a near-brutal rhythm that makes me come and come and come until I can’t even ask him to stop. I am shaking and crying but it’s good, so good.

  So Drew.

  I fall forward, slumped on his body, my ass in the air and my torso curled in a weird way as I protect my shoulder. He’s panting, too, and it feels like all the marbled muscle in him has gone still. My hair covers the fine grooves of his ribs, his skin shining with a sheen from exertion, and as I rest on top of him, I realize it’s this – the shared recovery after the unraveling – that makes for connection.

  We aren’t intimate because we find other people attractive.

  We find other people attractive because they choose to be intimate and share their soft underbellies.

  He plays with a piece of my hair, stroking it from my neck, his words hard to hear as he says, “We’ve been to hell and back.”

  “Yes.” I sit up. He moves quickly, helping me to settle down, supporting my arm so it doesn’t hurt. Then he rests next to me, pulling up the warm covers, burrowing in. I’ve been holding my body and breath, tense with aftershocks from sex, and I release.

  I relax into him.

  “That was the best sex we’ve ever had as husband and wife,” he says with a smile in his voice.

  “Oh, c’mon,” I tease. “We can do better than that.”

  “Next time.”

  “Promise?” I yawn, the day hitting me at once, my eyes unbearably sleepy, lids impossible to hold up.

  “Yes,” he says, kissing my temple. “Are you happy?”

  “Completely.”

  “Satisfied?” His hand finds my thigh.

  “Fully. In every way possible,” I insist, laughing.

  “Then I did my job.”

  We’re out in seconds.

  We don’t dream.

  Chapter 21

  Lindsay

  The gentle tap on the door seems too timid for a true emergency. I’m naked, we’re sticky, and my mouth is dry, like someone blotted all the moisture out. Forgetting momentarily about my broken shoulder, I start to sit up, then let out a tiny scream.

  Drew is off the bed, feet on the floor, hand on his gun in under a second. He holds it pointing down, but every muscle in his naked body is flexed, ready to act.

  “What? What’s wrong?” He’s so precise. It’s shocking. As he scans the room, he’s so serious, so deadly, the laugh dies in my throat.

  Drew stretches up, body honed in on the hotel room door, where someone on the other side says, “Drew? It’s Adam. We have a situation.”

  “Who’s Adam?” I ask as Drew shoves his feet into his suit pants, skipping underwear, buttoning the pants but not bothering with the belt.

  “Old buddy,” he says as he marches to the door, gun tucked into the waistband of the pants. I almost laugh, because it looks so weird, right there above his hot, hard ass.

  The door opens. I sit up, feeling exposed and vulnerable, my shoulder such an obstacle. The two have a conversation in low voices, then Drew says thank you, closes the door, and comes into the room.

  Holding an iPad.

  “Your parents are waiting to FaceTime with us, Lindsay,” he says.

  I point to the iPad with my good hand. “You mean now?”

  He shakes his head slowly. “Yeah. Gentian tried, but apparently Harry figured it all out pretty quickly. Someone at the license bureau knew who you were and called him, wanting money to hold off on going public. You know how it works.” He’s cynical. He should be.

  I do know how this works.

  “My parents are live on that?” I point to the iPad.

  “Yeah. I’ve got them muted.”

  “Oh, Mom must be flipping out.”

  He turns the screen to me. I pull the covers up, making sure I’m decent. Mom is screaming at the screen, her perfectly-coiffed blonde head like staring at a cream-colored snowball on fire. She’s in a red rage.

  I can’t help it.

  I start laughing.

  Drew sets the tablet on the nightstand, fa
ce down. “Let’s get ourselves set up,” he says, offering me a few pillows as I sit up. “Do you want a shirt?” he asks as I settle in, propping up my slung arm on an extra pillow.

  “No,” I respond, pulling the covers over my breasts, tucking the sheet under my arms. “Screw it. Screw them.” I hold out my ringed hand and he takes it. He’s wearing a simple gold band the Elvis impersonator sold us for fifty bucks. I like how our hands look together.

  “Okay.” He looks at his own unclothed chest. The light smattering of hair across his pecs is just enough to make me want to touch him, to feel it tickle my palm. I hold back. His bruises are fading, like mine, but they tell a story.

  They’re memory in the body, stored until it can heal. Then the memory moves on, living solely in the mind.

  “Ready?” he asks. We’re next to each other on the bed. Drew turned on the nightstand lights. We hold hands. He takes his knees and props them up, placing the tablet on them.

  “Ready.”

  He hits unmute.

  “ -- you are crazy! Lindsay, you get right back here now. This makes it abundantly clear that you need psychiatric help! Who runs off and gets married like this? Only an unstable, traumatized woman who has been manipulated by her -- ”

  “Hi Mom!” I chirp, waving with my good hand, moving slowly so she sees the rings. “Thank you so much for your blessing.” I grin, nice and wide, ignoring my split lip.

  Drew giggles.

  Giggles.

  “Do you have any idea what this is going to look like when the press gets wind of it? Drew was just painted as your unstable ex-boyfriend who stalked you after your father made the error of hiring him for you security team! The press is still getting all the details wrong, and -- ”

  “Monica.” Daddy’s in the room, I see, behind Mom’s fiery head. “Monica, let someone else speak.”

  “Like who? Lindsay’s babbling nonsense and pretending her betrayal is just fine. My God, Harry, this is a PR nightmare! The only reason someone would run off and get married in Vegas – VEGAS – like this is if they’re crazy, or if they – OH MY GOD!” Mom moans, swooning. “You didn’t have to get married, did you?”