So he did, yanking his shirt up and over his head, while she rid herself of her own shirt, then kissed him again, as if she couldn't bear to spend too many seconds without his mouth on hers.
He was living his most cherished fantasy. He'd been granted his heart's one desire. No doubt about it, at some point during this past total suckfest of a day, he'd done something really right to be here now. His mind raced as he ran his hands across the softness of her back, her shoulders, her arms, aware as hell—despite the fact that his eyes were closed— that Sophia was pressed against him, nearly skin to skin, in her bra. Which, for the record, was white and sweetly lacy with a tiny pink flower sewn between her perfect breasts.
He could feel her hands at the waist of his jeans. She opened his belt buckle like a pro—okay, don't think that—unfastened the button, found the zipper pull and…
Famine, disease, drought. Dave fought to focus, but it wasn't until he conjured up a picture of James Nash, with a white sheet being pulled over his head, that he knew for sure that he wasn't going to embarrass himself by coming in Sophia's ridiculously soft hands.
Of course, now he had to fight not to cry, and he was certain, without a doubt, that bursting into tears would be far more embarrassing than ejaculating within three seconds of Sophia's touch. Although both were to be avoided, if possible.
So he gently moved her hands to a less sensitive spot, as he lifted his head and admitted, “It's been a while, and I'm … afraid that …”
She stepped back, stepped out of her pants while he did the same. She hesitated, though—even if only briefly. Anyone who didn't know her as well as he did might've missed it. But she did hesitate, glancing over her shoulder at the mirror behind her before unfastening her bra and slipping her panties down her smooth, perfect legs.
The mirror behind her…
The light was dim enough that he could barely see the scars from her captivity—the largest one being on the small of her back. But he knew— as she did—that they were there.
And Dave also knew, with a seemingly brilliant stroke of insight, what to do, what to say to this gorgeous, naked woman standing there, so vulnerably, before him. “In truth,” he said, his voice raspy, hoarse to his own ears, as he pulled her close and touched her, skimming his hands across all that gorgeous, gleaming skin, across her breasts, her stomach, her back, and yes, even her fading scars, “it has nothing to do with how long it's been and everything to do with you. I've always found you completely irresistible. Always.”
She lifted her head to smile up at him, but her trepidation was still there, in her eyes.
So he kissed her—kissed her and tugged her back with him, so that they fell, together, onto that bed. Deep in the recesses of his brain, he knew he should be careful not to be on top of her. He should loosen his grip so that she never felt restricted or overpowered. He should let her remain in control.
But she clung to him, opening her legs to pull him closer, wrapping her arms and legs around him, her hand on his butt, pushing him even more tightly against her, her breath hot against his ear as she reached between them with her other hand. “Dave. I want …”
Her fingers closed around him, leaving no doubt in his mind exactly what she wanted and when she wanted it—him, and right now. She shifted her hips and he felt her yield to him. She was soft and slick and tight around him, and as he slid into paradise he knew there was something he had yet to do or say, but when he opened his mouth, “God, I love you,” came blurting out.
They were the exact same words that had gotten him here, and once again, it was the right thing to say. Sophia laughed, but there was a catch in her voice, and he lifted his head to look into her eyes as she held him there, tightly inside of her, as intimately joined as two people could possibly be.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For saying that.”
“It's true.”
Her eyes filled with tears, and she reached for him, pulling his head down and kissing him, moving against him, beneath him, as best she could with his weight on top of her.
But the sight of those tears haunted him and he had to ask. “Are you sure you're—”
“I'm good,” she said. “I'm great. I'm unbelievably … Oh, Dave, I need … More … Of you. … Please …”
More of him. Okay.
He moved with her then, carefully, slowly, and she seemed to like that—“Oh, yeah …”—so he didn't speed up. The friction was incredible, the sensation sheer bliss—as if he were being stroked by the softest of hands, except not really, because it was even better than that.
Kathy/Anise had liked sex hard and fast, and she'd always, always been running the show, even when she'd been beneath him. It had been 180 degrees different than these long, slow withdrawals, and equally endless deep, deep thrusts that made Sophia moan—dear God, much more of this and he was going to lose it—except what the hell was he doing thinking about Kathy now when he was making love to Sophia—Jesus, he was making love to Sophia. Dave wondered inanely if she were thinking of Decker or maybe her dead husband, Dimitri, or even some distant, long-ago lover that she'd let slip away, and there was no way he could compete against any of them, except now he was way too much inside of his head so he tried to clear his thoughts of everything but this intense, mind-blowing pleasure he was feeling—that she was feeling, too.
“So good …,” she breathed. “So good.”
Good didn't begin to cover it, but good was better than bad, it was better than get me out of here, don't touch me, get your fucking hands offa me…
Good couldn't kill you, except Dave was dying, he was choking, he was drowning, and he didn't want to die, but Jesus, he didn't want to go back to that basement with the bright light and the questions and the pain.
They'd taken all of his fingernails off his right hand and had made it clear they were ready to start on his left because they hadn't caught on that he was stronger than anything they could throw at him. The waterboarding, the electric shocks, the blows to his face and body…
He just ran to Sophia in his mind, losing himself in his vivid memories of the too-short time they'd shared. Seven weeks. It had been slightly more than seven weeks since that first night.
His favorite escape was to go back to that night, to that very first time they'd made love. While it wasn't the best sex they'd had—because God, they'd had a lot of sex in seven weeks, even with both of them out of town for part of that time—it was, for him at least, among the sweetest.
Although this time the monsters had gone too far but then pulled him back before he'd had the chance—in his mind—to reach his very favorite part. To make Sophia come. Which pissed the shit out of him.
They yanked the rag from his throat, hauled him up, and bent him over so the water they'd forced into him left his stomach and lungs as he coughed and choked and vomited his way back to reality—which sucked ass.
He fucking hated it here, yet his body gasped for air, tears streaming down his face as he puked even more, as he spit out a tooth that he must've broken as he'd savagely bit at that rag they'd stuffed in his mouth.
Here in the land of light and pain, those beautiful weeks that he'd spent with Sophia seemed distant and blurred, like a rapidly fading dream—only he knew it had happened. He knew that, in her own way, Sophia loved him, that she'd been ready and willing—and yes, even eager—to spend the rest of her life with him.
Dave clung to that truth, like a distant echo of the most beautiful, pure music cutting through the cacophony of angry demands and the shrill buzz of pain.
It was his love for Sophia, his memories of their time together, that was keeping him sane, keeping him alive, although it wouldn't help him for much longer—he knew that, too. He could feel his already damaged body weakening—the infection from his knife wound getting more severe with each passing hour. And each time it was harder to come back.
But back he was, and he waited, still gasping and coughing, for the questions that would come. And for the blows that
would follow when, once again, he failed to give his captors the information they wanted.
His world had shrunk to four absolute truths.
He loved Sophia—heart, body, and soul.
He would die before betraying his teammates, his friends.
He was going to die. He knew that when these monsters who were torturing him finally realized that they could not break him, they would, unflinchingly, put a bullet in his head or slash a knife across his throat.
And the fourth truth?
Dave knew that Sophia was—at that very moment—in the company of Lawrence Decker. Deck—who loved her almost as much as Dave did.
And the jealousy and resentment he'd always felt, the green monster that, for years, Dave had never quite been able to tame, had changed. Over the past nightmarish blur of hours it had been twisted and crushed and turned into something hard and gleaming and clean. A gem of emotion—pure and brilliant.
It shone through his pain, brighter even than any of his other truths.
Because Dave knew with faith as solid as stone that Decker would keep Sophia safe from harm.
And for that, Dave would be eternally grateful, even after his last breath had left his lungs.
CHAPTER
ONE
FOUR DAYS EARLIER SUNDAY
If Dave had known, before he'd picked up the phone, how much trouble this one call would cause, he would've let it go directly to voice mail.
But it was Sunday morning, and he was enjoying—very much—the experience of surfing the cable TV news channels from the comfort of Sophia's bed.
He loved hanging out in the bedroom of her little apartment, and not just because most of the time he was in here of late, he was in the process of taking off Sophia's clothes.
Though she'd lived in this tiny second-floor walk-up for far fewer years than he'd inhabited his spacious and still-spartan condo, she'd turned this place into a real home. Her furnishings were unique—quirky, mismatched pieces she'd picked up in flea markets and painted in the vibrant colors of the Mediterranean. Rich blues in a variety of shades mingled with bright yellows, warm reds, and a green that brought to mind the newness of spring. Artwork—some of it her own, and quite good—hung on the walls. The open windows were covered by full, gauzy curtains that shimmered and breathed with the breeze. A ceiling fan was kept always running, moving at its lowest, laziest speed.
Last week Sophia had moved the TV into the room for him—an admitted news junkie—and as the phone rang again, he pushed the remote control's mute button as he shouted to her, in the bathroom, “You want me to get that?”
Sophia had just turned on the water, and as he heard the shower door clunk shut, she called back, “You don't have to.”
Dave should've ignored it and turned off the TV and gone into the bathroom to help Sophia wash herself in those hard-to-reach places, but he was an idiot. He was still on a high from last night, when his plane had landed and he'd turned on his phone to find that she'd called him while he was in the air. Five times.
She'd gotten home several days early from her own business trip to Denver and—of course, because he had purposely neglected to tell her of his own international trek—was wondering where he was. She was cooking dinner, although, honestly? After four days apart? They were going to be eating late.
Dave had called her immediately, headed straight to her place, where she'd jumped him the moment he'd walked in the door—as if she'd been as starved for his touch as he'd been for hers.
Incredibly, it wasn't the fabulous sex they'd had right there in her living room that had made his day, week, year—no, life. It was later, after dinner, with Sophia drowsy, her head on his shoulder, as they were about to fall asleep, telling him that she'd missed him, and that she slept much better—as in, she didn't have her usual nightmares—when she spent the night in his arms.
It seemed the perfect segue for him to ask her about those nightmares—a topic they'd both shied away from, for years. And this time, he was ready for it. This time, he knew the questions to ask.
But then she'd added that, in the morning if he wanted her to, she'd clear out a drawer for him, maybe make him some space in her closet… ?
If he wanted her to?
Dave had answered by kissing her, and she'd kissed him back, and they'd made love again—slowly this time. Sweetly. She'd breathed his name on a sigh and she'd fallen asleep almost immediately after, leaving him holding her in his arms, with his heart so full his chest actually hurt.
But now, in the light of morning, the TV, the empty drawer, and the closet space weren't enough for Dave. Nuh-uh. No, sir. He had to further stake his claim here in Sophia's life by answering the telephone on her bedside table at 10:37 on a sunny Sunday morning, with a voice still rusty and deep from a satisfying night made up only partially of sleep.
“Hello?”
There was a hesitation—an indrawn breath—as if the person on the other end were surprised to hear someone male pick up the phone. That's right. Uh-huh. He was so the man. He was the dude with the cojones grande who was going to get his very own drawer here in Sophia's pretty bedroom.
“May I speak to Sophia?” The voice, when it finally came, was female, older, with a hint of Great Britain in its precise enunciation.
“I'm afraid she's indisposed,” Dave said. “May I take a message?”
“Please. Will you ask her to call her Aunt Maureen?” She pronounced it ahhnt, rather than like the insect. “Maureen Miles. I'm her father's sister… ?”
Oh, no.
“Yes,” Dave said. “Of course. Hi. Sophia's, um, told me about you. From Boston, right? I'm Dave. Her…” What? Boyfriend? Lover? Bedroom-drawer guy? They'd talked about a lot of things over the past weeks, but they'd never precisely defined what their relationship now was.
Maureen Miles didn't seem to care. There was more to her message. “Will you let her know that her father's back in the hospital?”
Shit. “I'm sorry to hear that,” Dave said. “Mass General again?”
Another brief pause. “Yes. The doctors have given him only a few days this time, and he would like, very much, to see his daughter. I should think she owes him at least that much—”
“I'm sorry,” Dave cut her off. “With all due respect, ma'am, do we live in the same universe? Because in the reality-based one where I reside, Sophia owes him nothing.”
“He's her father,” the woman said.
“He may have contributed his sperm to the creative process,” Dave said tartly, “but in my opinion he lost the right to call himself Daddy a few decades ago.”
She was silent again for a moment, but she was just regrouping. She hadn't given up. “Please tell her that he's being moved into hospice in a few days.”
“I'll give her the message,” Dave said, a but heavy in his tone, and the woman hung up without a thank-you.
He dropped the handset into the phone's cradle and flopped back onto Sophia's pillows, staring up at the spinning ceiling fan.
From the bathroom, he heard the sound of the water shutting off, the shower door opening. Sophia's melodic voice. “We need to get moving if we're going to make it to Encinitas by noon.”
What? Dave lifted his head and aimed his voice toward the bathroom door. “Noon? Wait a minute, why?”
She appeared in the doorway, gloriously naked, drying herself with a towel, her wet hair slicked back from her face. She was one of those women who were even more beautiful when not wearing makeup.
Or clothes.
It was hard to think or listen when Sophia was naked, and he'd obviously not heard her response to his question, because she gave him her I'm repeating myself because you're staring at me blankly smile and said, again, “The main parking lot'll fill up by noon.”
“Seriously?” Dave sat up, struggling to make sense of her words. “Are we talking about the same thing? The parking lot'll fill up? For a flea market?”
“Antique show,” she corrected him, heading out of sight, ba
ck to the sink, where she kept a collection of bottles and jars of lotion, each one of them smelling sweeter than the last. If he hurried, he could watch her smooth some onto her arms and legs, her stomach and breasts.
As he skidded to a stop in the bathroom, she met his eyes in the mirror. “You know, we don't have to go.”
“I want to.” He opened the shower door and turned on the water. “The thrill of the hunt, the excitement of finding a treasure hidden in with the trash, the hours tromping through the brain-meltingly hot sun with the four million other people who helped us fill up the main parking lot before noon, who are hoping to find the exact same perfect cabinet for the kitchen before we do, so maybe we'll have to win a duel or probably a spelling bee in order to gain ownership … I'm totally there, T-H-E-R-E.”
Sophia had turned around to look at him, her gaze traveling below his waist, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she tried not to smile— and failed. “You either really love antiques, or you're lying through your teeth.” She reached out and wrapped her fingers around him as she gave up and laughed. “I'm going to go with lying through your teeth.”
Dave laughed, too, as she stroked him, as she smiled up into his eyes. “Obviously I'd anticipated a different morning agenda,” he told her. “But I'm a grown-up. I can multi-task. I can both be your antique-hunting partner and spend the day imagining all the ways I'm going to make you come after we get home.”
“Hmm,” she said, swaying closer, the tips of her breasts brushing his chest as she pressed his erection against the softness of her stomach. “Or we can say the heck with the main parking area, and take the PITA shuttle from the south lot.”
“South lot,” he repeated, unable to keep himself from touching her, his fingers sliding across her silky, clean, lotion-sweet skin. “There's a south lot?”
Sophia nodded, then jumped up, wrapping her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, like a piggyback ride in reverse.
“I love the south lot,” Dave told her as he grabbed her to keep her from slipping off him, her perfect derriere filling his hands. And God, this was unlike any other piggyback ride he'd ever given anyone, because she shifted and pushed him hard and deep inside of her. “Holy shit.”
Dark of Night Page 2
