by Dee Davis
For just a moment his imagination went into overdrive, but he pushed the images aside as she picked up the medical kit, her intent clearly business. With a wince, he lifted his arms and removed the shirt, noticing that his makeshift bandage had already come loose.
She carefully peeled it off. “It hasn’t started bleeding again. Which is a good sign. And it looks like it’s clean.” She probed the wound, and he winced again. “Sorry. I’m not trying to hurt you. I just wanted to make sure the bullet was gone.”
“No worries there.” He twisted so that she could see his back. “There’s an exit wound.”
“Right. I forgot.” She ripped several strips from the pillowcase, folding them into two small pads, one for the front and one for the back. “At least that should help it heal. I’d say, all things considered, you’re a pretty lucky man.”
“And you really do know your way around a bandage,” he said, as she spread antibiotic on one of the pads.
“Yeah, well, as I said,” she said, keeping her eyes on her work, “my father wasn’t keen on doctors. Too many questions.” He opened his mouth to reply, but she shook her head. “It was a long time ago. Water under the bridge.” She shrugged, using some tape to secure the bandages. “There you go.” She stepped back to admire her handiwork. “All done.”
“I don’t suppose you bought any aspirin when you were out in the market?” he said, rotating his shoulder to test the bandage, the pain bearable but still uncomfortable.
“No. But I did remember the rum.” She smiled. “Put on your new clothes and then we’ll have a drink while I finish heating our dinner.”
She walked out the door and he shook his head, wondering how someone could come through all that she’d endured and still be able to smile like that. He understood the will to survive. But with Madeline there was something more. As if somehow she’d been able to keep a part of herself separate from all the ugliness.
He shook his head, pushing the thought aside, almost before it was fully formed. Women lied, used whatever tools necessary to obtain what they wanted. It was a cynical view. But it was the only way to protect his heart. Better to take a step back than risk getting hurt again.
He changed into the pants and shirt she’d bought, grateful for the feel of clean cotton next to his skin. Then, after tucking the gun into the back of the pants, he walked back into the living room to find Madeline behind the counter, stirring the pot and humming softly to herself.
“The clothes are great,” he said, sliding onto a barstool, careful to keep his tone neutral. “So what am I smelling?” he asked, moving the subject to safer ground.
“It’s called sancocho. A fish stew. Ingredients vary by location, but I figured since we’re on the coast it’s probably going to be good. And I bought arepas—these are corn. They’re sweeter than tortillas you’ll find at home, but I find they offset the stew nicely.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. I’ve lived in Colombia for over three years now. It’d be impossible not to have gained a little knowledge about local specialties. The rum’s over there.” She nodded toward the far end of the counter. “I didn’t know how you liked it. So there’s fruit juice—or if you prefer, just some fresh lime.”
“What are you having?” he asked, walking over to the makeshift bar.
“Rum and feijoa. It’s a kind of guava. Really sweet. I like it.”
“Think maybe I’ll stick with the lime.”
“I suspected that might be more your style. You don’t seem like an umbrella drink kind of guy.”
“Actually, I prefer scotch. Straight. But when in the tropics—” he said, squeezing a lime into his glass, then raising it. “Cheers.”
“To better days.” She lifted her glass and then took a sip, the muscles in her throat working as she swallowed, their gazes locking for one long smoldering moment.
Drake took a long drink, clamping down on his surging hormones, while Madeline put her glass back on the counter, making a play of stirring the stew. At least his wasn’t the only libido on overdrive.
“I think it’s done,” Madeline said, lifting a spoon to her lips, to verify. “Why don’t you grab the arepas and I’ll bring the stew. The table’s already set outside.”
He grabbed the basket with the tortillas and his drink and followed behind her, his eyes locked on the soft swaying of the skirt as her hips moved beneath it. After placing the food on the table, they sat down, and Madeline ladled the stew into earthenware bowls.
“Enjoy,” she said as they began to eat.
Drake wasn’t sure if it was the company or the fact that he hadn’t eaten real food in days, but the stew was heavenly. “This is great,” he said, reaching for a tortilla and dipping it into the broth.
“So you’re not mad anymore that I went to the market?” she asked, a little frown cutting across her forehead.
“I wish you’d told me,” he said, taking another bite, “but no, I’m not mad. This is perfect.”
“I’m glad,” she said, with a crooked little smile. “I wanted to do something nice. And they do say that the way to a man’s heart is—” she cut herself off, the smile fading. “I’m sorry that didn’t sound right. I just meant that I’m grateful for everything you’ve done.”
“Well, it’s not over, until we’re safely out of here. Which means we have to stay alert. And you can’t go running off without telling me.”
“I know. I should have said something. But you were in the shower, and I really wanted to surprise you. Anyway, I won’t do it again,” she promised, solemnly. “Did you talk to your friends?”
“I did. And they’re on their way. They should be here early tomorrow morning.”
“So soon?” She frowned.
“I thought you’d be pleased. I mean the sooner we’re out of here, the less likely it is that di Silva will find us. And you’ll be free.”
“I know,” she said, her face shuttering. “I guess I was just enjoying this respite. I mean, once you get me back to D.C., it’s going to be all about protective custody and testifying. Not exactly freedom in the true sense of the word.”
“I guess I can see that,” he said. “But it’s got to be better than being forced to work for di Silva’s organization.” He nodded toward the fading bruise beneath her eye and self-consciously she reached up to touch it.
“Absolutely. But there’s a part of me that wishes I could go back. Do it differently. Somehow keep Jenny alive.”
“I think you did everything you could,” he said, reaching out to cover her hand with his. “Given the situation, you made the right choices. Sometimes that just isn’t enough.”
She studied him for a moment, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. “Thank you for that. It means more than you can possibly know.”
“Hey, I thought we were supposed to be living in the moment,” he said, purposefully shifting the mood. “So no more thinking about the past.”
“Or the future.” She nodded. “At least until tomorrow.” They sat for a moment listening to the sounds of the night. And then she smiled. “Do you hear that?”
He shook his head.
“Oh, come on. The music. It’s coming from the market.” She closed her eyes, swaying a little as the melodic sound of drums and guitars carried on the breeze. “When I was little my mother played her records and my sister and I would dance. And in that moment, nothing could hurt us.”
“Then we should dance,” he said, holding out his hand. “Although I should warn you I’m not that good at it.”
“Doesn’t matter.” She smiled as he pulled her to her feet. “There’s no one here to see you but me.” She pulled close, their elbows bending between them, and then moved back again, arms straight, following the infectious Latin beat.
They moved around the courtyard, his feet miraculously following her movements. And as the music swelled to a crescendo, he whirled her around, his hand at the small of her back, dropping her into a deep dip at the end of the tu
rn.
“I thought you said you couldn’t dance,” she said, eyes wide with pleasure and surprise as he pulled her upright again.
“I can’t.” He shook his head. “I was just winging it.”
“Well, I liked it.” She swayed gently as the band started a new tune, this one soft and slow. They stood in silence as the tune drifted across the courtyard, and then she lifted her arms. For a moment he considered refusing her, knowing that they were playing with fire. But in the end desire trumped reason and he pulled her close as they began to move together to the sweet, seductive sound.
She laid her cheek against his chest, her breathing slowing to match his, their bodies moving in sync as if they’d danced together often. She sighed, and he tightened his arms around her as they swayed back and forth, letting the music carry them around the courtyard.
He rested his chin on her head, the fragrance from her hair teasing his senses. The breeze brushed against them as they moved, carrying the sweet scent of hibiscus and the pulsing sound of the music. It circled them like a cocoon, keeping reality at bay. There was nothing here but the two of them. And for the moment at least, that suited Drake just fine.
They rocked together slowly, back and forth, no longer moving, just holding each other. The music changed, the tempo faster, but they stayed together, neither willing to break the spell.
Finally, Madeline mumbled something against his shirt. “It’s not a slow dance anymore,” she repeated, her voice clearer as she lifted her head.
“I know,” he said, still not willing to let her go.
“Then maybe we should—” she started, but broke off as her gaze met his, her breath coming in an odd little gasp.
With a groan, he bent his head, slanting his lips over hers as he took possession of her mouth. It started as a gentle kiss, a counter note to the melody drifting over from the market, and then like a variation on a theme it became more sensual. More hungry.
She opened her mouth, welcoming him inside, and he relished the thrust of her tongue as they tasted each other. Thrusting and parrying. The tactile sensation becoming their own private language, both of them advancing and retreating. Giving and taking. A prelude of things to come.
His hands moved in slow, languid circles across her back, his breath lifting the tendrils of hair around her face. She moved closer, her hands twining through his hair, and the kiss built in intensity, passion coiling deep inside him. He wanted her. More than he’d wanted anything in a long time. Maybe it was the music, or hormones—hell, maybe he was just a fool.
He reached behind her, loosening her braid, and her hair cascaded over her shoulders. She laughed and tipped back her head. And he kissed her ears, her nose, his mouth trailing kisses along the line of her throat to the valley between her breasts. Her skin was soft and supple, smooth as silk.
His pulse pounding in his groin, he kissed his way back to her ear, dipping his tongue inside, sucking on the lobe, using his tongue to tease her, building the sensation until she squirmed beneath his touch, her breath shuddering in gasps of delight.
Madeline couldn’t remember the last time a man had made her feel like this. As if anything were possible. She turned her head, taking his mouth again with hers. Loving the feel of his lips against hers, his beard rough against her face. She pushed closer, feeling his erection hard against her stomach. Her thighs clenched as her body demanded more, and she stood on tiptoe, pressing her heat against his.
His hands dropped, cupping her rear, the heat from his skin burning through the thin gauze of her skirt. The wind whistled as it picked up, singing through the little courtyard, and he swung her into his arms, his mouth finding hers again as he carried her into the house. With a groan built on desire, he lifted her up onto the kitchen counter, sending dishes crashing in his haste, his mouth crushing hers, his need for her laid bare with his kiss. Passion rose inside her, and she gave it to him freely, wanting him as much as he wanted her.
His hand brushed against the embroidered trim on her blouse, loosening the ties that held it closed. Then his fingers dipped inside, cupping her breast, his thumb rasping against her nipple, the sensation igniting the heat between her thighs. Gasping with pleasure, she arched back, offering herself to him. And with a wicked smile, he trailed hot kisses down the slope of her breast, the soft silk of his hair adding torment to the already unbearable heat.
When his lips closed around her nipple, tugging gently, she whispered his name, urging him on. His tongue circled, sucking softly as he drew her breast farther into his mouth. Bracing herself on her elbows, she leaned back, her body responding with a fervor she hadn’t known she possessed.
Still licking and teasing her breast, he reached for the hem of her skirt, easing the gauzy cotton up her thigh. She trembled in anticipation as his fingers teased, moving higher, then higher still, until all that separated his fingers from the throbbing junction of her thighs was the soft satin of her underwear.
She held her breath as his fingers slid between her panties and her skin, circling lazily, slowly, until she thought she might explode. Then suddenly he was there, caressing her, stroking her, sending flickers of pleasure pulsing inside her. Swallowing a cry, she arched upward, forcing his fingers deeper, and he obliged, the internal rhythm increasing as he suckled her breast.
His mouth and his hands possessed her, driving her higher and higher, until there was nothing but the feel of him burning against her, inside her. He moved down, raining kisses along the smooth skin of her abdomen, crossing the divide marked by her bunched skirt, the heat of his lips making her writhe against him.
With amazing finesse he slid down her panties, removing them, lifting her legs over his shoulders as he bent to take her in his mouth. With a soft cry, she abandoned all decency, pushing against his head, urging him on, balanced on the edge of a precipice that scared and excited her beyond anything she’d ever imagined.
His mouth found her, his tongue driving deep inside her. He tasted her, drinking her in, pulling her soul from her body into his. The darkness surrounded her, caressing her as his tongue moved in and out, in and out, driving her higher and higher, until the darkness exploded with light, and she screamed his name, reaching to hold him, to anchor herself in the spinning vortex he’d created.
She arched against him, her body vibrating under the power of his touch. And she knew suddenly that it wasn’t enough to find this heaven. She wanted more. She wanted him—inside her, needing her as much as she needed him.
Taking a shuddering breath, she pulled back, and, eyes still glazed with passion, pulled him up, wrapping her legs around him, feeling his hardness pulsing against her heat. The sensation almost sent her over the edge again, but she knew what she wanted. She reached for the buttons on his shirt, her fingers trembling with desire as she pulled them free one by one. With a sigh of pure delight, she pushed his shirt off his shoulders, her breath catching at the sheer beauty of his hardened muscles and velvet skin.
She leaned forward, bending to kiss the edge of the bandage, her fingers gentle as she traced the line of his chest and shoulders. And then he pulled her hard against him, his mouth opening, accepting what she offered, raising the ante with the fervor of his kiss.
He pulled her off the counter, her legs still wrapped around him, tongues tangling together with need. They moved backward, into her bedroom, and after removing the rest of their clothes, he sat down on the bed, pulling her with him.
Pushing him back against the sheets, she leaned down, wanting to taste him as he’d tasted her. So she ran her tongue along the edge of one nipple, pleased when it tightened under her touch. Then she dropped her hand, first stroking the hard ridge of his stomach and then letting her fingers slip lower.
His skin was hot, and she closed her hand around his penis, stroking and squeezing, establishing a rhythm.
“Oh, God, Madeline,” he rasped, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I want you.”
“Good.” She smiled, her eyes locking with his. “
Because the feeling’s mutual.” She slid slowly downward, letting her breasts cup his penis, the sensation sending white-hot heat pooling inside her. And then she moved even lower, taking him in her mouth, sucking on his velvety strength.
And then with a growl, he took control, pulling her up and flipping her beneath him, his powerful body lifting over hers. “Are you sure?” he asked, his eyes dark with passion.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” she whispered.
He smiled, and then bent to kiss her, his mouth branding her—claiming her as his. Madeline ached inside, wanting only to feel him fill her, two parts coming together to make a whole. She tipped back her head, welcoming his hands and mouth. He explored every inch of her, leaving nothing untouched, unloved. Trembling with the sheer power of the feelings he evoked, she opened to him, catching his gaze.
“Please, Drake. Now. I want you, now.”
His smile was slow and sure, and with one swift move he buried himself deep inside her, filling her with his heat. The pleasure was exquisite, and she pushed against him, taking him even deeper.
There was desire and triumph reflected in the depths of his eyes—and something else, something so tender it almost took her breath away. She lost herself then, in his strength and passion.
Eyes still locked together, they began to move, slowly, almost languorously at first, each slow thrust tormenting and delighting. Up and down, in and out, the movement creating exquisite agony. He let her set the pace, and she kept it slow, relishing the delicious torture of her own desire. Her body strained to find release, even as her mind fought to control it. And she lifted her head to brush her lips across his. His fingers twined through her hair as he pulled her to him, deepening the kiss. And with the contact, the power shifted.
He grasped her hips, forcing his own rhythm, thrusting harder and deeper, faster and faster, the friction of their bodies moving together ratcheting her need higher and higher, until she felt as if she might explode.
