by Anne Marsh
She slid her mouth up the hard shaft, sucking hard at the engorged tip. Christ. He was going to come in her mouth. Forcing himself to pull away, he tugged her up and over him. He didn’t want to come alone, to leave her behind him.
Her face was fierce as she came down on him, sheathing herself on his erection.
“Let me,” he said, already reaching for her, his hands on her hips. One thumb slid forward, parting her lush folds to find her clit and stroke around and over in teasing circles. He wasn’t leaving her behind. She melted around him, bucking against his hand as she rode him.
Taking him with her right over the edge. “Please,” she said. And, “More.”
He watched her, watched the pleasure light up her face as he lost himself in her. Felt the fiery heat consuming them both as he drove up into her and she took him deep, deep, seeking more of the sensations flaming between them. He took her even as she took him, and he didn’t know where he ended and she began, just that they were there together, wrapped around each other in the bed, and he’d never felt more alive in his entire life.
She came, shuddering, holding on to his shoulders and crying out his name, and he let go, stroking deeply, burying himself in her as he pressed his lips against her shoulder. Tasting her. Drinking in the small contractions fluttering through her as her release washed over her and she relaxed against him.
He spilled himself deep inside her, gathering her up in his arms. Holding her tight because he wasn’t letting go of her, he was letting go of himself. The pleasure was too hot, ripping him apart, and he’d never thought he’d die burning or welcome that fire. He could hear his own voice, hoarse and rough, muttering small words. Of praise. Pleasure. Intimacy.
Afterward, he collapsed beside her, tucking her into the curve of his arm. Outside their window, the summer storm was finally breaking, the dry lightning giving way to a cool sweep of rain rushing over the lavender fields and toward the farmhouse. The lacy curtains at the window rustled, stirred to life as the rain kept on coming, racing through the open window and washing over the room. Dampness dotted his skin, sank into the tangled sheets, and he laughed, pulling her tighter against him. Welcoming the cool wet against his heated skin.
Her breath caught on laughter as she turned into him, her hands coming up, seeking him.
“I love you.” Her hands fisted tightly in his short hair as she pulled him toward her, words spilling out of her like rain from the clouds outside. “I love you.”
Chapter Twenty-two
The words hung in the air between them, where she couldn’t take them back. Too damned bad for Jack. He’d never liked talking about emotions, feelings. He’d been the original bad boy, loving the girls and leaving them. Hell, she’d watched him leave a trail of broken hearts behind him in Strong for years. He shouldn’t have been at a loss for words, should he? He had enough experience for a dozen men, with women handing out their hearts while he ran the other way. Well, fuck him, she thought, blinking back frustrated tears. Some things just needed to be said, even if they were met with silence.
“Those words are a gift, Jack.” She stood up, pushing back the rain-dampened sheets. “They’re not a trap, and you don’t have to say anything. I just needed to say them.” She paused. “Wanted to say them. To you.”
When he seemed to be struggling for a response, she laid a finger across his lips. “It’s okay,” she said. He nipped gently at her fingers, and for a moment she resented the soft thrill of pleasure that little touch gave her. She didn’t want to make this about sex. Not right now. “You don’t have to say anything, Jack.”
For a long moment there was nothing but the sound of thunder echoing off the hills. No lightning, just sound that was all empty shake-rattle-and-roll. The worst part was, Jack didn’t say anything. He just got more still than any man she’d seen, all leashed power, all wary male in her too-feminine bed.
She’d known better. She’d known the words would scare the hell out of him. Now he’d run from her. Because those words she’d given him were too big a clue. This wasn’t just a summer romance. Not for her. His dark eyes were impossible to read, watching her while he searched for words he could give her, but maybe not the words she wanted to hear.
“You don’t expect me to say anything.” He said the words quietly, but her stomach pitched anyhow. What had she really expected him to say? To do? Had she secretly been having a fantasy in which he gave her back some loving words of his own? Jack Donovan had never promised happily-ever-after. He’d offered happily-right-now, and she’d—well, she’d taken him up on his offer, hadn’t she?
“No.” She stared back at him, wishing she could retract the words. Because, no matter how well her mind had known the truth, now that truth was breaking her heart.
“Not one word?” Disbelief crept into his voice as he sat up in the bed and glared at her. “You tell me you love me, and that’s it? You’re not expecting some sort of reaction from me?”
“Fine,” she snapped. “Now that we’ve got my feelings clear, let’s talk about yours if you’re feeling so obliging.“
“You want to talk?” He stared at her incredulously. “I don’t know how to do permanent and happily-ever-after, Lily. I thought I’d made that perfectly clear. You know where I come from, Lily. I grew up in a series of foster homes. My parents were just names on a piece of paper, and they weren’t passing out engraved invitations to come home and play family.”
“You have a home and a family right here in Strong,” she said, so quietly he had to duck his head to hear her. “You have Rio and Evan and Nonna. Don’t tell me you’re not family, or that the threads and years binding you all together aren’t closer than any blood ties could be.”
Jack shook his head at Lily’s words. “We have each other’s backs,” he agreed. He remembered a little boy and his dirty, ragtag, loyal band of followers hiding beneath a freeway overpass because it was raining and they had nowhere else to go. They’d fought together, done their tours of duty together. Now they had their team of fire jumpers. Life was good.
Where he’d come from hadn’t been.
Childhood had been a series of unfamiliar houses and unfamiliar beds. Places where he was just passing through and passing time. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d woken up in yet another room and not known where he was. No, the darkness would just press in on him, even as the walls threatened to swallow him up. So he’d shove the covers back, jump up, and pretend he didn’t want to put his back to the mattress and pull those damned covers right on up over his head. Instead, he’d looked for—and found—the door.
He didn’t like walls, and he always knew where his exit points were. It made him a hell of a jumper.
“Damn it, Lily.” He shoved a hand through his hair. The powerful muscles of his shoulders flexed, and her eyes noticed. “I don’t know. We’re good in bed together. And I like spending time with you.”
“Great. We’re best of friends.”
“Friends don’t say ‘I love you.’ ”
“Sure, they do.” Angry-looking tears stung her eyes. “Friends can love each other.”
He shook his head, pulling his clothes on. “Not like this. I don’t want to be your friend, Lily.”
More thunder rolled through the heavy air. The shower had been only a brief reprieve.
“Then tell me what you want to be, Jack!” she cried.
He couldn’t bear the loneliness in her voice, but he didn’t know what to say. His only response was the soft snick of the door latching behind him as he went.
The familiar pickup headed down the road. Jack, she knew, would do what he wanted to do. Which was leaving. Again. Maybe, he’d come back. She wasn’t sure if that was even what she wanted. He’d made it perfectly clear that he wasn’t the settling-down sort.
In San Francisco, she’d had a single pot of lavender on her deck. Her expensive, chrome-and-glass deck. She’d wanted more than a pot out of life. She’d wanted acres of deep, velvety wands of the purple s
tuff. She’d wanted space and freedom and the chance to dream. Now she wanted Jack.
Some dreams came true with sweat and tears and a hell of a lot of work.
Other dreams were never more than pipe dreams.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out in which category Jack fell. She swiped away the angry tears with the back of her hand.
No. Dressing hurriedly despite the late hour, she stomped downstairs, then grabbed her pruning shears and a bucket and headed outside. She’d been a fool to let Jack Donovan into her heart—again—but she wasn’t going to curl up in a little ball, either. Maybe he’d wake up and realize he was capable of more than he gave himself credit for.
The unexpected whiff of smoke startled her out of her thoughts. A little puff of smoke coming from the compost heap behind her potting shed. She looked down at the bucket in her hand. Five steps to the spigot. Maybe twenty to the shed. All she had to do was dump a little water. When was the last time she’d turned the pile over? Usually she was so very careful—had she forgotten something this time?
Maybe this was an accident, but her feet weren’t moving. Instead, the unwelcome reminder was hurtling her straight down memory lane.
Where was the door? She hadn’t been able to find the door. Her bedroom had been so very, very dark, except for that orange seam of light luring her out toward the kitchen. If she opened the door, would she find an escape route—or would the fire on the other side of the door swallow up the air where she hid? She had to choose. Had to make a choice to open the door or find the window behind her.
The air was dense with smoke, and each breath she took filled her lungs with a little less oxygen and a little more smoke. There was a cough tickling her throat, but she knew that once she started, she wouldn’t stop. Those coughs would tear her apart.
The fire behind her potting shed was just a little thing. There weren’t even any flames.
The doorknob was hot. That was a bad thing. The window was behind her.
Her feet were frozen, glued to the ground. She needed to act, to do something.
Was that a little puff of cooler air on her back? Yes, she needed to go back. And out. Then this nightmare would be over, and she’d be free.
She turned, forcing her feet away from the smoldering pile. This wasn’t right. Wasn’t natural. She knew she hadn’t been careless, so she was going to do exactly what she’d promised Jack she’d do. She’d call it in, and then she’d grab the hose and see what she could do before the boys rode up and did their Sir Galahad thing for her.
She tried to scan her environment. Tried to make out any possible vulnerabilities. There was no obvious lurker, but to get to the compost heap, she’d have to go past the potting shed. Heading straight for her car wasn’t an option—her cell phone and her purse with her keys were inside the farmhouse.
Behind her, the farmhouse’s front door was closed. That was good. That was exactly how things were supposed to be. Making a decision, she quickly retraced her steps and went inside, locking the door behind her. She’d grab the purse and the phone and then take the car down the road before she called for help. If he was watching her, she wouldn’t be sitting still, waiting for him. Jack had eyes on her farm, too, so all she needed to do was buy enough time.
She was reaching for her purse when she heard that familiar hoarse voice. Behind her. In her house. “Took you long enough.”
She’d gone straight from one nightmare to another.
“Oh, God,” she said, and she knew the words came out like a whimper. This man—this unexpected, unanticipated, unwanted threat—had just sucked all the oxygen from the room. Her heart pounded so loudly, she could hear each desperate knock. Adrenaline had her lunging for the door, her fingers scrabbling at the lock, but the man in her house had a gun—she could see it—and she had just a handful of seconds to think about whether she wanted to roll over and play dead or if she’d rather die reaching for the gun in her purse.
Eddie Haverley came out of her rocking chair, moving fast. Her fingers on the lock were almost faster, but he slapped the gun’s barrel against her hand, and the world exploded. “You’re not leaving me,” he said. “Never again, Lily. You’re mine.”
She froze, her fingers pinned beneath the unforgiving metal. A bright shock of the pain tore through her, reminding her that, right now, she was helpless. He had the gun and the upper hand. Her purse was so close and yet impossibly far away. She had a phone in there. Pepper spray. A handgun. All she had to do was close the six feet—but that short distance could have been across Siberia.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, because she had to do something to fill up the horrible silence. Understanding why he was here might give her something she could use. Instead of answering, however, he stepped closer, and she pressed herself against the door, not wanting to betray how much she loathed contact with him but not able to stand still. His skin smelled of smoke and metal and an unpleasant, damp heat. He wasn’t a big man, but he was broad-shouldered.
Strong enough to hurt her.
Beneath a battered baseball cap, his hair was close-cut. That and his clothes—chinos and a flannel shirt—were perfectly nondescript. Camouflage. She could have walked past him a dozen times and never noticed him. He let her look, his fingers plucking the perfect pleats in his pants. Pinching the fabric up, smoothing it down.
“You shouldn’t have let him in,” he said finally. His fingers wrapped around hers, moving her hand away from the latch. Effortlessly, as if she was a small child, he snapped her wrists together and bound them. She hated this feeling of helplessness, hated the fear twisting her stomach into sick knots. “I don’t like Jack Donovan,” he said simply. “I never have. You were never going to belong to him.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Eddie plucked again at the pleat in his pants, then smoothed the abused cotton down before he led her outside to his pickup. “I had to hide until he left. Your boyfriend’s not too smart,” he gloated.
He tossed her casually into his truck, her head slamming into the steering wheel, before sliding into the driver’s seat. She levered herself up. Even if she could get her door open, he’d be all over her before she could even scream.
“You could try it,” he said, all conversational, throwing the truck into drive. If she went through that door now, she’d eat the pavement—that was, if she managed to avoid the truck’s tires.
The sticky dampness on the side of her head was plenty of hint that the dull ache would only get worse before it got better. Looking down, she saw blood speckling the expensive leather seats. He’d pistol-whipped her hard enough to get his point across. The door might be her best option. She let her eyes slide slowly to the side, looking for the handle.
“You go out that door,” he promised, “and I’ll just hurt you that much sooner.”
He’d already hurt her. The gun resting in his lap was pointed right at her, too, another reminder that this was no friendly outing.
“Why are you doing this?”
His hand stroked the trigger, but his eyes didn’t leave the road as he took the route up into the mountains. Fast, but not so fast that he’d draw attention. The truck’s four-wheel drive ate up the distance. “You don’t remember me,” he accused flatly.
She stared at him, searching his profile for clues.
“We went to school together,” he observed. “You’d think a couple of years together like that, you’d remember.” An accusation.
Eddie had been a couple of years older than she, and he’d kept to himself. They’d gone to high school together for a short while, before his grandfather had plucked him out of the public school system and sent him to a private boarding school. She tried to remember if they’d shared anything more than a handful of brief conversations about mundane topics and couldn’t think of anything.
“I’ve been watching you, Lily.” His voice was harsher than she remembered. Damaged by smoke? “You thought you were so clever, picking up and running when I found y
ou in San Francisco, but all you did was run straight back to me.”
Eddie’s free hand reached out and stroked the shiny pink patch of skin where she’d brushed her arm against something metal and hot before escaping her San Francisco home. The scar was now taking on an even much darker, more sinister meaning.
“Don’t touch me.” She tried to pull away because her stomach heaved when he touched her, and she didn’t want his hands on her in any way. She had a feeling Eddie’s fascination with her scar was just the tip of an iceberg she really, really didn’t want to see. Unfortunately, he had a gun. And, as the cold metal pressure now against her neck warned her, his gun hand was rock steady.
“I gave you this,” he continued, ignoring her attempts to free herself. “A little love bite.” His thumb wouldn’t stop moving over her skin. God. She was going to be sick, and that wouldn’t get her out of here. Get her away from him.
She wasn’t going there. Didn’t want to think about what he wanted from her.
“Your boyfriend’s not coming for you,” he said casually, and she couldn’t hold back a flinch. He sounded so very certain. The gun slid against her skin again, reminding her that even the biggest, toughest man was no match for a well-aimed gun. Jack had suspected Eddie Haverley, but would he have seen this coming?
The truck swerved through the canyon roads, the dry landscape rushing past her. With each new turn Eddie took, she slid helplessly in the seat. Her head throbbed where he’d struck her, and within minutes it had smacked into the glass of the passenger side door twice more.
No one would find them out here. No one would even think to look out here.
God. She was going to be all on her own. She’d told Jack she could take care of herself, damn it, but she hadn’t realized she’d be facing down a madman—without a weapon of her own.
“Why?” she asked, because she needed to know, and Eddie Haverley was clearly in a talkative mood. “Why are you doing this to me? What did I ever do to you?”
