by Alison Kent
About that knife, not this one. The one they'd used on her, the one that had cut her, the one she had feared would end her life, and her hand began to shake. She let the blade fall to the floor, shuddering as she reached for the front clasp of her bra instead.
The moment her breasts spilled free, Spencer's nostrils flared and she reached out to cup him. She licked her lips, stepped close enough to rub herself over his chest. "I want to see you. I want you to take all this good stuff out of your pants."
A desperate groan rolled through his body, but he frowned as she reached for his buckle and zipper. "What are you doing, Candy?"
"I'm going to give you what you've been asking for. I'm going to let you in on all my deep dark secrets." She had to do this, to tell him, to drive him away before she fell in love and he left her. Hurt her. She couldn't take any more hurt.
She reached into his briefs, her wrist tickled by the dark silky hair growing low on his belly, her hand teased by his smoothness and his heat, and lifted him free. He groaned. He hissed. He was rock-hard and oozing already.
She rubbed his tight mushroom head with her palm, stroked it over the skin of her stomach, leaving a trail of sticky moisture, loving the contrast of black against white. Then she tilted her hips forward to hold him against her and used a forearm to cradle her breasts.
"See these tiny nicks? Here around my nipples? They're not easy to see. You probably felt them when you sucked me, thinking they were part of the way I puckered in your mouth. But they're not. They're from the blade of a knife. One a man threatened me with when he raped me."
He gasped. "What? You were raped?"
She nodded, felt him shudder, felt him begin to soften. She didn't want his pity, didn't want him to hate her. Didn't want anything but to have him love her one last time before he went away, unable to look at her any longer without seeing the truth of her past.
She bent at the waist, sucked him into her mouth, took him to the back of her throat. She loved the texture of his cock, the polished head, the root that was thick and veined. With her free hand, she cupped his balls and gently squeezed, sliding a finger deep between his legs to tease him.
Once he was throbbing again, once he moaned like she'd hit the fast forward on his fantasies, she released him. And she stood, smiled, discarded her bra. "Be honest, Spencer. Tell me that I scare you. That I'm not the girl you thought I was. That I'm not the girl you want."
His eyes glittered, the look on his face all grown-up and wild. "I want you in ways I've never wanted you before. I'm not going anywhere. I want to be with you, Candy. I want to be here for you."
He wasn't running away. Instead, he was hooked. She had him. The thought caused her knees to wobble, her hands to vibrate with tremors. "Oh, I'll take what I need, baby. And you'll get yours. But only if you do exactly what I say."
He couldn't agree quickly enough. "Anything."
"Take off your belt." She almost lost her nerve. The words didn't want to come. "Tie my hands behind my back."
She watched the tick of his pulse at his temple, felt sweat blossom in the small of her back. The juice from her pussy ran down her thighs. She couldn't believe how wet she was, how horny, how scared.
But she needed this too much to back out now. It was a cleansing, a purification, an exorcism. And she needed it from Spencer Munroe. She turned around, crossed her wrists and waited ... It had been so long ago, edges were fuzzy, details hazy, but she remembered the parts that counted.
Things like the fact that no one had used a condom that night. Her soon-to-be stepfather certainly hadn't. He'd bent her over the hood of his car and made her wait while he'd finished his beer. Just left her there, her ass in the air, like a trophy.
The same way Spencer was leaving her now. She pulled in a deep breath and glanced over her shoulder. "What are you waiting for?"
He blinked, shook his head, then backed a step away. "I'm not doing this. No way."
She felt her eyes widen, felt like a wild animal, her nostrils flaring to search out his scent. "You said you'd do anything I told you to do."
"Yeah, but not—"
"Do it," she demanded, her voice quivering. Her nipples tightened as she spun to face him.
He pulled away, looked into her eyes. His battle with arousal and confusion rivaled hers with arousal and fear. After this, she knew he'd never want to see her again.
Except then he reached for her as if he never wanted to let her go. Instead of treating her like the whore she'd been called that night, he slid a hand behind her neck, cupped her cheek with the other, and pulled her close. "I'm not going to tie you up when it's not about pleasure, Candy. You mean too much to me for that."
"Who said it's not about pleasure?" she asked, looking away, looking down, looking anywhere but into his eyes.
"I can see it. You're not even here with me. You're long gone." His throat convulsed as he swallowed. His thumb was unsteady when he stroked her face. "You're back there in the past. With that knife. And I'm not going to be a part of that."
She felt like ice, like fire, freezing and melting all at the same time. "I warned you a hundred times, baby. You wouldn't like finding out about my past."
"No. I didn't." His voice was thick, husky, raw. "I don't want to think of you being hurt. Or going through something as horrible as rape. But it doesn't change anything about how I feel."
No. She wouldn't believe it. It hurt to believe it. To have that hope. "How can you feel anything for me, knowing what happened?"
"This isn't about the past, Candy. It's about here and now," he said, reaching for the hem of his T-shirt and pulling the garment over his head. "This is about you and me. About you trusting me. Letting me take it all away. About me making love to you."
He reached for the lace edge of her panties then, tugged the garment down her legs, kneeling before her to kiss her thighs that quivered, her knees that quaked, coming back to kiss her sex, her belly, lingering over the scars on her breasts before coming all the way back to her mouth. To kiss her, to press his lips to hers, to slip his tongue inside.
He coaxed her to open, cradled her face in his palms, softly made love to her with nothing more than the touch of his fingertips, the slide of his tongue, the soft nibbling of his lips and his teeth as he claimed her. She held on, her fingers curled into his biceps, and let him have what he wanted, kissing him back until she tasted the waterfall of their tears.
His cock throbbed there where it was trapped between them, bobbing against her insistently. Spencer ended the kiss, his eyes sparkling, and pushed his jeans and briefs to his ankles before he sat back on the couch. She climbed into his lap, her knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips, and braced her hands behind her on his thighs.
He sheathed his cock and guided it between the lips of her sex, swirled hims'elf around the knob of her clit. She watched, he watched, and she wept softly with wanting him, with the gentleness he showed her, with the way he took his time to ready her, to make sure the pleasure wasn't all his.
One hand held his cock as he pushed into her, stretching her open around his thick shaft. His other hand came between their bodies to find her clit and play. He pressed up slowly, easing farther inside as she opened to the pressure. She groaned as he filled her, groaned as he stopped.
"Am I hurting you?" he asked tenderly.
Sobs bubbled like lava in her chest, hurting her more than anything he could ever do. You're supposed to tell me I'm a whore like my mother. You're supposed to shove the handle of your knife inside me and threaten to turn it around and cut me if I talk. "No. You're not hurting me at all."
"You're so beautiful." His voice broke. "You're so hot and amazing." He moved one hand to her knee, hooking his fingers in the bend, stroking her, squeezing her, such a simple contact, such a sweet, caring touch. "I love being with you, Candy, and making love with you, and this ..." His voice broke. "It's nothing like I've experienced."
She squeezed her eyes closed. Tear spilled down
her cheeks. He wasn't supposed to be so caring; his concern was too hard to take. "You're doing it, baby. You're doing everything right."
He used one hand to finger and play her, one hand to hold onto her knee while he thrust. She contracted around him, squeezed his cock. He grunted and groaned. She did the same. And then it was done. That quickly, she came all over him.
She shook and shuddered as spasms tore through her, as Spencer Munroe, sweet Spencer alone, took away the shame and the terror and every bit of the fear. She milked him, rode him, urged him on, wanting to give him the ride of his life, a memory to keep with him forever.
"God, Candy. I'm gonna come," he said, and even with the layer of protection between them, he warmed her inside when he did, the fingers of both hands digging into her hips and bruising her as he held on.
Once he'd finished, once he'd pulled free of her body, he collapsed back, taking her with him, holding her with one arm wrapped tightly around her back. He toyed with the ends of her hair, with the pooch of flesh beneath the pit of her arm, with the ridge of her spine.
She could've slept in his arms. Could've stayed in that safe circle forever. She wanted to do just that. To feel their heartbeats each race to catch up with the other. But she was Candy Roman. He was Spencer Munroe. And they could never have more than this between them.
Climbing off the couch, she turned to give him time to adjust his clothing, reached for her skirt and top, slipped into both. Then she bent and picked up the knife, used it to stab the lingerie she would never wear again because doing so would remind her how sweet he'd been.
She pulled them from the blade and shoved the pieces into Spencer's pocket. "You can throw those away for me when you get home," she said, hoping what she saw in his eyes was a twinkle and not a tear.
It took a deep breath for her to say what she needed to say next. What she'd never talked about to anyone outside of court except for Neva. She held out the knife she'd closed, held on when he reached for it, finally letting go. "The last man who tied me up used a knife to rape me."
"What?" Spencer reeled back.
"I'd brought two six-packs outside. My mother sent me. Her boyfriend's posse was partying and raising hell. And she sent me outside." Candy hugged herself tightly, her fingertips digging into her ribs. "Seems I made the perfect party favor. They stripped me, cut me, tied me facedown to the hood of one of their cars, and took turns."
She stared at the toes of her boots, seeing her own reflection from all those years back in the glossy black paint of the car. "The last one was the man my mother was going to marry. He was going to be my stepfather. He was going to be living in my house. When he finished threatening me, I picked up the knife where he'd dropped it. And I killed him."
"What are you talking about?" Spencer croaked out.
"Exactly what I said." She crossed the living area to the corner windows that looked out over the wide expanse of open spaces beyond the Barn. She couldn't look at her beautiful boy anymore. She didn't want her last picture, her final memory, to be disgust in his eyes.
Numb, she went on. "I met Neva when I was in prison. She was my court-appointed attorney."
"How old were you?" His question was a whisper.
"When it happened? Seventeen. When it was over and done and I moved here? Nineteen."
"Younger than me. The same age as Liberty Mitchell."
She couldn't help it. She had to look back. His compassion, his eyes, which were red with emotion, made her wish she hadn't. He looked years older than he'd ever looked before. "She's a cute girl, much more your type. You ought to think about dating her."
"That's not funny."
"I know." She braced her hands on the wall behind her, leaned back against them. "It's just easier to make jokes than to break things off."
"Break things off? Between us? Why?"
"Because of my past. The secrets you've always wondered about. And because of your future." Because you need a girl with pink apple cheeks and white cotton sweaters who can give you babies to bounce on your knees. "I'm not a girl your parents are going to want to have sitting down to a family dinner."
His voice was soft, shattered. "What about what I want, Candy? What about what we've got?"
She chewed the inside of her lip, pressed her short nails into her palms, her knuckles into the wall. "Spencer. Trust me. In a year, I'll be nothing but an occasional wet dream to you."
His jaw bulged. "So that's it? I'm just a hick sowing a few wild oats? You really believe that?"
Jesus Lord help her, no. But she let her silence say otherwise until the light died in his eyes. She was so cold. So cold. Her teeth were threatening to chatter. "I hope we can stay friends, Spencer. This doesn't have to turn ugly."
"Turn ugly?" His laugh, a harsh cackling burst of sound, said it all. "It was ugly before 1 got here."
He turned, slammed the door on his way out. She heard him start up his truck engine, heard his tires spew gravel, heard him drive away.
And then she crumpled onto her sofa, drew her knees to her chest, and cried until she couldn't cry anymore over those lost seventeen years of her life.
By the time Mick got the information he needed from Neva and checked the feeds before leaving the barn, Candy was walking into range of the two front cameras. He headed down the hidden staircase and into the shipping center, hearing the same blowtorch from earlier today firing once he reached the patio door. Candy was back at work.
Neva had told him that she wanted to stay and show Liberty the workings of the apartment. That was fine by Mick. It gave him time to touch base with Rabbit in the SG-5 ops center. Mick's fellow operative might not be thrilled with his plan—Harry never had been happy working in the desert heat. But he wouldn't argue. That was the way the Smithson Group worked. A real bunch of merry musketeers.
FM trotting along at his side and still looking freaky, half the mutt's face missing its fur, Mick headed around the back of Neva's house where he'd moved his Rover before coming in earlier for lunch. Hadn't taken a rocket scientist to figure out Doc Ed wasn't overjoyed at finding another man at Neva's table—though the piece of furniture most on the man's mind had been Neva's bed.
Mick didn't get it. The doc needed to let the woman go and move on. She wasn't interested—a fact Mick had gathered when he was half dead in the bed of her pickup, long before she'd come to life beneath him on that love seat, which was way too short for a man in his condition. And he wasn't talking about the state of his ribs.
He'd only planned to hold her while she got her cry out. And, okay, give her a comforting kiss. Which was bloody fucking stupid when he thought about it. Because comforting and Neva Case didn't fit. She fit with the things they'd done, the groping and getting off. She fit with a whole lot more they hadn't done . . . yet.
And even as he declared it so, he knew it wasn't true. Because being here for her, protecting her, seeing to her safety, and offering the comfort she needed were all part of the same package. A package wrapped around the good stuff he'd eventually get to. As long as he could make this deal with Rabbit and buy himself the time.
He opened the Rover's driver's-side door, flicking the lever that would switch his headlights to bright, were they turned on. Instead, the lever released the lock holding his custom captain's chair in place. He slid his fingers between the seat back and the seat bottom, pulled the latter forward to reveal a compartment beneath.
A pretty damn empty compartment considering the items that would've been stored inside were they not now the property of the clone brothers. He grabbed the text-messaging unit, closed up the Rover, and walked out into the field behind Neva's house. The portable unit made more sense to use than the cargo-hold computer, considering the traffic coming and going through here the last couple of days.
FM lumbered on up ahead as Mick cut beneath the pecan trees, adjusting the sport strap holding his sunglasses in place, brittle fried grass crunching beneath his boots. Neva's place was flatter than the plot of land over the bor
der where he'd taken his tumble and ride. And her view wasn't obscured by rocky arroyos and rolling hills sliced off on one side into sharp abutments.
It was a strange place for this interesting woman to live. A place that just didn't fit. One of these days he would figure out what the hell she was doing all the way out here. What it was she was running from. In the meantime, he needed to work his spy magic.
Far enough away now that no one would be sneaking up while his back was turned, he flipped open the unit's two side wings, turned it on, and extended the antenna. Connection made, he used his thumbs on the miniature keyboard to type his password at the prompt. He doubted Harry would still be monitoring communications this time of day, but he was.
>Rabbit here.
>Savin checking in.
>What's new?
>A name. Holden Wagner.
>Spectra?
>Negative. Lawyer. Big shot.
>What gives?
>Checkered past? Look into it?
>Will do. That it?
Unfortunately, it wasn't. Mick gave Rabbit a brief rundown of Neva's network, the checkpoints, the transfer stations, the safe houses.
>Need to plug a leak.
>I'll find the hole.
>Also need a hack.
This time Mick explained the setup of Neva's satellite dish and Internet connection, along with her system's specs. The rest would be up to Kelly John Beach.
>I'll pass it to K.J.
>Tell him to set up for a possible wipe.
>Will do.
>Thanks, mate. And pack a bag,
Mick could almost hear the other man groan.
>You want me to bring hard copy?
>No. I need you to catch the train.
>When?
>Stand by. I'll check back.
>Right. Rabbit out.
Mick shut down the handheld, tucked it into his pocket. That was about all he could do remotely. He'd have to get with Rabbit in person before going into detail. But the ball was picking up speed, and Mick felt damn good about doing that much at least.
