Tate chuckled darkly. “Locked and loaded and always ready for action around you, sweetheart. Haven’t you figured that out by now?”
“Even now?”
“Of course. Now shush—you’re going to hurt his feelings.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Well, you’re not being very welcoming.”
“Probably because I assumed I’d have to do some convincing, after the night we’ve had.”
“Consider me convinced, Lyla.” Tate spread her thighs wider, making room for himself to step between them. He ran his lips along her jaw, and bit down on her earlobe, just as he pressed his thumb against her swollen little nub.
She jerked like a live wire. “Tate.”
“Hmm?” She was so wet, and he couldn’t wait to sink inside her—to feel all that slick heat with nothing between them.
“It’s not going to work,” she moaned, every bit of her body language pointing to the exact opposite conclusion.
Tate stepped back and regarded her wryly, unable to resist teasing her a little. “Oh, really. If that’s how you feel, maybe I should take my toy and go home.”
Lyla held up her palms immediately, like he’d gone and fired off a rocket launcher in a shopping mall. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” she said, in her best hostage negotiator voice. “Let’s not be hasty, here.”
He was aware that smugness was generally frowned upon in these situations, but sometimes it couldn’t be helped. He smirked at her and sidled closer. “So, you do want him here.”
“I never said I didn’t.”
Tate crowded up against Lyla and gripped the counter behind her, nuzzling into the delicious space between her neck and shoulder and inhaling her sweet perfume. “You kind of did.”
“He just took me by surprise, that’s all.” She tilted her head to give him better access.
He murmured against her skin, “He’s enthusiastic. Give him a break already.”
Lyla responded as she always did to his tongue, almost purring when she pointed out, “He’s a very nice boy.”
“That’s because he likes you,” Tate explained. “A lot.” And then he took possession of that ripe, sexy pout of hers. She tasted like cinnamon. Always like cinnamon.
He took himself in hand and guided his cock to her entrance, pressing in while Lyla wound her arms around his neck. “Bed’s in there, Captain,” she said.
“Beds are for suckers.” He snaked his hands around Lyla’s thighs and hitched her legs up around his hips, then drove home.
Lyla moaned, long and loud. Tate thrust into her mind-melting heat, and almost lost it right then. He grappled behind her for something to hang on to and ended up knocking her phone and some mail off the counter in the process.
“I’m going to fall.”
“I got you,” he assured her. “Hold on.”
Lyla clung to him like the best, sexiest kind of vine, and Tate knew he wasn’t going to be able to take this slow. While he kissed her, he freed one hand and wedged it between them so he could work her up faster. No way was he going to finish without her.
He couldn’t help noticing a couple of pertinent facts, however. One, Lyla had been so fucking ready for him, he wanted to drop down on his knees and give thanks.
And two, she didn’t need a single bit of help from him. “Geez, sweetheart—could you at least pretend you’re into me?” Tate joked.
Lyla was chasing her own pleasure like a wild, wanton goddess. Not that he minded. This Lyla could come out and play whenever the fuck she wanted, and he’d be here for it.
“Maybe next time,” she fired back breathlessly.
Tate drove in again and kissed that sass right out of her, until Lyla was whimpering and writhing against him once more.
The slide of all that wet, wonderful heat against his cock nearly made Tate’s knees buckle, but the sight of Lyla’s open, uninhibited pleasure made him determined to hold his ground.
“Want you so much, gorgeous girl.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Lyla chanted in his ear with each deep stroke. “Coming fast.”
What was it about her? The way things ignited between them, in the space of a heartbeat, ought to be unnerving. Instead, it had him hooked.
Tate shook his head and tried to reason through the next couple of steps. He pulled back to look into Lyla’s face and spotted a glow in her eyes he hadn’t noticed before. Trust? Or more?
“Lyla,” he whispered, unable to believe what he was seeing.
“Come with me,” Lyla commanded. “Now.”
Tate didn’t argue. He powered into her in one strong stroke, and her body clamped around him like a silky, searing glove. He growled and squeezed his eyes shut so he wouldn’t beat her home.
Lyla swiveled her hips and did some truly diabolical thing with her internal muscles that had her moaning and him on the verge of losing his mind once and for all.
“What the fuck was that,” he gasped.
She did it again, and it was Hi-ho Silver, away—Tate pounded into her, hard and fast against her kitchen bar, until every breath that left Lyla’s lungs emerged in a high-pitched cry that made him twice as hard and three times as ready to cross the finish line.
Except, he didn’t want it to end. Dear God, Tate couldn’t take his eyes off Lyla’s blissed-out face as they came together like a summer thunderstorm, and he never wanted this to end.
TATE’S HEART WAS pounding. His throat was tight like he’d been yelling for hours. Lyla was a warm, sweet bundle against his chest.
“Damn, girl,” he laughed, when he could make his voice work again. “I’m beginning to think you’re an adrenaline junkie. What got into you?”
Lyla tipped her head back and smiled sadly at the ceiling. “You really want to know?”
“Yeah.” Tate pulled her up so the edge of the counter wouldn’t dig into her back, and Lyla met his eyes again.
“You solved the case, Sherlock. You’re going to pass your next evaluation. That means you’re going to leave soon. The party’s almost over.”
Tate stared into her pretty hazel eyes and swore they had a sheen that hadn’t been there a minute before. “I don’t know what to—”
Lyla talked over him, “If the clock’s ticking on us, I guess I don’t want to miss a single minute that’s left,” she told him. Her kiss-swollen lips were inches from his.
Her pulse ticked against the delicate skin of her throat. Tate touched a finger to it and heard the hitch in Lyla’s breathing.
Well, hell. When she put it that way—
Tate crashed his mouth against hers, devouring her with abandon. He was on fire for her, an inferno of want, and it consumed him from the inside out. It burned away every woman who’d come before her, leaving only ash in its wake—and Lyla.
Always Lyla. Forever Lyla.
Lyla, who was his in this moment, and who he’d have to walk away from any day now.
Tate loved her and hated her for turning him into this complicated mess of feeling and need. She hadn’t even tried, and he’d fallen anyway. He couldn’t stand the thought that she might be unaffected, while he was a wreck.
But what was he supposed to do? Make her fall in love with him, just so he could break both their hearts when he left?
“Do it again,” Lyla said next to his ear.
“What?” And now he was hearing things.
“I’m serious, Tate. I want to obliterate everything else—everything except what’s real and true, here and now.”
“You and me,” he whispered, though that probably wasn’t what she’d meant.
“You and me. That’s it—that’s everything.”
Lyla couldn’t possibly know how true those words were to him. He couldn’t say all the things he wanted to say back, not without leaving a crater-sized hole in his wake when he was gone. But Tate could show Lyla how he felt and let her draw her own conclusions.
He lifted her up and carried her straight into her bedroom and did his best to lay bare what was in his heart.
THIRTY-TWO
SHE COULDN’T KEEP this up much longer. Sooner or later, Lyla was going to have to confess to Tate how she felt about him, but her window for doing that was getting smaller every day.
If she never said anything, though, how could she expect to win him over? She had to be brave if she wanted the chance to keep him once this job had ended.
The only problem was, every time Lyla planned to talk to Tate about their future, something else seemed to get in the way. Tonight, for instance, there’d been that wild, flashfire hookup on her kitchen stool, followed by a second, longer interlude in her bedroom.
Lyla tried not to worry about it. It’d been a long day, and neither of them had been sleeping particularly well lately. They needed to rest more than she needed to expose her soul.
There’d be plenty of time to talk come morning, especially since Tate would be staying with her for the time being.
And here in her own bed, Tate had cuddled up to her the same way he’d done in the hotels, wrapping a heavy arm around Lyla’s waist and nestling her snug against his chest as he dropped off to sleep. He’d done it as easily as if they’d been sleeping together for years, not weeks.
Lyla probably shouldn’t read as much into that as she did. Physical compatibility would only get them so far, after all. If she really wanted to hold onto Tate for the long term, she had to convince him that they were compatible in other ways, too.
Coward that she was, though, Lyla was hoping to have that discussion when Tate was in a happy, affectionate mood. Unfortunately, recent events were not exactly working in her favor.
She’d been somewhat busy freaking out, and that had tended to put Tate in a bit of a mood.
His usually-sunny disposition completely evaporated when he was stressed out, but the fact didn’t bother her like it once had. Now that Lyla knew his full story, she felt only sympathy for the ordeal Tate had gone through in the last several months. He’d earned the right to be grouchy now and then.
Not just because of his own injuries, either, but also for what he must be feeling about his teammates who weren’t so lucky. Tate never admitted how much it bothered him, even now, but Lyla hoped that he’d learn to deal with those demons in time. For his sake, and for hers.
She kissed his arm lightly. Maybe it was a good thing that she hadn’t gotten a chance to tell him how she felt about him yet. Until Tate handled the rest of what was keeping him in limbo right now, he shouldn’t have to worry about a lovelorn woman, too.
Lyla turned to face him and watched his eyelids flutter as he dreamed. She could wait a while more for Tate. He was worth it, and so was what she felt for him. What was developing between them was rare and sweet—magic that didn’t come along every day.
Lyla knew it like she knew her own name. So why was she so troubled? She’d woken up only an hour after falling asleep, antsy and restless. Her mind simply wouldn’t settle down, looping over and over on how to eventually tell Tate what she wanted, and what they could do about the distance problem once he returned to active duty.
Lyla laid there in the dark and thought about her parents, as well. She hoped, for their sake, that she and Tate were somehow wrong about Brett. She couldn’t decide what would devastate them more—that someone they trusted had terrorized their daughter, or that they might have been inadvertently responsible for supplying her stalker with a stream of information about Lyla’s whereabouts and activities.
After a while, it became clear she wasn’t going to be falling back asleep anytime soon, so with a quiet sigh, Lyla carefully extracted herself from Tate’s protective embrace and padded out to her kitchen.
In the weak street light coming in through the window, she got a cup from the cabinet and poured herself some milk. Maybe it would give her stomach something to do besides tie itself in knots.
She thought about getting a little work in, but suspected the words wouldn’t flow, given how out-of-sorts she felt.
Maybe she could just turn off the sound and watch some television.
Lyla leaned against the counter while she drank, watching the kitchen curtain furl hypnotically in the breeze, ethereally, like a ghost. It had gotten cooler once the sun went down, and the early summer air smelled fresh and clean.
Tomorrow, no doubt, she’d smell the trash bins in the alley mixed with the exhaust of a million cars, even if she closed up the apartment and turned on the air. For now, though, this was nice.
Lyla jerked upright. Wait.
Why was the window open? Neither she nor Tate had come in here since they’d been home, and he never would’ve let her leave it open when they left for her parents’ house.
On the heels of that thought, came the memory that Tate had never gone through the apartment once they’d returned. They’d made love, twice, and then they’d gone to sleep.
Lyla had set down her cup, thinking that Tate was going to be absolutely furious with himself in the morning about this, when she heard her bedroom door slam closed.
She spun around, and a huge black shadow loomed up in front of her. Lyla didn’t think—it was simply base instinct that made her duck out of the way and dart for the living room.
The shadow resolved into the outline of a man, who crashed into the counter, cursing.
Lyla yelled, “Tate!”
The intruder let out a strangled growl and stumbled after her. “No! That’s wrong. You’re wrong, wrong, wrong, Delilah.”
Like that, Lyla realized who it must be. “Tate!” she screamed louder.
Brett was holding something strange in his hands as he came toward her. He lunged suddenly, trying to get it over her head, and Lyla barely had time to wheel out of the way again.
Behind her bedroom door, there was a sudden crash and an unholy roar. Lyla spotted the chair Brett had wedged under the knob and called out, “It’s blocked! Tate, he blocked the door out here!”
There was no time to free him, though, because Brett was lumbering after her again, his movements broad and uncoordinated, and made doubly frightening by his size.
It’d been a long time since Lyla had been this close to her old classmate and neighbor. Brett had been a big kid back then, but he seemed to have doubled in size since she’d moved away. Maybe it was the tight confines of her apartment, or maybe it was just his deranged frustration, but either way, it was scary as hell.
Lyla wasn’t sure she could evade him for long. With the way Brett kept charging her, she’d never have time to unlock the deadbolts on her front door or do anything about the chair penning Tate in the bedroom.
She trained her eyes on Brett and backed away, keeping as much distance between them as she could. Even in the dark, she could see that his gaze was wild, and his movements unfocused. She wondered if he was drunk.
However, if there’d been any remaining doubt that he was her stalker, it was gone now. Brett kept muttering the word wrong as he tossed Lyla’s things aside, trying to get to her—just like he’d written in her old yearbook, and just like in all the notes and calls since.
Off to the side, Tate sounded like he was throwing his entire body weight against the bedroom door, and Lyla hoped he managed to get himself out soon. God only knew whether any of her neighbors would hear a thing, or even think twice about it.
Brett charged her again, holding what seemed to be a fabric bag that he tried to jam over her head. Lyla held out her arms and fought like hell to keep it off, but Brett had managed to pin her between his body and the couch, and it was tough.
“No! Brett, stop!” she cried.
“Delilah, you stop,” he sputtered, struggling with her. “Stop fighting. It’s wrong to fight me.”
“Tate!” she called again, but her bodyguard had gone eerily silent. Lyla refused to believe that meant she was on her own. He’d never desert her when she needed him.
Brett leaned his full weight against her, bearing down with all his bulk to keep her from getting away again. But the effort didn’t quite give him the leverage he ne
eded to get her head covered with that material.
Lyla shoved and wriggled as much as she could, trying to fight him off or slip away, but Brett was so damn heavy and strong. She couldn’t get a leg up to knee him, and she couldn’t get her arms or hands into position to poke him in the eye or jab him the throat. What good would cracking her knuckles do now?
It was suffocating and terrifying and happening so fast, and all at once, true panic set in. Tate couldn’t see their secret signal and he couldn’t help her in time. Lyla couldn’t help herself.
Brett was going to get his way, and she was suddenly extremely scared about what that might entail.
“Why are you always so wrong, Delilah?” Brett demanded, his breath fetid and hot in her face. “I keep explaining to you, and you just won’t—” he reared back and sneered, “—listen.”
Brett slammed his forehead hard against hers. Lyla saw stars. Her whole body went slack and the room took a couple of sluggish spins around her head, and her attacker took the opportunity to slip that bag right over her skull.
“No!” she screamed, horrified at the sudden absence of sight and air, and the claustrophobic feel of the cloth against her face.
Incomprehensibly, Brett gurgled in response. In slow increments, he backed away from her until Lyla’s body slumped to the floor. The sudden movement made her retch, and she curled into a ball until the feeling passed.
When nothing else happened, Lyla scrabbled at the edges of the hood, wrenching it off and looking frantically around.
Brett was on his heels and sagging weirdly backward, choking and clawing at a thick forearm wrapped around his throat. She didn’t know how, though, because her bedroom door was still closed behind that chair.
“Tate…?”
“Lyla, call the cops,” Tate grunted from behind Brett. “And hurry. This fucker is big.”
“How did you…?”
“Used the window,” he forced out. “Now call.”
There was no fire escape outside her window. Tate would’ve had to shimmy along a ledge three stories up to get to her.
Holy crap.
Brett was still writhing and kicking, trying to get free. Lyla snapped out of her haze and dove for her purse near the front door, then pawed around inside, looking for her cell phone.
The Hero Was Handsome (Triple Threat Book 3) Page 29
