Consumed by Fire (23 page)

It finally came out in an almost inaudible rasp. “Don’t . . .” she managed to begin, and she could feel the anger and frustration in the body plastered so tightly against hers.

“Jesus Fucking Christ, Angel, what do you think I’m going to do? Cut your throat and bury you in the woods like Clement? Rape you? I told you I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“Don’t . . .” she tried again; he was so close, and she didn’t want to be here, she didn’t want to be trapped underneath him, she didn’t want all these clothes between them. She wanted him inside of her, she wanted him hard and fast, pounding into her, driving all thoughts and fears from her tangled brain, and her breathing began to speed up once more, as tremors danced across her skin. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down as much as she could, forcing the rest of the words out. “Don’t . . . know.”

“Is that ‘don’t’ and ‘no’?” he said, his voice harsh. “Or is that ‘don’t know,’ as in you don’t know what’s wrong with you?”

She managed to nod. She was so cold, and so hot, trapped here in the enveloping darkness with Bishop on top of her, all around her. If he’d go away she’d be able to pull herself together . . .

He’d pushed himself up on his elbows, and was looking down at her in the inky darkness; and for a moment they were suspended in time, staring at each other. “Fuck it,” he said finally, sliding one hand behind her neck to pull her mouth up to his.

His kiss was air to a drowning man, oxygen to an asthmatic. His open mouth closed over hers and his breath filled her lungs and her veins, and she was alive again, blood pumping through her body as he kissed her, his tongue sliding against hers with such perfect intimacy that she wanted to weep.

She made a sound, and whether it was protest or surrender didn’t matter, because she kissed him back, hungry for him, desperate for him. She reached for his shirt and began yanking it free from his jeans, needing to feel his skin against her, needing to lose herself in him.

He’d been a carefully banked fire, but with her hands on his skin he seemed to explode, and his patience vanished. He reached down and tore her cutoffs open, the strength in his hands shocking her as the zipper and denim gave way, yanked them down her legs, complete with her underwear, and threw them into the darkness. Her uneasiness returned—this was Bishop, this was a stranger. This was her husband, this was a thief and a liar. This was the man she loved, this was the man she despised. This man was a lover.

This man was a killer.

He shoved her legs apart, and she wanted to say something, to stop him, but things had gone too far in that short time. She heard the rip of his zipper, the quick shove of clothes, and for one brief moment the head of his cock against her, large and heavy, and it had been so long . . .

He thrust into her, hard, and she cried out. Not in pain, though it hurt, but with a pleasure so powerful it shook her. He was so big, filling her, and it seemed as if she’d been empty forever, needing him, only him, and no one could take his place.

She wrapped her legs around his tight butt, her hands caught up in his shirt, and he thrust again, and it was too much, too hard, too fast, and she couldn’t get enough of him. The shirt ripped open beneath her desperate hands, buttons flying into the darkness, and she didn’t care. She needed his skin, she needed to put her face against his chest and breathe him in again, that rich, clean smell of his skin.

It was the same. That scent that was peculiarly his own, and she pushed the shirt off his shoulder and licked him, licked the sweat off him as he pumped into her, over and over again.

The orgasm hit her like a shock—she’d been so caught up in the devouring pleasure of his hard thrusts that she hadn’t even thought about needing more. This was what she wanted, and the climax that washed through her, sending her into spasms of choking pleasure, had come too quickly.

He pulled out of her, and she screamed in protest, hitting him. He was panting in the darkness, and his hands were rough as he flipped her over, yanking her hips up. “This way,” he growled, and pushed in again, deeper than ever, and she wanted more. The pain wasn’t important, the feel of him deep, deep inside her was what mattered, and she let go, taking his fierce thrusts with such raw satisfaction that she might die from it. This was life, this was what she needed, only this, forever, in the darkness. His body covering her, his hands yanking her bra up so he could slide his fingers over her breasts, rough with her tight nipples, and she buried her face in the mattress to silence her cries of fierce release, her body squeezing his cock as climaxes rocketed through her. So fast she didn’t know where one ended and the other began, and it didn’t matter. She was weeping into the sheets as he fucked her, and when he thrust home, holding himself there, his own climax hit him; then he slid his hand down to find her clitoris, and she lost it completely, sobbing into the mattress.

The climaxes wouldn’t stop. He pulled out, too fast, and she lay face down on the mattress, letting the spasms race through her body.

She felt his big hands slid up her legs, and when he came to her hips, he turned her onto her back, more gentle now, and she could hear the sound of his rough breathing perfectly in the night air. She was panting, struggling to regain control, when he slid into her again, in deep, and she realized with a shock he was still just as hard. She’d felt him come, and he was still hard.

“I can’t . . .” she managed to choke out, but he pulled her legs around his hips.

“You can,” he whispered, moving into her, slowly now, rhythmically, the initial frenzy passing. They were both slick with sweat, and she felt weak, shattered, unable to do more than wrap her arms around his waist, bury her face against his skin and hold on. She would do this for him, let him . . .

The small climax hit her and she cried out, a shriek of surprise, certain that she’d had nothing left, and no sooner had it passed than she was afraid again. He was taking too much from her, there would be nothing left. She dug her fingernails in, pulling him closer, as she teetered on a precipice, terrified of the darkness beyond, certain she’d disappear completely.

“Let go, Angel.” His voice was a rasp in her ear, and she heard the name with a twisted kind of joy. “Let go of it all.”

She shook her head, beyond words, fighting it, fighting him, fighting to survive. He was stripping everything from her, she would die . . .

“Let go, Angel,” he whispered again, and it sounded like love. “I’ll catch you.”

With those simple words he ripped away the last of her defenses, and she was open, naked, raw, and bleeding before him. She convulsed, and he was inside her, surrounding her, there was nothing but James in the velvety darkness as he joined her in that final climax. James and Angel in a cocoon of sweat and sex and endless pleasure pushed through the crucible of pain, back into love once more, and there was nothing left. Nothing.

She was vaguely aware of him pulling away from her, rolling onto his side beside her in the small space, and she felt abandoned. She realized with a shock that he was still wearing his jeans—he’d just shoved them down—and his shirt was half on. She was wearing her T-shirt and her bra was pushed up to her shoulders, and if she could she would have laughed.

She couldn’t. She shuddered. The night air was suddenly cool as the sweat dried on her skin, and she started to turn, wanting nothing more than to curl up in shame, when she felt his hands on her body, unexpectedly gentle. He pulled her T-shirt over her head, found the clasp to her bra with unerring expertise, and unfastened it, tugging it free, and she was naked. He slid off the bunk, and she started to turn again, but his hand caught her, held her. A moment later he was back in the bunk, nothing but skin against skin as he pulled her into his arms. He said nothing, but simply wrapped himself around her, holding her tight against him. His heart was still thudding heavily, or maybe that was hers, and he pulled her leg over his hip to get her closer, tucking her head against his shoulder.

Now was the time to whisper words of love, of guilt, of reassurance. Now was the time to comfort her.

“Sleep,” was all he said as he pulled a quilt over their rapidly cooling bodies.

She slept.

Chapter Twelve

Bishop let himself sleep for three hours. It was a luxury that his body accepted gratefully, and when he awoke, precisely at seven as he’d programmed himself to do, he felt better than he had in a long time. Better than he had in five years.

She still lay curled in his arms. Not that he’d given her any choice—in his sleep he’d sensed each time when she’d tried to pull away, curl in on herself, and he hadn’t let her. He’d held her until the very last bit of resistance left her, and she clung to him as if they belonged together, needed each other to survive. Crazy, of course, but he needed that feeling. Just for a short while, he needed to indulge in that impossible fantasy, before he had to let her go again.

He slid away from her, hard as a rock, of course, and dropped his feet silently on the narrow floor of the Winnebago. Merlin sat up, immediately alert, and Bishop opened the door, heading out into the light with the dog.

They were parked in a remote corner of forest on the edge of the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, one of the satellite-safe zones he’d been briefed on. There was even running water, though in late summer the river wasn’t much more than a narrow stream. Merlin leaped ahead happily, signing everything as he went, while Bishop thought dark, depressing thoughts as he waited for his erection to subside enough to relieve himself in the bushes. There were times when he wished he had half of Merlin’s energy. Right now he felt . . .

He wasn’t sure what he felt. Immense physical satisfaction, of course. How could he not? That it felt more than physical was something he wasn’t ready to consider. Besides, what good would it do? Home was the Committee, not the arms, the soul, the snappishly sharp mind and welcoming body of his erstwhile wife.

He’d been too rough with her and he knew it, but he’d been holding his hunger, his absolute starvation for her, at bay for so long that when he finally cut loose from his restraints, he was like an animal, one that she met fully, not pulling back. He still wanted to kick himself. He would have been gentle with her, would have forced his body back under his rigid control, but she’d dug her nails into his skin and took everything he gave her and more.

He
should
have been gentler, eased her back into it, but he’d forgotten the almost incendiary passion that flamed between them, and it had torn his resolve into pieces. He might have hurt her—he couldn’t be sure—but he was reasonably certain he could have stopped if she’d wanted him to, needed him to.

Shit
, he thought, suddenly morose. Merlin was enjoying himself, sniffing everything, reveling in being off duty for a time, but when he glanced back at Bishop, it was as if he’d sensed his master’s conflicted emotions. He shouldn’t be having emotions. And he wasn’t Merlin’s master anymore. The dog he’d raised and trained had switched allegiance far more thoroughly than Bishop had ever imagined he might. He’d sent Merlin on a job, and the dog had fallen in love.

“Oh, Christ, Merlin,” he said, his voice thick with shock. “You’re as bad as I am. That woman is practically lethal.”

Merlin immediately sat now that he was being addressed, and he looked at Bishop questioningly. “Yeah, I know,” Bishop said. “We’re both in trouble. I can get myself out of it easily enough”—at least he hoped so—“but I think you’re in it for the long haul.”

Merlin cocked his head, not looking troubled by this revelation. “Lucky bastard,” Bishop muttered, stretching in the morning light.

He rinsed off in the icy water of the stream, then opened one of the outside storage compartments on the Winnebego to catalogue the supplies. There was enough fire power to fight a small war, a duffle bag with clothes, and a crate of the food he’d requested. Neither of them had eaten much—well, not counting that massive meal Evangeline had devoured at the diner—and they couldn’t afford to skip meals. Maybe he’d climb back into the revamped Winnebago to find that the astonishing sex that always erupted between them had made her sweetly domestic and docile.

He doubted it. He’d kept close tabs on her for the last five years, watched her as she changed, known that he’d done it to her. Losing her naïveté had probably been inevitable, but it hadn’t needed to be so extreme. She’d lost that incredible, slightly wary sweetness, and he missed it. Now she was snarky, and sarcastic, and it made him hot as hell. He’d been charmed by the semi-innocent young professor roaming Italy on her own. The new woman she’d become was even more irresistible.

He yanked on clean clothes—jeans and a deliberately stupid T-shirt—and stretched out on the grass. He’d give her a little time—they could afford that much. They were on the border of New Mexico and Colorado, and they’d be heading across the vast expanse of Texas. It was Tuesday, and he needed to be in New Orleans by Thursday. Ryder had been given the task of finding the perfect setting for the new American branch of the Committee, and he’d found the right spot. The new arm of the Committee would be just as covert, and who was funding it or the original branch in London was anybody’s guess. As far as Bishop could tell it was probably a conglomerate of millionaires and western countries with the kinds of national budgets that could hide the Committee’s expenditures. Ryder couldn’t sign papers without him, and the real estate people were getting itchy; even though Bishop had suggested Ryder simply shoot the broker, they’d both known it was nothing more than a black joke. The sooner they got everything in place, the sooner they could put a stop to His Eminence and his hideous business, and Bishop wasn’t in the mood to wait.

It was about twelve hundred miles between where they were and New Orleans. He could drive it straight, no problem, and the reconfigured engine on the Winnebago, not to mention the secondary gas tank, would make it fast and painless.

But an ancient Winnebago driving anything past sixty would look suspicious. Besides, once they reached New Orleans he had to let her go. Once Ryder assured him she was safe.