A Killing Kind of Love: A Dark, Standalone Romantic Suspense (23 page)

Too fast, way too fast.

He rolled over, pulled her on top of his thighs—back from the danger zone—took her face in his hands and kissed her hard. She let him, digging her nails into his shoulders and squirming up his body until her softness met his steel—until his mind blanked and his cock pounded like a runner’s heart. How he’d thought having her on top would slow him down, he couldn’t figure.

“Okay, okay,” he muttered. Holding her back from him, he sucked up some air. “This is going to be worse than I thought.” He stilled himself, striving for control.

She leaned over him, her hair, where the dim lamplight caught it, turning to gold at the tips. He couldn’t see her face, but he could hear her exhale—the raggedness of it. He smelled the clean minty scent of her toothpaste before she bent her head to his neck and nipped him. “I’ll take that as a good thing.” She reached a hand down and between them, lifted herself enough so she could touch him.

He closed his eyes, prayed to some distant and unknown sex god to intervene with a dose of patience. “You keep doing that, and I won’t—” he stopped when she stroked him gently, almost idly.

“Won’t last the night?” Her words lashed his feverish skin.

Before he could answer, she said, “What makes you think I want you to?” She lifted herself, positioned herself at the tip of him. “Give me what you’ve got, Dan. All of it.
Now
.”

He cursed or prayed, he wasn’t sure which, then He gripped her hips, thrust up, and buried himself as far and deep as nature allowed. But he held on.

She moaned, threw her head back. He heard her gasp, then moan long and low.

Still joined with her, he said, “Lean back.” She did—exposing what he needed. He found her sweet spot, heard her intake of breath, then as skillfully as a man could who was breaking apart, he touched her, played with her. His thumb circling her. Easy. Hard. Around her point of heat until her delicate extension sat exposed.

He rubbed. Stroked.

Her final rush was liquid fire, a deep inner clenching that went straight to his core. Gripping her hips, he held her to him, thrust up and released into her desperate frenzy.

She shuddered and her head fell back. After some long, hard breathing, she lowered herself to his chest, sprawling over it like a rag doll.

Nestling her face close to his neck, she murmured, “That was amazing.”

“That was crippling.”

She lifted her head, then a hand to brush his sweat- dampened hair off his forehead. “Meaning what? You’re not up for seconds?”

“I’m up for all of you I can get.” He ran his hand down her slick back. “But I need a minute.” He liked this particular minute after sex, two bodies lax and fused by the juices of sex.

She put her face back to his neck. “Me too.” She murmured something he couldn’t hear against his cooling skin. He was certain she’d laughed.

He touched her hair. “What was that?”

She rolled off his chest, away from his body. Propping her head in one hand and resting the other on his chest, she said, “I was thinking how true that old bumper sticker really is.”

He arched a questioning brow.

“A hard man is good to find.”

He smiled. “So is a hot woman, one who knows what she likes—and goes for it.”

She made a circle with her index finger in his chest hair, then stroked it flat. “Scare you?”

“Yeah, right!” He looked at her, frowned. “You’re not kidding.”

“Not completely.” Silence. “I generally take my time, think things through before I make a decision and go for something. But when I do decide, I tend to, uh, over-focus. As in not knowing when to quit. I think I might have done that with you.”

Dan shifted to his side, wedged his leg between hers. She was still warm, still wet, and she smelled like sex and roses. He put a hand on her face, met her gaze—a gaze honestly concerned. “Definitely not a problem. You can focus on me as much as you want for as long as you want because quitting is the last thing on my mind.”

“Glad to hear it.” She kissed his ear, then nipped his earlobe. When her warm breath touched his ear, his chest contracted.

Okay, he might have to wait a minute or two for old dick to rise to the task, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t fast-forward things for the lady in his arms.

“But this time,” he added, bending again to kiss her breast, “we’ll take it slow. Real slow.” He lifted his head, smiled down at her, and glanced toward the still-dark window. “Given your focus and my determination, we should be able to last until first light.” He ran his hand down her stomach, spread his fingers over her warm skin. “Hell, there’s parts of you I haven’t even kissed yet.”

She inhaled sharply. “Can’t have that.”

“We won’t.”

First light,
Camryn thought, her brain dimming as his mouth moved over her, down her
… if I survive Dan Lambert long enough to see it.

A rough, careless hand shook Gina awake, and the barest of light filtered through her half-opened eyes. When they opened wider, she saw Delores glaring at her, her face mere inches away.

“What’s the matter with you? What are you doing down here?” Delores said.

“Nothing, I—” Gina couldn’t think clearly enough to finish the sentence. She squinted, tried to orient herself. She was in the living room, but it was cold and damp, and the wet wind was rushing over her exposed skin, coming in from the open patio doors. Her very bones were frigid, and the smell of sweat and dirt filled her nostrils. Some non-essentials registered: Her mother was in her chair, maybe a foot away. She wore a pink top—dark pink—and black slacks. And makeup.

“For God’s sake, cover yourself up,” Delores said.

She looked at her mother, saw her jerk her head toward Gina’s chest where her naked breasts spilled from the torn front of her nightgown. One of her breasts was scratched, a sodden brown leaf adhering to the edge of the scrape like a misplaced Band-Aid. She peeled it off, looked at it, and closed her eyes to catch a memory. Her mind flitted like a bird, thought to thought, until . . .

Adam . . . Where was Adam?

Adam was why she was here.

“What time is it?” There was no trace of light outside.

“Almost six.”

Focused now, she sat up, so quickly her brain ached, and pulled the remnants of her gown to her chest. Eyes wide and dry, she looked around. She had to be careful; she’d almost voiced her question about Adam. That wouldn’t be smart.

Delores knew Adam. Delores had fucked Adam. Delores couldn’t be trusted. She didn’t know Adam was here, or that he was going to stay. Forever.

“Your feet are bleeding.” A pause. “All over my carpet! Get up. Get a towel. Do something!”

Gina looked at her feet. They were mottled with blood and soil. Staring at them, the events of the evening came back.

It had started with a smear of lipstick. They’d fought. Adam had told her to get the hell out of his room, accused her of being irrational, “stupidly jealous,” and said if she didn’t trust him, wouldn’t do what he wanted, he’d leave. Find someone else to help him.

Someone else . . .
the words hit her like shrapnel.

She closed her eyes against what happened next. Her going back to his room, begging forgiveness, pleading with him to make love to her. But he’d refused. He wouldn’t touch her. All he could talk about was getting custody of his daughter and about Camryn . . .

First Holly, now Camryn.
She couldn’t bear it. Hated him for it. Hated them even more.

Her brain boiled, its putrid contents bubbling, swelling, threatening to spew, overwhelm. She forced herself to concentrate, to remember. After she’d left Adam, she’d gone to her room, then she’d . . . She rubbed her forehead.

She’d got the gun from the top of her closet.

“Where were you, Gina? I want to know,” Delores demanded. “Speak up, girl, or this conversation will take all night.”

“I’m not . . . sure. I must have been sleepwalking.” Frantic, she tried to remember where she’d left the gun. She remembered it in her hand, but what did she do with it?
What?

“Whatever the hell you’ve been doing, you’re a mess, and you’re ruining my sofa—not to mention that silk pillow you slept on.”

“I’m sorry.” She wondered vaguely why Delores cared about the carpet. Delores never cared about anything except herself.

The pillow . . .
She slid her hand under it, let out a relieved breath. The gun. The gun was there. She pulled her hand back and got to her feet, waited for her knees to steady.

“Get off my goddamned carpet!” Delores spit out.

Gina looked down at Delores, her venomous face, and an old loathing chilled her, froze hard in her throat. Then just as quickly she warmed, calmed. She didn’t hate Delores, not anymore. She didn’t have time to hate her; she didn’t care anymore. Delores was nothing more than a pest, an irritant she’d set aside. She had more important things to think about. Gina breathed deeply, straightened her shoulders. It was as if a sodden quilt had been lifted from her shoulders.

She had Adam now, and her focus needed to be on him.

And getting rid of Camryn Bruce.

Tonight she’d lost control of herself, made a mistake. She wouldn’t make another one. What she had to do now was develop a plan. “I’ll clean up, don’t worry. Go to bed, Delores.” Her tone was mild, perfectly controlled. She stepped off the carpet, padded to the kitchen over the cold tile, and spun some paper towels off the rack over the counter. She was wiping her scraped and dirty feet when she heard her mother’s wheelchair roll up behind her.

“Go to bed? That’s it? No explanation about where you’ve been. Who you’ve been with?”

“I’m a little old for that kind of inquisition, don’t you think?”

“Not while you live in my house, you’re not.”

Gina kept working on her feet. “I told you I must have been sleepwalking.”

“Never heard of those people doing that.”

Gina tossed the dirty toweling in the trash can under the counter. “And what ‘
people
’ would that be?”

“Agoraphobic-type people.” Delores smirked.

Gina got herself a drink of water, then, sipping it, braced a hip on the counter. “You mean like people in wheelchairs who can walk—if they want to. But won’t if it serves to keep a daughter feeling guilty enough to fetch and carry for the rest of her life?”

“What exactly are you trying to say?”

“Stating a fact, Mother. Sebastian was right. You can walk when you want to walk. I’ve heard you often enough—in your room, that ugly ‘parlor’ you spend most of your day in. Saw you once, too. Standing at the fridge. Your chair was on the other side of the room. The way I see it, about the only thing you can’t handle are the stairs.”

“Think you’re so smart, don’t you?”

“No, I think you’re the smart one—swindling the insurance company into giving you those disability payments.” Gina shrugged, set her glass back in the sink. “But don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”

“Guess so, considering I’m supporting you with those ill-gotten disability checks.” Delores pushed herself out of the chair and started toward her. Her limp was ugly; one leg was twisted and shorter than the other, causing her to lurch awkwardly, as if every step were a precursor to a fall. Gina’s bullet had done some of the work, her tumble down the stairs afterward had done the rest. “Not to mention I look a hell of a lot better in a wheelchair than like this.” She took one last step and stood beside Gina; she was taller and looked down on her. The accident may have crippled her regal walk, but it did nothing to take the imperiousness from her gaze.

Gina looked at her mother, shook her head. “Sebastian was right. You’re a liar, along with all your other faults.”

“And you’re a simpering, pathetic woman who’ll do anything to have Adam Dunn’s hand down her pants.”

Gina iced up, stilled to alert.

“You honestly didn’t think I’d find out he was here,” Delores said with a sneer. “You really are a fool, Gina.”

“But the stairs—”

“Yeah, you’re right about them. Haven’t managed more than two or three, no matter how I try.” Delores paused, no doubt, for dramatic effect. “But Adam can. And Adam did.”

“Adam came to you?” Gina stepped away from the counter, fisted her hands at her sides. She didn’t like this. Didn’t like the sound of Adam’s name on her mother’s lips.

“Yesterday”—again a pause—“he came to visit me in the parlor, walked right in, but, then, that’s our Adam, isn’t it? We had a real nice talk.” Delores, who’d placed a hand on the wall for balance, pulled it back and leaned her shoulder against the fridge.

She stood framed there, the white of the refrigerator a perfect backdrop for her raven hair. She wore it down this morning, not roughly tied at her nape as she usually did. She’d put on makeup, styled her hair. She’d fussed over herself, and she looked . . . beautiful. And she’d done it for Adam. Through the blood rising in her veins, obscuring her vision,

Gina fixed her gaze on her mother and asked, “What did you talk about?”

“You, mostly.”

“What did he say?”

Delores’s expression turned cunning. “He said you’re helping him with some legal issues—to do with getting his daughter back. Holly’s kid, apparently. Something I didn’t know but probably should have figured out. He says she’s with Camryn?”

Although her last words were more question than statement, Gina didn’t answer. What Delores had told her wasn’t all of it, Gina was sure. Her mother always kept the best until the last. Gina waited.

“Why didn’t you tell me you lost his kid?”

“He told you that?” Gina’s belly clenched, then softened.
Damn you, Adam. Damn you to hell.

“Yes, he says he feels pretty bad about it. Although with Adam it’s hard to tell how much of what he says is the truth—like the pious crap about how getting his daughter back will fill ‘that void’ in his life. Fill his pockets is more like it, I suspect. But that’s our Adam.”

Gina sifted through this new information, pressed a hand to her stomach.
Did he tell you he disappeared a week after I told him I was pregnant, that he didn’t return my calls after the miscarriage?
She shoved the thoughts aside—all they’d do is weaken her resolve. Adam was here now and they’d have Holly’s daughter. There was justice in that. That was all that mattered. “What else did you two talk about?” she asked, calmer now.