Cutting Loose (18 page)

Sweet, sweet geezus
—she rose to her tiptoes, both her hands burying themselves in his hair and holding him closer, her breath getting short.

His cock pulsed with the need to push up inside her, to thrust into her, but what he wanted even more was what she gave him next—a long moment of rigidity, her body stretched taut, her breath caught, and then the long hot slide into ultimate pleasure.

She came apart for him, her hips jerking against him where he held her so firmly against the wall, her hands clutching him, a soft groan sighing from her lips. He kept sucking on her, playing with her, until she pulled his mouth back up to hers and slid her hands down and began unbuckling his belt.

“Please,” she whispered so breathlessly, so sweetly, her fingers fumbling with his zipper. “Please.”

He took over the job, helping her out, helping himself, and hearing every one of her unspoken words.
Please…please fuck me. Please, I want to feel you inside me.

He toed out of his shoes and shucked out of his pants, and then he was there, filling her. Her hips came forward, and her head went back on a groan.
Geezus.
He pushed deeper.
Geezus.
She was tighter and shallower than other women he'd had, and every time he thrust, she tightened around him, a sweet clenching of her inner muscles that made his head spin. She felt so good—like sex, warm and vital in his arms, her body moving with his. She smelled so good—like sex, exotic and erotic, female in every subtle shade of scent.

He looked down to where they were joined and felt a new surge of urgency. She was so pretty, the curve of her hip, her breasts so full, the long silky length of her legs—and her face. She was holding on to the counter with one hand and a towel bar with the other, riding him, and she looked transported, her mouth partly open, a damp sheen of sweat making her shimmer in the cheap light, her hair gone wild.

He wanted to tell her she was so fucking beautiful that he'd fallen in love, that she felt so good, he wanted to do this forever. But she hit a new rhythm and it was all over. He came up against her hard, thrusting again, going deep, and again, going deeper, and again—and he came, his climax jerking through him, his muscles tensing, his body shaking. His left arm went around her like a vise and he braced himself against the wall with his right.
Geezus.
His head came down, and he opened his mouth on her neck, grazing her with his teeth, filling himself with the taste and scent and softness of her.

He thrust into her one more time near the end, and when it was over, all he wanted to do was hold her and fall asleep, just pass out while he felt so damn good.

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

Saturday, 10:15
A.M
.—Paysen, New Mexico

Lily was limp in his arms.

It had been so long since she'd had anything like what he'd just given her. She hadn't forgotten about sex since her divorce; she just hadn't been able to find anyone, and certainly, she hadn't ever found anyone like him. Not even Tom, who had considered himself one of God's and nature's gifts to women.

God,
her body was pulsing with pleasure. She felt suffused with it, her skin warm, the tensions and fears of the day forgotten for a moment, and all she wanted was to forget about them for a moment more. He must have felt the same.

The room was small, and one of the beds was less than an arm's length away. He stepped over, and with one hand pulled everything off the mattress except for the bottom sheet. After she stretched out and claimed her pillows, he reached back for his pistol and moved to sit on the edge of the bed.

Like her, he kept his pistol cocked, locked, and loaded, and like her, he checked to make sure he had a cartridge in the chamber, ready at an instant's notice. Then he set the pistol on the nightstand and lay down next to her.

Pulling her close, he smoothed her hair back off her face.

“Hey,” he said, leaning down and giving her a kiss.

“Hey.” She kissed him back, and the next thing she knew, he was asleep, just like that, with his leg over the top of hers, and his arm wrapped around her waist, his hand on the small of her back, and his mouth still touching hers in a kiss.

Gone. In an instant.

She wasn't offended. She was charmed senseless.

He hadn't admitted to anything, but she knew what he was, even if she didn't know what acronym claimed him. DEA, FBI, CIA, DIA, NSA, DOD—or any of dozens more she didn't even know. It didn't matter. He wasn't a man who trusted anyone or anything, and he'd just fallen asleep in her arms.

Come home,
pendejo,
and I'll introduce you.
That's what the dark-haired man on the screen had said to him, meaning he'd introduce Zach to SB303. The girl was classy, smart, and beautifully, exquisitely dressed, so incredibly stylish. Everything about the two of them was professional, from the girl's expertise to the man's demeanor—and he had a history with Zach. That much was clear. The two of them shared a secret about the building in Denver where Zach was taking her, and the man and Zach both knew someone named Creed.

Yes, there was definitely a history between the two of them—and affection, too. That had been obvious in all their exchanges.

Next to her, he let out a soft snore, his body softening deeper into the bed, his arm going slack on her waist, his leg sliding off hers.

Very carefully, she inched away from him. He needed sleep. She needed to eat, and with him asleep, it was time to reclaim her pistol and take another look at the bracelet.

She didn't hesitate to go through his pockets until she found her magazine, but the bracelet was nowhere to be found, and she actually turned his pockets inside out. Giving up on the bracelet, at least for now, she walked over to where he'd put his gun bag on the motel desk. Her pistol was still inside, and once she had it in her hand, she felt better, more secure. After checking the chamber, she released the trigger, slammed the magazine home, and racked the slide. Then she flipped on the safety and stepped over to the table, taking the gun with her.

The air conditioner in the room was nothing short of a travesty, and while she ate, curled up naked on one of the chairs, she did her best to ignore all its banging and rattling, and concentrated instead on him.

He'd rolled partway onto his stomach, with one of his legs drawn up, and he was so beautiful that even though she was hungry, she found herself forgetting to eat—and that was with him being only half naked. He hadn't taken off his T-shirt. Looking at his shoulder, it was easy to see why.

She'd known he was hurt, but it was hard to gauge the extent of his wound with the shirt on. Maybe when he woke up, he'd let her take a look. Of all the odd things, she'd noticed he had a couple of suture kits in his gun bag.

Or maybe that wasn't so odd.

Bringing an open can of peaches to her mouth, she took a small swallow of juice—but she didn't take her eyes off him, and when he rolled onto his back, still sound asleep, she took another small sip and licked the juice off her lips.

She loved men. She'd almost forgotten how much, and he was particularly gorgeous, more powerfully built under his clothes than she would have guessed. He carried himself with such elegance, with such fluid grace. His shirt had ridden up, revealing the dark hair covering his chest and arrowing down to his groin, and a sigh lifted her chest.

Damn.
He was beautiful. Watching him, a wave of heat built inside her, lovely and erotic, and compelling—very compelling.

She pushed out of her chair and walked back to the bed. For now, he was hers. Unbelievably, three weeks of wondering and longing had brought them both here, naked in bed with the rest of the day to while away. She stretched out beside him, then slid lower and simply indulged herself, taking him in her mouth.

         

Holy Mary, sweet Mother of God
—Zach woke up on a wave of pleasure so intense, he almost came. Fortunately, a shred of reason kicked in. A smart guy would ride this out as long as he could. Yeah, that was the plan, just let her have her way with him for as long as she wanted. Yeah, Plan X, Plan SEX, Plan YES.

Plan—
sweet geezus.
He looked down, riveted by the sight of what she was doing to him, of her wrapped around him. She ran her tongue over the top of him again, then closed her mouth and sucked, and his hips came off the bed—okay, maybe he wasn't as smart as he thought, because too much more of that, and it was going to be over.

And yet he most definitely wanted more of that.

Reaching down, he tunneled his fingers through her hair, holding her, and he moved with her—just gave himself up to the soft, wet heat of her mouth and the firm but gentle stroking of her hand.
Oh, yeah,
she was sweet. He spread his legs a little wider for her, and she slid her hand farther down to massage his balls—and yeah, it was a short trip from there into never-never land, where he never, never wanted her to stop.

The temperature in the room was hovering somewhere between swelter and melt, despite the air conditioner, and his body was hovering in just about the same area. Sweltering was good, she had him so hot, her mouth working him over, her hands doing the same—
geezus,
he probably was in love, or maybe it was just that he always felt like he was in love when a woman was going down on him. Except he remembered he'd felt like he was in love just a little while ago, when he'd had her up against the bathroom counter.

Of course, that was also a very emotionally vulnerable time for a guy, when he had a naked woman up against a counter, any kind of a counter.

So great. He was building a track record here. Sometimes that “You're going down on me and I'm in love” feeling disappeared as quickly as the woman's mouth, and sometimes it had been known to linger for a while, sometimes days, sometimes months.

He was three weeks into Lily Robbins already, and he could guarantee he wasn't giving her up after this, not for a long time, not until they'd had a chance to do this a whole lot more times, or at least until he had a chance to figure it all out.

And he sure as hell wasn't giving her up when she did that—a soft groan escaped him, and he felt himself straining into her mouth, pushing deeper.

“Sweetheart.” He called her, wondering what she really wanted here—because he knew what she was going to get. “Lily.”

In answer, she lifted her head, and the look on her face just about did him completely in. Her gaze was languorous, her hair damp, her mouth wet, and suddenly, it wasn't about what she wanted. It was about what he had to have—her, giving it up for him.

But he wasn't the one in charge. He started to pull her up so he could kiss her, so he could get between her legs, and she let out a soft laugh and pushed him back onto the bed, and when her mouth slid down the length of him again, he didn't fight it—oh, hell, no.

She played him until he didn't have a stray thought left in his head. He was focused, with a capital F, every breath, every impulse, every synapse on only one thing—the next touch of her tongue, the next stroke of her hand, the next pull of her mouth, and the next, and the next, and the next, until she took him exactly where she'd wanted him to go, straight over the edge, free fall all the way.

His body was tight, his cock rock hard—and his release one endless stream of hot pleasure coursing through him.

At the end, he pulled free from her mouth and dragged her up into his arms.
Geezus.
Holding her close, he slid his hand around the back of her neck and buried his face in her hair.
Geezus.
And he held her, feeling the softness of her breasts against his chest, feeling her breath blowing warm against his neck, and feeling like he'd crossed a line he'd drawn in the sand a long time ago.

Sex was sex, he told himself. It always felt great. There was no reason to read anything more into it, no matter how good she smelled, and how good she felt, and how much she turned him inside out.

Yeah, sex was sex, and love was love, and the last time those two had slammed together in his life, he'd gotten his heart cut out. So a guy had to be careful. A guy had to be smart about things like this.

She sighed, and softened, her body relaxing against his, and as he held her, he felt her drift off to sleep in his arms.

Yeah, he was being careful all right.

Hell, he was the one who needed to fall asleep, but here he was, wide awake all of a sudden, and thinking way too hard.

Dammit
. He hated it when this happened.

He kissed her shoulder, just because it was there, then arranged himself so he could stare at the ceiling and think about the mission, and the bracelet, and the thousand other things he needed to stay on top of to get them out of here, but it was so damn hot in the room, all he could think about was the heat.

Hell, it had been hot the first time he'd been in New Mexico, too. He'd been fifteen. July had been the month, and he and J.T. had been on a mission to rescue Hawkins from the evil clutches of a
bruja
, a west side sorceress named Alazne Morello who had spirited Christian out of Denver in the middle of the night and was holding him captive at some ranch in northern New Mexico.

God, talk about a road trip. He and J.T. had left the chop shop at noon, driving one of Sparky Klimaszewski's Cadillacs, a turquoise El Dorado with white leather interior, a convertible, and they'd driven it with the top down all the way, wearing sunglasses with the radio blaring. By the time J.T. had pulled the Caddy to a stop on a short rise overlooking a flat stretch of the plains, the sun had been going down…

“I don't think we're going to have any trouble busting him out of there,” Zach said, looking at the small adobe cabin shimmering in the heat below. The place wasn't exactly what he'd been expecting. To hear Dylan and J.T. talk, it was damn near impossible to escape, taking superhuman acts of fortitude, strength, and will, like a fortress or something, and what Zach was looking at was more of an oasis, and honestly, not much of a ranch, unless keeping a few goats and chickens counted as ranching.

The small house was very tidy, the outside walls painted a faded rose, the wooden door a sun-bleached robin's egg blue to match the shutters on the windows. A short rock wall with a big wooden gate enclosed a courtyard at the front of the cabin, and he could see flowers everywhere, fruit trees shading a table, and a water fountain bubbling in the middle of a stone patio, splashing water on the stones.

“More trouble than you think, Ensign,” J.T. said, slouched back in the driver's seat, one arm stretched out over the steering wheel. His arms were burned brown by the sun, his white T-shirt coated with a fine layer of dust.

J.T. worked out, and his muscles were huge, even at seventeen. Zach had been doing the protein drink thing, trying to build a little bulk of his own.

He glanced at his arm where he'd rested it on the Caddy's door frame and very casually made a fist. Yeah, he was getting there. Nothing like J.T., not yet, but he was getting there.

“So what's the plan?” he asked, looking back over to the other side of the car. “We swoop down, snatch him, and swoop back out?” He hadn't wanted to admit it to J.T., but the whole idea of going up against a sorceress pretty much scared the crap out of him. He'd given it a lot of thought on the drive down, and he thought clean and fast was the only way to go. Get in. Get Hawkins. And get out.

“No,” J.T. said, his gaze not wavering from the small, colorful house sitting down below, bathed in New Mexican sunlight. “She's going to want to have wine.”

Wine?

He had to be kidding?

“Uh, I don't think drinking with her is a very good idea.” Didn't J.T. know anything about sorceresses? Geez, Zach did, and they could all be summed up in one word—dangerous, especially to men. The sorceresses didn't go after the women so much. It was the men they wanted. Hell, they were here to rescue Hawkins, weren't they? A guy. And weren't they just a couple more guys?

Morgan Le Fay, he wanted to say, but somehow, he didn't think J.T. spent a lot of his time reading about King Arthur.

Zach did. A lot. And Morgan Le Fay had been that guy's freaking doom.

But J.T. didn't seem to be listening. He was watching the house, and being very still, or maybe he was watching the water splashing out of the fountain, or the wind drifting through the flower beds.