Hold on Tight (21 page)

He was learning again, how to touch a woman, really please her—enjoying being with someone for longer than a single night, sometimes a single hour.

She didn’t realize that she told him everything he needed to know, even when she didn’t ask outright. Often, it was all in her eyes or in her hands, in the throaty cadences, and he was going to make it his mission to learn every single one … and brand some undiscovered territory as well.

Tonight’s mission was all about keeping her calm and relaxed, getting her mind off her sister, even as she sank her fingers into the soft flesh between his shoulders and collarbone because she was kissing him so hard, like she couldn’t get enough, her tongue teasing his, her mouth hot and fierce, and oh yeah, he wasn’t stopping anytime soon.

Yesterday, she’d been relentless, demanding, almost as if trying to make sure he could keep up with her. That he wouldn’t refuse her anything.

So far, he hadn’t.

Now when he put her down, she sank deep into the mattress, letting his weight bury her. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, legs around his waist, and she tried to guide him inside of her.

“I want that, honey, you know I do. But not yet.”

“Saint …” Her tone was plaintive, but also held a certain amount of warning. He covered her protests with a long kiss and then he moved down her body, his tongue teasing her belly button, his fingers playing with her taut nipples, until her back arched off the bed.

“Yes … oh, yes,” she murmured.

But he wasn’t even close to his goal.

She’d told him no earlier, that it was far too intimate, that she wasn’t ready for more than pure, straightforward sex. And he’d honored that request.

Now her hands twisted in his hair, a pre-emptive strike as he moved down between her legs, let his tongue trace her inner thighs, teased her until she begged him to stop.

He didn’t—dipped his head farther despite the vicious tug on his hair and buried his face between her legs. He slid his tongue inside of her and she went completely still. When he moved his mouth again, he felt her open for him, as if her body was unfreezing from a long winter.

With his hands on her inner thighs, he tasted all of her. Wouldn’t be able to get enough of her, her moans. He suckled the engorged nub as she writhed on the bed, halfway between loving it and hating him. And that was all right, because dammit, he wanted her to feel. Everything.

Wanted her to know that he wouldn’t stop.

And so he licked and sucked and used tongue and teeth and made her come twice before he let go of her thighs.

She was furious, as he’d suspected, but not so much that she didn’t roll over and mount him, taking him inside her slick center like this was some kind of sweet revenge. Her palms curled against his chest, her nails raked him, and he didn’t care, rocked his hips up so he could get into her as deeply as possible.

And finally, finally, she relented, let him roll her now so he could take her hard and fast, until her orgasm hit and she surrendered to him completely.

Still, he and Nick did a pretty damned good job with that song.

“You’re being very loud,” he muttered, and fuck, it hurt to talk.

“It’s called breathing.”

“Loud breathing.” He buried his cheek against the soft cotton. “This is why I don’t drink.”

“Speaking of which, here’s some juice, some toast. And Advil.” She continued to nudge him until he lifted his head and grabbed at the juice and the pills.

Then he took a bite or two of the toast as Isabelle moved behind him and began to rub her palms along his back, and his body stirred to life, despite the searing pain behind his eyes.

“I guess you need this reminder every once in a while,” she murmured, not a hint of anger or judgment in her voice. She got it, got him on every single fucking level—and yeah, this reminder, coupled with her hands sliding on his bare skin, was perfect.

“Are you naked?” he asked without lifting his head.

“Yes.”

In one swift movement, he was up and had her firmly in his arms. And she was, indeed, naked. And beautiful. And his.

When he’d rescued her, he’d never expected to fall in love with her. But he had, probably that very night.

She’d been attacked—raped, left for dead. It had happened months earlier, but sometimes when he was making love to her, he flashed to the bruised places on her body the night he’d found her. And he’d find himself focusing on those areas, spending time kissing and touching them, re-healing them. And she knew too, would stroke his hair or murmur his name as if to reassure him that she was okay … strong. That she got better every single day.

But the scars of her attack had been so deeply ingrained in both of them, snuck up in ways they didn’t always expect. Like when Isabelle left him for a couple of months to go back to Africa, to work with Doctors Without Borders again.

He’d lived with his heart in his throat nearly every day. And now she was back, because of another tragedy in their lives. “Thanks for coming to get me last night at the bar.”

“You can make it up to me all day.”

“I don’t want to wait,” he told her.

“I’m naked—there’s no wait.”

He grinned, ran a hand along the curve of her bare hip as she settled against his lap. “I’m not talking about sex. I’m talking about the wedding. I don’t want to wait another nine months to marry you.”

“Jake, you promised my mother she could do this wedding the way she wants to. My God, you’ve got to see the bridesmaid dresses she’s picked out.” Isabelle shuddered visibly.

“You don’t have any women friends, except for Kaylee—how are you going to have bridesmaids?”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know. Cousins, maybe.”

“Cousins?” His head began to throb more at the thought of meeting her family, and he got back to the topic at hand. “Look, your mom can keep planning—we’ll do that whole big stupid wedding thing. But when I say my vows to you for the first time, I don’t want to do it in front of nine million people.”

Her voice grew soft. “You want to have a ceremony before the ceremony?”

“Yeah. Just us. My brothers. Dad. Your mom would never have to know.” He kissed her shoulder before he spoke again. “I want to fucking marry you—right now if I could. I’ve never been a patient man, and after everything that’s happened over the past week … Jesus Christ, I don’t want to wait.”

Isabelle watched him carefully, her eyes wide and clear, and she nodded. “I like that idea.”

“Good. Then we’ll do it at the end of the week—Friday.”

“And what will we do until then?”

He flipped her swiftly so her body was pinned beneath his. “I’ll keep you busy, don’t you worry about that.”

He checked the monitors—no movement in the driveway. Thought about calling Nick or Jake … but knew there was someone else he needed to speak to first.

He jumped off the porch and moved around the cabin, looking to see if anything seemed out of place.

Thought about how everything was about to change, how much things already had. And then he pulled out his phone and dialed, sat on the edge of the porch in the lazy haze of the morning.

“Hey, sorry—I know it’s early there,” he said when his father answered.

“I’m always glad to hear from you—I don’t give a damn about the time,” Dad said, his voice groggy from sleep. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Everything.” He paused. “I’m sorry.”

“I am too, Chris.”

“I’ve, uh, got a lot of things going on,” he said, waited for his father to say he knew. But this time, Dad didn’t say anything like that. Chris ran his hands through his hair as emotion flooded him. He’d been to hell and then heaven and back again in the space of hours, and he almost felt dizzy.

“What can I do to help you? Say the word.”

Chris paused and then blurted out, “I’m going to be a father.”

There was dead silence on the other end of the line, and Chris wondered how he’d managed to surprise Dad with that one. The man knew everything, knew when Chris was just thinking about getting into trouble—how could he miss a baby?

“You know it’s a boy,” his father said quietly, and by his tone Chris knew the man hadn’t missed a damned thing.

He rubbed the center of his forehead with his fingers, tried to picture himself as a father and couldn’t. “So he’ll have it, right? The sight?”

“He’ll have it.”

Chris closed his eyes, phone still pressed to his ear. “I’ve got to go.”

“Sometimes I hate it too,” Dad told him, then he told Chris he loved him and hung up.

Chris stayed where he was for a while, just breathing, thinking … planning.

Nick couldn’t have kids of his own, and hadn’t wanted any. Neither had Jake. But now that his brothers had women in their lives, things would be different. He’d already seen both men change—for the better, and they were damned good men to begin with.

But with him … a kid …

He thought about how he and Jamie were about to drag a baby—kicking and screaming—into a world where he’d have to deal with his parents’ pasts. Wondered if he was strong enough.

Jamie had already told him that she could handle things, handle him.

Handle the two of them together.

But it wasn’t going to be just the two of them. And whether or not he was ready for that was the big question he wasn’t able to answer yet.

He looked down and saw he was rubbing the fingers on his left hand together and immediately put his palm flat on his thigh.

But last night, as good as it was, had made him too vulnerable. Watching her now would be a full-time job—no time to let his guard down. “I’ll make you some breakfast. Or lunch.”

She yawned and nodded and he began to rifle through the cabinets.

“MREs or soup—your choice.” He glanced over his shoulder as she rolled her eyes. “Soup it is.”

She came up behind him, rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. “You don’t happen to have any decaf tea, do you?”

“Yes, right next to the muffins and pies.”

She gave a soft snort in reply.

“There’s some Parmalat milk—that’s good for you,” he said, pulled the cardboard container out of the cabinet. “There are some crackers here too. They should be fresh—Nick comes up here every couple of months to check on the place.”

He dumped a can of soup into a pot and put it on the stove, then grabbed glasses and bowls and silverware and put them on the table in front of her. She’d hugged her knees to her chest, her bare heels balanced on the edge of the wood chair. Her palms were flat on her knees, the Navy T-shirt he’d brought in from the car long enough to cover her to mid-thigh.

“Are you feeling okay?”

“Tired. Stressed. Typical day in the life of an FBI agent who’s being hunted down.” She went for the joke but ended up pressing her lips together in a grim line.

He noted that her gun was right next to her on the table. A good sign, despite her words. She was up and alert. He poured the milk into two glasses and pushed one toward her.

“Did Kevin call?” she asked. “He was going to check on the insurance.”

Yeah, that had been a fun fucking conversation—more like a growling match than anything, even though both men wanted exactly the same thing: Jamie’s safety. “He did. Wouldn’t tell me anything. He’s pretty pissed I won’t give him your location.”

“I’m sure he understands,” she said quietly.

“I gave him Nick’s number, told him I won’t give him the location over the phone but that Nick would know. Saint called too—for PJ,” he told her. “She’s upset. I told them you were okay but that I didn’t want to wake you.”

She nodded. “And if she wants to come here …”

“She can. Saint knows where this place is,” he reassured her, took the cell phone out of his pocket and slid it across the table to her. “You should also check in with your boss, see if there are any new developments.”

She didn’t pick up the phone. “God, this is weird. I’ve got a psycho drug runner after me and I keep thinking,
Where am I going to live?”

“It’s called survival instinct.” He ladled the soup into the bowls, then put the pan back on the stove and sat across from her. “I’d worry if you weren’t thinking about that.”

She leaned back in her seat. “I guess.”

“You can stay with me,” he offered.

“And your brothers?”

“And their girlfriends,” he added.

“Sounds crowded.”

“In a good way.”

She didn’t answer, was too busy staring at his left hand. He’d been rubbing his fingers together again, and shit, he grabbed the glass of milk.

“You do that sometimes, with your fingers,” she said.

“Sometimes,” he agreed, downed the glass of milk and kept his hand wrapped around it.

“So I’m guessing it’s something you don’t want to talk about.”

He didn’t, no, not now—really, not ever. “It’s part of my gift. Half the time I don’t realize I’m doing it or what I’m sensing.” He sighed, pushed the glass away and locked his hands together.

“What’s it like? Your gift?”

“It just happens. I get a feeling or I know something. Like intuition, but stronger. But look, everyone’s got feelings like that some of the time—most people choose to ignore it. But people who are close, really close, sometimes claim they can feel when the other person is upset or in pain.”

“That’s true. Because I knew, going to Africa, that PJ was alive. Knew it in my heart.” She watched him. “You know things like that all the time.”

“I seem to know what people need,” he agreed. “Sometimes it sucks because it doesn’t coincide with what I need or want. And you need to go to the doctor. Today. I should’ve taken you last night.”

“Everything’s fine. I would know,” she told him. “More importantly, you would.”

Fuck, she was right. But he was done discussing his gift for now. “There’s a clinic about a half hour from here. They have an ultrasound machine.”

“Okay. If it will make you feel better, we’ll do that.”