Last Kiss Goodnight (Otherworld Assassin) (36 page)

An office Solo took over. He claimed the only chair in front of the wall of computers, and started typing on the center keyboard, reengaging the traps outside. He sent a message to Michael, John, and Blue, waited five minutes, ten, but no response was forthcoming from any of the three. He would check again after he ate, he decided.

The pantry was stocked with even more canned food, and he devoured an entire gallon of chicken noodle soup. And . . . still no response from the boys.

That didn’t mean anything, he assured himself.

He padded to the bedroom, eased onto the mattress, and tugged Vika into his side. She didn’t wake, but she did mold herself against him. He anchored a hand in her hair and a hand on her bottom, loving how perfectly they fit together.

But . . . half an hour passed. Two hours passed. He lay there, simply peering up at the ceiling. He was too primed to sleep, his mind too active. What a journey he’d undertaken. Forced to become a sideshow freak. Surrounded by evil, but tended to by a saint. A race through a frozen tundra, with a beautiful little blonde at his side. An attack by wolves. And now, this. Satisfaction.

And, honestly, if everything he’d endured had been necessary to bring him to this moment, knowing Vika
was safe, that
he
had saved her from a life of torture and torment, he wouldn’t have changed a single thing.

•   •   •

Sunlight poured through the bedroom window. Solo hadn’t slept at all, but he still lay in the bed, Vika still curled up beside him. She had remained in the same position all night, not a sound to be heard from her.

He wanted her. He needed her.

When would she wake up?

He counted the beams in the ceiling. Twenty-three.

He counted again, just to be sure. Twenty-three.

He counted dust motes. Two thousand and sixteen. Two thousand and seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen.

Finally, she sighed and shifted to her back. Arched and stretched.

The ferocity of his need strained and bucked against the tight leash he held. Had she been any other woman, he would have pounced then and there. But she wasn’t. She was Vika.
His
Vika. He would rather die than frighten her or press her for something she wasn’t ready to give. Right?

But he had nothing to worry about. She
was
ready; he’d already come to that conclusion. And he was never wrong. Right?

“Solo?” she said, her voice scratchy from sleep.

Right.
“Vika.” He rolled on top of her, clasped her by the nape, lifted her head, and fit their mouths together. Her taste, her heat, her softness, her gentleness, every curve of her luscious body fanned the flames of his desire.

He kissed her thoroughly, deeply, branding her, being branded by her, kindling a fire that would always burn between them. After a moment’s hesitation, she welcomed him with the sweetest of moans, wrapping her arms around him and arching into him. He nearly roared at the intensity of the pleasure.

She was ready.

“Are you going to stop this time?” she asked.

“Only if you want me to.”

“I won’t.”

“Then I’m
never
going to stop.”

On and on the kiss continued, until she was panting, struggling to breathe.

“We’ve done this before,” she said. “Now I want to know what comes next.”

“We’ve done the next part, too, but we’re going to do it again. And probably a third and fourth time.” Until she was ready with more than her body. Forcing himself to move slowly, he slid his hands underneath her shirt, until he encountered warm, bare skin. “Tell me if I scare you.”

If she caught his words, she made no reply. However, she leaned into his touch, telling him all he needed to know. He cupped the heavy weight of her breasts, just as before, and groaned. Another perfect fit. She mewled her excitement, encouraging him to knead . . . until his hands were trembling, until she was arching continually, trying to press more fully against him.

“Gonna go lower now,” he said.

Maybe she read his lips. Maybe she didn’t. He moved his attention to the plane of her stomach, dabbled at
her navel. When she offered no protest, he traced his fingers along the waistband of her pants.

A gasp slipped from her. Her gaze locked with his, and she trembled.

“Change your mind? Want me to stop?” he asked, swallowing a denial.

“No. Keep going, please.” A needy entreaty.

He continued, moving lower still. He kept his caresses light and easy, and she responded to every movement, every brush of his thumb, again mewling . . . soon begging.

“More.
Please
.”

“Yes. I’ll give you more. But I want to see you first, sweetheart.”

“I . . . I have a few scars,” she replied tremulously.

A burst of fury, quickly subdued. “You’re beautiful. All of you. Every inch.”

She licked her lips. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Prove it.”

With pleasure. He whisked the shirt over her head and tossed it aside, then removed her bra, baring her to his view, and oh, was she gorgeous, perfect in every way, just as he’d known she would be. She . . . the first woman to ever tempt him to the brink of losing control.

He saw a pale, thin scar on her right shoulder and kissed it. There was a puckered pink scar on the left side of her rib cage, and he kissed that one, too. Goose bumps broke out over her skin.

“You are the most exquisite creature ever created,” he said, rising from the bed.

If she had other scars, they would be lower, on her legs, and when he got down there, he wouldn’t want to pause to take a moment to shuck his clothing. Best to do that now.

“Where are you going?” she demanded.

Such a fierce tone from such a tiny creature. He almost grinned.

Silent, he stripped, then leaned over and stripped her the rest of the way. His breath caught in his throat. He’d described her as perfect before, but this . . . 
this
was perfection. Every inch of her was encased by luscious rose-tinted skin, her supple curves creating a canvas of the sweetest femininity.

As he’d suspected, she had other scars. Just a few, but they formed puckered circles where her bones had broken through skin; they somehow only added to her beauty. She had survived a kind of hell that would have destroyed countless others. Every mark of abuse was a badge of her incredible strength.

“So powerful,” she said, looking him over. “Come here.”

“Want to kiss your other scars.”

“Soon.”

“Soon,” he parroted. He would take such good care of her, he vowed as he stretched out beside her. He would treat her as the treasure she was, make her feel so special she would never doubt his determination to protect her.

Heat radiated from her, enveloping him, but still she shivered.

“Scared?” he asked.

“Blissful.”

“I want to make you feel even better.” Wanting to urge her back into that state of total arousal, he gave her another kiss, seeking, tasting, taking, giving. Finally, she needed more—she needed everything. Yet still he only caressed her face, toyed with the ends of her hair. He traced the line of her shoulders. Every touch was innocent, yet strategic.

“Solo,” she finally said, a command.

“Yes,” he replied, a promise.

“More.”

Exactly what he’d been waiting for. He explored her the way he’d longed to do from the start, leaving no part of her untouched. He learned her. He enjoyed her, this sweet, vulnerable girl with a heart more exquisite than diamonds. He licked and laved at the scars on her legs.

“So beautiful,” he told her. “So perfect.”

“Me? You’re the beautiful and perfect one.”

When she looked at him with pleasure and passion and need in her eyes, he felt like the handsome prince he’d wanted to be as a little boy. “You would not change anything about me.” A statement, not a question.

“Only if you wanted to leave this bed before we actually got to the good stuff!”

He chuckled. Humor. In sex. He had never known it was possible. But then, he’d never been with a woman
like her, a woman of love and light. “I’ll show you the good stuff,” he growled with mock ferocity.

He set out to do just that. His own need should have overpowered him, should have driven him to hurry, but this was too important to rush, he craved her satisfaction too desperately, was so determined to make this a memory she would cherish for the rest of her life, that he was careful to study her reactions.

When she gasped, he knew she liked what he was doing.

When she moaned, he knew she really liked what he was doing.

But when she writhed, he knew he
owned
her.

All the while, she kneaded and scratched at his back. She couldn’t seem to get enough of him, seemed to
need
him, some part of him, and grabbed his hand and sucked his fingers into her mouth.

He nearly burst out of his skin. “Are you ready for me, sweetheart?”

“
Pleeease
.”

She’d stolen the word right out of his head. “I need to grab the condom. I’m safe, I’m clean, but we don’t want to risk a baby.”

“No. I want to feel you. Only you. Just this first time.”

Oh, yes. She was surely plucking the words out of his mind. He knew the risk, just as he’d told her, but he couldn’t seem to make himself care just then.

He shifted into position, getting ready, but not taking her. Not yet. She wrapped her legs around him, and their lips met in another fevered kiss. Finally he moved
forward. He meant to be gentle, but as small as she was he had to exert more pressure than he’d intended. She gasped when he at last slid home, her body jolting from the shock of his invasion.

“Okay?” he gritted.

“Yessss,” she said on a moan.

Then he’d done his job, had prepared her properly. As he moved against her, she offered another moan and gave him more than he’d ever imagined possible, nothing withheld. She surrounded him, clasped at him, breathed in his ear, shouted his name, arched into him, moved with him, cried out, pulled his hair, scratched at his back some more, kissed and kissed and kissed him. And when he knew she verged on losing her breath, he lifted his head and peered in her eyes. Deep, so deep.

“Vika,” he intoned. “I’m going to give you everything I have to give, this I vow to you, and you’re going to like it. Vow it to me.”

“Solo, darling, Solo.” Her trembling increased. “I vow it. And I’ll give you everything. Everything I have.”

“Make you so happy you said that.” As he kissed her and claimed her, he went a step beyond what he’d promised, giving her all that he would ever be. She was everything he’d ever wanted, everything he’d thought he would never have, and she began to gasp his name, over and over, calling to him, drawing him ever deeper.

As her back bowed off the bed, she shouted with the force of her release. He felt her relief, and lost the rest of his control.

And when he collapsed on top of her a few minutes later, he quickly rolled to his side, not wanting to hurt her. His eyelids were unbelievably heavy—and he could only smile wryly about it. He’d trekked through the ice-caked mountains carrying a hundred-pound bag of jewelry without ever tiring, yet this one little female had exhausted him.

He was keeping her, he decided as he drifted off, and woe to anyone who ever tried to take her away from him.

Twenty-seven

Sustain me with raisin cakes, refresh me with apples, because I am lovesick.

—SONG OF SOLOMON 2:5

W
HILE HER SWEET, EXHAUSTED
Solo took a nap, Vika dressed and enjoyed a wonderful dry enzyme shower. She heated a bowl of tomato soup and ate it while studying the cabin. It was bigger than she’d expected and quite homey, with log walls and comfortable, well-worn furniture. A soft brown rug covered the living room floor, and pictures of roses and lilies covered the walls. An even softer rug covered the kitchen floor, and pots and pans hung from a metal rack just above the granite island counter.

An eclectic mix of old and new, as though a man and a woman had shared the decorating responsibility. The man had decided what belonged on the floors, and the woman had decided what belonged on the walls.

Was Solo’s boss married? she wondered. If so, what would the female think of Vika? She had never socialized with people outside the circus, and wasn’t sure she knew how to make a good impression.

For that matter, what would Solo’s friends think of her? Would they slap Solo on the back for a job well
done, as males sometimes liked to do, or would they pull him aside and warn him to stay away from her?

How would Solo react if they did?

He’d once told her they would protect her, but that didn’t mean they would like her or approve of her. A burning heat inched up the center of her chest, one that had nothing to do with pleasure.

“Worry only buys you wrinkles,” her mother used to say. “Well, those and rotten bones.”

Vika forced the depressing thoughts out of her mind and peered out the ice-fogged window. Now that she was toasty warm, she could enjoy the sheer winter majesty around her. And maybe . . . maybe her love also stemmed from the fact that, for the first time in her life, she didn’t have to fear doing or saying the wrong thing and “earning” a beating. She was safe. Solo would never physically hurt her, something he’d proven again and again as he’d fought to save her.