Blood and Fire (McClouds & Friends #8)(73)

“Whatever.” He felt an urge to laugh, but that was too close to sobbing. “What the f*ck were the crusading knight outfits about? Ye olde renaissance fair from hell? My subconscious decided the dream needed dressing up? What’s next, flamenco outfits?”

“No,” she said quietly. “It’s about saving the princess.”

He went still. Her words reverberated in his head. “Come again?”

“It’s a classic theme, right? In fairy tales, in movies. Video games you played as a kid. Didn’t you ever play to save the princes?”

“Yeah, but . . .” His voice trailed off. He was unnerved. It was true, he’d played in video arcades as a really young kid. But after the dreams started, he’d stopped. He hated video games.

Lily draped herself over him so that his head was tucked under her chin, her gorgeous, mouth-watering tits were right in his face, in all their succulent, springy softness. Right up there to distract him.

“You really are my champion,” she said. “Even in your dreams. Like you were this morning.”

“I, ah . . . but I—”

“I’ve never had one before,” she said. “I always had to fight alone. It feels nice. Thank you.”

“Hello. Lily,” he said, his voice vibrating with tension. “I failed. In the dream. They torched you. It wasn’t nice.”

She tilted his head back. Her eyes shimmered with tears. “They didn’t get me this morning,” she said. She ran her finger across his brow, then through his hair. “And you tried. I could see you were trying. Heart and soul. That’s enough for me. That’s more than I’ve ever had.”

His arms clamped around her. She melted into his embrace.

“It’s not enough,” he blurted out, harshly. “I want more.”

She just gazed up at him, looking confused. He gave her an impatient little shake. “I want more,” he repeated, louder.

She looked bewildered but willing. “Ah . . . OK,” she offered, timidly. “Take it, then. You can have it all. It’s yours. Everything.”

All. Everything. That was good. He could work with that.

Then they were kissing, dying for more of that magical whatever it was that they made together, out of nothing, out of nowhere. A mystery made of energy and heat, out of ache and want.

He pushed her down onto the bed, lips locked, fitting his body to hers. Feeling her silent welcome as she arched and spread, wiggling against him until his cock could find its way in, then the long clinging slide. Arms clutching, legs twining as they rocked and plunged, sighing, gasping. No technique or style, just raw emotion. The bite of her nails in his back were points of light in the heaving turbulence. They thundered over the top and down, into the heart of a violent climax.

Reality crept back, with relentless marching steps. His sweat cooled, trickled down his back, into his ear. The first few times they’d had sex, he’d managed somehow to keep from coming inside her.

Well, hell. He’d warned her. And he still felt like an opportunistic *. He pulled away, rolled onto his side. She glowed in the dim light of the kerosene lamp he’d left burning. So beautiful he could start up and make this same mistake again, right now.

“I’m sorry.” The words rasped out. Hoarse from all the sobbing.

She just nodded, as if it were no big deal. Too used to danger. Her threshold was high. It took a lot of juice to be constantly terrified. There was nothing to say. She touched his cheek. She didn’t say, “No problem.” They had nothing but problems. She didn’t say, “It’s OK.” It wasn’t.

You’re my champion.

That scared him to his bones. He’d always avoided responsibility. Now he knew why he’d steered clear. It was a ten-ton weight of cold rock. Stark fear, of failing her, losing her. Fear that could break him.

But all he could do was keep fighting. Hell, he had lots of practce.





This was ridiculously easy. Zoe was irritated. She could have sent that brain-dead sow Melanie after all. Petrie didn’t even have an alarm. There was a tree that would allow an intruder with no technique at all to clamber onto the kitchen roof and steal over to the bathroom window. Evidently, Samuel Petrie was not as paranoid as a normal cop.

Zoe felt practically insulted.

She slid the window open and slithered in like a slim shadow. She realized that he just hadn’t gotten around to putting his paranoia into practice. Boxes were piled everywhere. The rooms were empty.

Research had revealed that Petrie was twenty-nine, unmarried. Wealthy family. Ivy League school. He’d decided after graduating to go into police work, to his family’s distress. He’d recently bought his first home in a middling shabby North Portland neighborhood.

The master bedroom was at the end of the hall. Light and chatter of the TV came out, even at three A.M. She’d waited until the last minute to creep in, but soon she had to rendezvous with the team following McCloud down from Seattle. If he was still awake, she would melt away the way she came. Lots of cops had trouble sleeping. Tomorrow was another day. She angled a tiny mirror around the door and peeked.

Ah, yes. He was sprawled on the bed, a sheet wound around his hips. Mouth open. Fast asleep as the TV gabbled. She drifted toward the bed, smiling behind her mask, silent as a whorl of smoke.

She angled the bottle close to his face, admiring the jutting angle of his stubble-shadowed jaw, and squirt—squirt—squirt.