Deadly Fate (Krewe of Hunters #19)(67)

“It’s Alaska!” he reminder her.

“Difficult,” she said.

“Trust me, we find a way—we do find a way!” he said.

She was determined to help; she slid her fingers beneath the waistband of his jeans; they ran over his bare flesh and sent schisms of electricity racing through his hips, and down below his belt. But he eased back from her, removing the Glock and its holster from the back of his waistband and setting them next to the bed, reminding them both briefly of why they were there. Their eyes met for a moment; the movement might have given them pause, and it did, but her hand slid down his arm and she told him, “Amelia did remind me that I haven’t really lived in a long time.”

He lay back with her. “In some ways,” he said, “I don’t think that I ever really did.”

He fumbled out of his shoes and socks; she helped and hindered as he removed the rest of his clothing, and they laughed breathlessly at the effort. Finally, he was naked beside her.

She was in the silky robe. He straddled her and began to kiss her, lips caressing her flesh through the silk—slender throat, breasts, belly and below. He ran his fingers along her thighs, planted more kisses at her knees and above.

She writhed beneath his touch, rising and twisting, finding his lips again, kissing them with hot, wet intensity. Then she pressed him down to the bed, sliding against him, seductive with every inch of her body, arousing him with each brush of her hand, feathering of her fingers, and searing tease of her tongue. His hunger burned, centralized—and shot through his limbs. But the burn was as evocative in anticipation as it might be in fulfillment, and he held back, savoring the way they exchanged touching...stroking...caressing...tasting.

The silk robe slid from her flesh, and yet he felt that her skin was as soft. Her eyes... So deep a blue, as if the passion and the fight and the sweetness that had so compelled him to her were alive in that sea of blue.

He didn’t remember feeling this way before, as if he’d burn alive in desire without her, as if the woman he touched was why the basic instinct existed.

They laughed and rolled and kissed and touched anew, so intimate in every move, and then suddenly the laughter faded with the heat of passion. He groaned softly, sweeping her up, finding her mouth again while he thrust into her at last. The waiting culminated in a pleasure that was almost unbearable—instinct, need, desire and something more...

Her face. Her beautiful face, the way she looked at him...

Easing from him, crawling atop him, straddling him, looking down at him. “‘Fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night!’” she teased.

“Bette Davis, All About Eve,” he returned.

“Impressive!” she said.

“Me or the quote?” he demanded.

No answer. She laughed softly and kissed his abdomen, and moved down.

He drew her to him, finding her lips, whispering against them.

“I’m going to take that to mean me!” he said.

“Ah, confident, Special Agent Erikson!” she whispered back.

“You make me so,” he said.

And she did.

She swept the past away. She made the present urgent. She encased him in a way he was sure he’d never known.

Climax swept through him as if he had been lit on fire—explosive, gripping the length of him, shooting through with something erotically wild and hard and exquisite. She arched wickedly against him, creating the shock waves over and over again until he lay beside her, heart thrumming a million miles an hour, a fierce echo in his mind. He was at her side, drawing her against him...

Just breathing.

And after a while she said softly, “So much better...”

“Better...? Than what?”

She looked up into his eyes. “So much better...when you help, of course,” she said.

He kissed her lips very gently. “Why, thank you, ma’am. Thank you so very much.”

He held her, suddenly very glad of the night, of the Alaska Hut—even of Marc Kimball, since it was because of Kimball that he’d been so damned determined not to leave the room.





12

When Clara awoke, Thor was gone.

She’d slept deeply, exhausted and in a state of sheer comfort and security; Thor had slept beside her. Thor had held her. She’d been able to forget everything.

Showering and dressing, she wondered how she was going to feel when it was over...whatever it was. She was a musical theater actress; he was an Alaskan FBI agent.

And yet...

She’d never felt anything before like she did when she was with him.

She argued with herself, of course. They really hadn’t known each long; in fact, it was a ridiculously short time.

Sex was...sex. It didn’t mean an undying commitment—it didn’t even mean two people would ever see each other again. It had happened; she’d wanted it to happen. But...

What did the future hold?

She dug through her purse to find a hairbrush. As she did so, there was a light tap at her door.

Amelia, she thought.

She hurried over to open the door.

Not Amelia; it was Marc Kimball. “Good morning, Miss Avery! I’ve had Magda whip up some of her amazing omelets. I didn’t mean to disturb you, but I thought you might be hungry.”

“I was just coming out,” she said. With her peripheral vision, she could see that Jackson was there, standing in the living room, just feet away from her.