Deadly Promises (Tracers #2.5)(55)

With her help, he lifted her shirt over her head, gave himself a moment to look and indulge and appreciate before he lowered his head to her bare breast.

Pillow soft. Woman sweet.

And her sighs. The fluid way she moved against him, inviting him to take what he wanted, do as he pleased… she stole his breath. Despite his best intentions she turned him into a pulsing mass of sexual hunger by stoking a craving that needed to be assuaged more than he needed to breathe.

He was on fire for her. Five-alarm, fully involved, on fire. He buried his hands in her hair, shifted to his back, and pulled her over on top of him. Her weight was slight and hot nestled against him as he fumbled to drag a condom out of his backpack and put it on. Her breasts were heavy and full as he reclaimed them with his mouth, and he wished to God that he could keep wanting only to please her.

But she did things to him. Turned selfless into selfish, and suddenly it became about tasting. And stroking. And sucking his fill as she writhed against him, pressing her pelvis against the erection that raged beneath his zipper.

He couldn’t believe he was with her like this, couldn’t believe that she was all but ripping his shirt off, then turning frantic fingers to his buckle before going to work on his zipper. Caught up, caught in, and caught by the storm of desire she had whipped into a frenzy, he made quick work of her cargo pants.

He knew she was commando beneath them. Still, he growled when he felt nothing but skin against his palms. For as long as he lived, he would never forget the quivering silk of her belly and buttocks as he brushed his hands against her, then lifted and settled her over his straining cock.

“No,” he ground out when she would have taken him inside. “Too soon. I want you ready.”

She actually laughed, as much in frustration as amusement, as she took him in her hand and guided him to her opening. “Trust me on this. I’m ready.”

And Jesus, oh, Jesus, was she. Her slick heat enfolded the tip of his engorged penis like a warm, wet kiss, welcoming him deep, demanding complete penetration and obliterating caution.

She was like a vessel waiting to be filled. He gripped her hips, fully engaged and selfishly locked in what was supposed to have been her moment but had become his as well.

He lifted his hips to meet her, to impale and immerse himself in the sweetest friction, the most electric heat… and the absolute, incomparable sense of coming home.

She gasped his name, braced her palms on his chest, and rode with him in a rhythm that called to the ages and with an abandon that called to him like a siren’s song.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her as she straddled him. Her back was arched, her eyes were closed, and the expression on her face was pure, uninhibited bliss. Endless longing and forgotten pleasure. When she suddenly stiffened and her head dropped to her chest to ride out the wave of her climax, he knew he’d witnessed something important.

Something more than sex, more even than an emotional healing. He’d just witnessed the liberation of a spirit that had been held captive by abuse, degradation, and shame.

He was already shooting over the top when she clenched around him, shivered, and collapsed across his chest.

And later, as his hand drifted lazily over the silk of her hair, he wondered when he had started thinking, So this is the woman I’ve been waiting for.





Ten

“And this one?”

Cav shivered when Carrie traced a fingertip over the scar on his right thigh. When he didn’t answer, she reached for a piece of fruit.

He’d retrieved the food and tea Thura had brought earlier, setting the tray on the floor at the head of their makeshift bed.

Though he was on the road to recovery physically he hadn’t recovered from the rush of emotions, or from the sight of Carrie, gloriously, unself-consciously naked and stretched out on the blankets beside him. She’d propped herself up on an elbow and was nibbling at the fruit and cheese, studying him with a mix of concern and curiosity and the prettiest lingering sexual glow.

Those eyes. They saw too much. Said too much. The way she looked at him was as disarming as her hand was pleasing, as it drifted back to the tense muscles of his thigh.

This is the woman I’ve been waiting for…

He kept coming back to that. What was the point? Where was the logic? Besides, she’d made it clear that all she’d needed was a moment in time. Well, they’d had it.

And it had been astounding.

“Cav?” she pressed softly. “How did you get this scar?”

“The scar’s not a big deal.” He needed to follow her lead and enjoy the moment. They still had over an hour before they could leave to meet up with the extraction team. He reached for her hand and lifted it to his lips.

“Hum.” She sounded as skeptical as she looked. “Yet it looks like a big deal.”

She didn’t need to know how he’d gotten it or the scar on his biceps or any of the dozen or so others that seemed to intrigue and worry her. When this was over she’d go back to her life in Georgia, and he’d… Well, he didn’t know where he would go.

“When I told you that you worry too much, you said it was an occupational hazard.” She offered him a grape. He sucked it off of her fingertips. “So what exactly do you do? Or does that fall into the ‘if you tell me you’ll have to kill me’ category?”

He plucked some fruit off the plate. “Have another grape,” he said evasively, then grinned at her put-out look.