Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(103)

Now his money made itself, thick and fast, and he had a whole staff of people dedicated to growing it, so Greaves was free to focus on philanthropy. What a great guy. He supported medical research, the arts, education reform, literacy, scientific research, space travel. He was heavily invested in green energy projects. A passionate advocate for climate-change research and innovation.

Then he ran across something more recent. A press release, dated three days ago. Greaves had funded a community center for his hometown, Blaine, Oregon. In fact, he had a house there. Miles had compiled a list of the man’s residences some time ago, and the Blaine house had been included in the lifestyles-of-the-rich-and-famous article to show the contrast between his newer lavish mansions and the relatively modest home on the shores of Blaine Lake that he’d bought for his family before he became filthy rich. Still a damn nice house.

The community center was a huge gift, worth tens of millions to the town of Blaine. There was an assisted living facility for elders, a day care and preschool to help children and working families, a sports and arts center for youths, a modern art museum, a theater and concert hall, even a cinema. A shopping district with a pedestrian mall, a town square, a fountain and a park, all in the interests of creating what Greaves considered to be the heart of a functioning community, spaces where people could stroll, socialize, plan concerts, picnic, throw a stick for their dogs. The community was appropriately grateful, and was having a big, fawning event day after tomorrow in which they were dedicating a statue to the guy. Jesus wept. The love was raining down.

At some point, he became aware that the light in the Lara place was glowing brighter. He turned. She was propped up on her elbow.

“Find out anything interesting?” she asked.

“He’s going to be in Blaine day after tomorrow—a ribbon-cutting ceremony for the huge pile of money he just shat all over the place,” he said. “Dedicating a statue of himself. Getting his ass kissed.”

And taking a bullet to the head from the H&K G-36 that Miles had picked up in the woods today. He refrained from mentioning that item on the agenda for Greaves’ busy day. That would take a stroke of luck. He did not want to shoot into a crowd. Greaves’ house would be best.

“You’re going to go there,” she said.

It wasn’t a question, so he didn’t answer it. “He’s a real prince of a guy,” he said. “Wants to save the world.”

She sat up, let the blanket fall. Her nipples were taut and puckered and dark, her flesh covered with goosebumps. So gorgeous.

“He said something like that to me, too,” she said. “While holding me in a telekinetic vise-grip. He said he wanted to save the world. Make the world a better place.”

“Wow. What did you say?”

“I laughed at him,” she said. “It pissed him off.”

“No shit,” he said drily. “So I can imagine. Jesus, Lara, what is it with you? Do you have a death wish?”

Her eyes narrowed, but her cheeks went hot with anger. “Not when I have something to live for.”

Miles chewed on that for a long moment, and snapped the laptop shut. “That’s how you feel?”

“Yes,” she said.

He rose up , staring at her intently. “That’s nice,” he said. “I’m glad you put some value on your own life. That’s a comfort to me.”

She shrank back. “Don’t be cold and sarcastic,” she said.

“Can’t help that right now,” he said. Cold was how he had to be right now, to do this job. She’d just have to deal with it.

He lifted the blanket that covered her. Lara shivered at the rush of cool air, and brushed her hair out of her eyes, perplexed. “What’s this?”

“This is me, making sure of my welcome,” he said. “Am I welcome even if I’m cold and sarcastic? You said you were mine. Did you mean it? Or was it just pillow talk to make me hard?”

She jerked up onto her elbows, frowning thoughtfully. Then she lay deliberately back down again, scooting over to make room for him.

“No,” she said. “It was absolutely true.”

He gestured at her slender legs. “Then open up for me.”

Her eyes dilated, her heart rate spiked. A subtle glow heated her cheeks, her chest, though her eyes were wary. “Don’t play games.”

He shrugged. “Don’t make me wait.”

She slowly opened her legs, and lifted her arms to him, beckoning. “Welcoming enough for you?” she asked.

“We’re getting there.” He shifted onto the couch between her parted legs, positioning himself, and leaning over so that his cock rested on her mound, pointing up toward her belly. “Touch my cock.”

She clasped him. Squeezed him, slowly gripping, sliding, staring into his eyes as she did so.

He covered her hands with his own, slowly dragged them off his cock with a tight, milking pull, and shoved her legs wider, parting her * lips. She gasped, as he thrust into her tight, slick depths.

He grabbed her hands, pinning them on either side of her head as he worked himself slowly inside and out. A juicy, swiveling slide and grind and push. Rhythmic and lazy.

“Do you trust me?” he asked, surging deep.

She clenched around him. “I want you,” she said.

“That’s nice.” He thrust again, harder. “Not what I asked, though.”