Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(58)

Miles got moving, but stopped at the foot of the stairs and turned back to scoop up the slice of cake Aaro had cut, ignoring the muffled cracks of laughter and muttering. He ran up those stairs like he had jet-propelled shoes. Davy’s directive had torn the door in his head wide open, to consciously think and feel what had been simmering underground, hidden and smothered.

Keep her. You know you want to.

The words rang in his head, like a gong.

It was true, of course. It wouldn’t have moved him like that if it hadn’t been. He wanted her. But no one knew better than he how hard it was to keep a woman. How mysterious the whole process was. How insanely hard it was to make it stick. Women slipped through his fingers, despite his good intentions, his best efforts. Who knew why?

But this was a new game, new rules, new stakes.

He opened the door without knocking.





Lara jerked up onto her elbows, heart pounding, when the door opened. Miles walked in, holding a plate with a big piece of cake.

“Oh,” she said, weakly. “You.”

“Yeah.” He turned, and flicked the lever on the knob lock.

She sat up as he walked toward her, glad she’d put the shirt back on. She felt emotionally raw, and terribly shy. Her unaccustomed boldness was all gone, as if it had never been, and she missed it.

The light had shifted, a lot less of it came through the blinds, but there was plenty to examine him by. The look on his face was different.

Harder. Calmer. But it made her feel cautious, flustered.

His eyes just rested on her, like he could just stay there, looking, for hours, and not twitch or blink.

“You’re, um, still upset?” she asked, cautiously.

He shook his head. “I brought you some cake.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He set it on the bedside table, finding room beside the remains of her meal, then matter-of-factly unbuttoned his shirt, his jeans. He tossed his clothes away. Erect, but he didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed about it this time. He lifted the comforter, jerked his chin for her to scoot over and make room for him.

She did so, bemused. This was certainly a different vibe. Not that she minded. On the contrary, her heart rate spiked.

He reached for her. She almost cried out, it felt so wonderful, to be held against that hard, scorching hot, solid body. His erection pressed her leg. His arms slid under the shirt. Stroking her butt, pressing the small of her back so her whole length was plastered to his.

A blush of oh-my-God-he’s-actually-touching-me thrills overwhelmed her, a shivery ripple over her astonished skin, like a whole body orgasm all by itself. If she pressed her thighs together, she’d come.

So don’t. Just breathe. Don’t flip out. Don’t be the needy, crazy, broken girl. Though, after her time in the rat hole, she’d forgotten what normal felt like. If she ever had a clue.

She couldn’t pretend to be normal, so she wouldn’t bother to try. She’d just cling to him, shivering, and ride those waves of emotion. Just keep existing, and feeling it. Second by second.

They lay facing each other, eyes inches apart. He pried her hand off the thick muscles of his bicep. He gazed at it a moment, then kissed her skinned knuckles.

The gesture unraveled her. She dissolved, hiding her wet face against his shoulder until she had the nerve to look him in the eye.

His face was thoughtful as he smoothed back the hair that was stuck to her wet cheek. “Get inside,” he suggested.

She laughed. “Of your mind? Really? I thought you were tired of having me in there. ‘Twiddling with your shit,’ I think was how you put it. Wasn’t that why you went to the trouble of rescuing me?”

“Nah,” he said, frowning. “Not at all. God, did I say that?”

“Pretty much. On the computer, remember? We could probably find an archive with transcripts, the way your brain is organized.”

He grunted. “What an *. Sorry. A lot of smart-ass bullshit comes out of my mouth. Terrible character trait. Pay no attention.”

“Hah,” she muttered. “Right.”

“Truth is,” he went on. “I didn’t mind having you in there. Apart from the small matter of thinking that I was going crazy, it was kind of fun. And those sex dreams, man. They were excellent.”

Her gaze fell, face heating. She stared at his collarbone, the hollow at the base of his throat. “They weren’t dreams,” she said.

“Right,” he mumured. “Whatever you say. I loved that thing you wore. What was it, a white negligee?”

She choked on her laughter. “Um, no. It was more like a—”

A wedding dress. She bit the words off just in time.

He nudged her. “Like what?” he prompted.

“An old-fashioned ball gown,” she hedged. “A vintage prom dress.”

“Huh.” He sounded dubious. “Whatever it was, it made me hot. Barefoot, hair hanging down. Mmm. I thought I’d created my own ultimate sexual fantasy, so I could just go for it, you know? Sorry about the cave man vibe. If I’d known I was interfacing with an actual person, I’d have been more . . . f*ck, I don’t know. Polite, maybe? Restrained.”

She shook with silent laughter again. “I liked how you were.”

That lazy grin transformed his lean face. “And then, you start typing messages to me,” he whispered. “My head just about popped.”