Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(67)

It was so good to cling to him, to give herself up. She didn’t have to do a thing but hang on, be caressed by his strong arms, his big body, the deep aching slide and shove of his cock. Each slow stroke was a shimmering glide of pleasure, turning her liquid, molten and soft.

This time, he didn’t have to ask. He looked at her, and she knew exactly what to do. It was almost automatic, shaking loose, dancing through the barrier until she was inside, in that safe, beautiful place. It was lit up, blindingly bright and wonderful, and she could hardly tell what was inside, what was out, what was analogous, what was real.

It was the sweetest, realest thing she’d ever felt, his powerful body thudding into hers. So raw, so hot, so incredibly right.

He came, pouring himself into her, and she followed along, in a sweet shivering rush of utter surrender.

Neither of them could bear to break the panting clinch. She could have stayed locked together with him in the pounding water forever.





16


Miles set her gently down on her wobbly feet. He was too abashed to look her in the face. She made his eyes ache, she was so beautiful. Those thick, twisting wet cables of dark hair, clinging to her shoulders, eyelashes wet and tangled.

He reached for the bottle of shower gel, just to have something to do, and got to work on her, caressing her with the slippery suds. He could do this for the rest of time, particularly when he slid his hand between her legs. Soaping, rinsing, delving, until she sighed and squirmed, clenching tight around his fingers. He loved those soft silky tender bits, hidden in her wet thatch. His cock was already thickening. Even after all their inappropriate excesses.

He toweled her off when they stepped out, and scooped her into his arms, carrying her back into the bedroom. Too light. She had to eat. He wasn’t going to stop bullying her about it. Probably ever.

He tucked her in, lifting her wet hair, squeezing the towel around it again and again before spreading it out onto the pillow. He wanted to know everything about her, every moment she’d ever lived. To punish everyone who’d ever injured her. He was enthralled. Utterly f*cked up.

He tucked the comforter up under her chin, and used the towel to dry himself. Dragged on the jeans, again, and the shirt, which he did not even bother to button, since who the f*ck was he was fooling, anyway. “Try to rest,” he said. “I’m going to see what’s happening downstairs.”

She gave him that shy smile that revealed nothing. He wondered if she knew how he felt. That she had the keys to the Citadel. And he loved having her in there. As much as it freaked him out.

But then, he’d never claimed to have any damn sense.

He ran down the stairs. The kitchen was deserted, dishes washed. Aaro was out near the car, talking into his cell. Davy sat out on the huge deck, reassembling one of his guns.

Miles walked out onto the deck. The cold wind chilled his wet hair, whipped the unbuttoned shirt back from his bare chest. Davy’s eyes flicked over him, registering it.

Miles met his eyes, straight on. Fuck it. He’d done what he had done, and he wasn’t apologizing. They could all just kiss his ass.

Davy’s eyes narrowed. “So?” he said.

“I’m keeping her,” Miles said.

Davy’s face froze, for a long moment. Then he turned, looked away, as if he were admiring the view. But Miles knew the guy well enough to know that he was trying not to grin.

The grin won. “Ah,” he said. “Well, then. Good luck with that.”

“I’m sure I’ll need it.”

Davy slid the reassembled pistol into the side holster inside his jeans. “Come on inside,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because the beer’s in the fridge, and this calls for a toast.”

Miles followed the other guy inside. “Alcohol? Now? What about, ‘lack of vigilance will get you killed,’ and all that?”

“Bite your tongue, punk. Don’t you quote Eamon McCloud to me after rolling around in bed with your woman for two hours.”

The guy had a point, Miles conceded, as he watched Davy pop open two bottles of amber ale. They clinked bottles, drank.

His augmented senses were now able to embrace the flavors of whatever he put into his mouth, rather than being overwhelmed by them. The beer went down, sharp and salty and excellent.

Aaro walked in, scowling. “Drinking, now, too? Loser.”

“Shut it, and have one,” Davy suggested calmly.

Aaro accepted the beer that Davy handed to him. “Just talked to Nina,” he said. “She and Edie and Tam will be here tomorrow. I told them to wait, let her get a night’s sleep.” He looked at Miles, eyes slitted. “If that’s gonna happen.”

Miles stared back. “I’m glad they’re coming,” he said evenly. “Lara will be happy to see Nina. She needs her people.”

“She has you, doesn’t she?” Aaro said. “She has you all over her.”

Miles smiled, lifted his bottle in a silent toast, and drank. A mass of intricate sensory information started to crunch in his mind.

Fuck this. He couldn’t just drink a damn beer, like a normal guy. The micro-analysis happened automatically. He felt every increment of the changes the sugar and alcohol made inside his body. Changing his perceptions, relaxing his muscles, lowering his defenses.

His enjoyment of the beer drained instantly away, like a plug had been pulled. What the f*ck was he doing, beer in hand, like a normal guy chilling after work? Who the f*ck had given him permission to relax? He could not degrade his capacity to protect her.