Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(78)

Wow. It was real. She was real. Holy f*ck. It blew his mind.

She rolled to face him, eyes fluttering open. Her gaze seemed both bold and shy. It gave a sweet, bright rush to all his senses, a sudden sense of opening deep inside himself. Like arms thrown wide.

Joy pulsed through his body, and suddenly they were wrapped in each others’ arms, clutching, knotted. Kissing madly.

The kiss was revving into something inevitable, but he dragged himself back from the brink and grabbed his phone from the bedside table to check the time. “Holy shit,” he said. “It’s after two thirty.”

She jerked up. “Wow. Really? We slept, what, fourteen hours?”

“You needed it,” he said. “I’m just surprised at myself. I haven’t slept more than a couple hours at a stretch for months. Are you still, ah . . .” He put his attention to that part of his mind that he’d begun to think of as hers, not his own. Their secret point of contact.

Ahhh, yes. He basked in that bright glow. A constant source of pleasure. Maybe that was what had zapped his headache. The Lara Kirk mind meld. Good medicine.

She smiled at him, sat up, letting the comforter fall. Ah, man. Not fair.

still inside appeared on his inner screen. no worries.

He laughed, in delight, and responded the same way. awesome. works even in deep REM sleep. just stay there now its safer

love 2. u dont have 2 tell me 2X

dont ever leave he invited.

tempting she replied.

whos tempting who? 4 the love of god put on ur shirt

She laughed at him. Her low, husky laugh was so sexy. It took all his self-control not to just roll over on top of her and mount up.

But the day was more than half gone, they were in mortal danger, there were decisions to be made, actions to be taken. To say nothing of a houseful of twitchy, judgmental people downstairs, twiddling their thumbs, looking at their watches.

It was past three by the time they were both decent. Lara insisted that she felt well enough to come downstairs, but her face was rosy as she followed him down the stairs and into the kitchen.

She looked awesome in the teal-blue pile sweatshirt and jeans, and purple high-top kicks that Aaro had gotten for her. Hair still damp, face pink. Lips, too. So pretty.

Aaro was in the kitchen, his habitual disapproving scowl carved into his face. Sean looked Lara over, glanced sidewise at Miles, and nodded. “Looking good,” he said. “She’s got color. Breakfast?”

“Please,” Miles said, fervently.

He was stonily ignored by all, but a parade of food appeared anyhow. Fluffy scrambled eggs, sausage, home-fried rosemary potatoes, toasted English muffins, fresh orange juice, coffee. Sean set a place for Lara at the table, and was deferential and charming with his gigolo/major domo routine, serving her food, urging her to eat.

No one urged Miles, or brought him a plate or fork. Sean left the loaded serving plates on the table and fussed exclusively over Lara, letting Miles slink into the kitchen to scrounge for his own dishes and flatwear. Still in the doghouse. He was lucky they didn’t make him lie under the table and beg her for scraps. But he wasn’t inclined to get his feelings hurt today. He was floating, like he was attached to a hot air balloon. The balloon was that soft Lara glow in his head.

The other guys were filing on by on made-up errands, intent on checking out Lara, watching her eat. She got down more food than she had the night before, plus a whole glass of orange juice. Progress.

Miles turned to his own refueling, loading up his plate with eggs. Protein, lay it on him. Fried potatoes, glory halleluia. He guzzled orange juice, wallowing in the citrusy, liquid-sugar orgasm. Drank one sip of coffee, and put the cup right down, instantly concluding that his adrenal glands did not need their asses kicked any further by caffeine.

Food had never tasted so f*cking good.

He didn’t start slowing down until after his third plate. He’d polished off all the eggs, all the potatoes, and was eyeing the last English muffin on the plate when he noticed six pairs of eyes, all staring at him. Including Lara’s. She was trying not to smile.

“What?” he demanded. “Never seen a guy eat before?”

Connor cleared his throat. “Not like that.”

The faint, far-off sound made him leap into the air. The other men jumped to attention in reaction to him. Guns appeared in all hands as Miles lunged for the window, twitching back the curtain. He’d left his Glock upstairs, and was cursing himself for a sloppy brainless fool until he caught a flashing glimpse of the vehicle through the distant trees.

Air rushed back into his lungs. “Tam’s car,” he said. “She’s driving. Nina’s in the front, Edie’s in back.”

“You heard the car from here? And saw it?” Aaro peered out the window, disgruntled. “I can barely see it, let alone identify it as Tam’s.”

Miles was weak kneed with relief. So it wasn’t going to be mortal combat right after breakfast. Give him time, for the love of God. Time to find a place to keep her safe before engaging with that prick again.

“Nina? You said Nina’s here?” Lara’s voice broke in on his reverie.

“Coming up the driveway now,” he told her.

Before he could say a word, Lara was out the door, pelting across the meadow in front of the house toward the big curve of the driveway. Out in the open, under a huge, threatening sky, where anyone could see her, snatch her, put her in the crosshairs of their f*cking sniper rifle. He bolted after, irrational panic clutching him.