In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(27)

“Make me come again,” he said.

“You’re confusing me,” she said. “I thought you just said no.”

“To regular f*cking, yes,” he said. “Jack me off.”

That blunt directive made her want to slap him. The arrogant bastard. It also made her want to do exactly as he asked. She only had tonight. No time for pride. No need to worry about establishing dangerous precedents. She still hesitated. “I might not do it right.”

“I’ll show you how I like it. Get your hands wet first.”

She gazed at him, perplexed.

He made an impatient sound. “With your lube. Best stuff ever.” He flicked the cover back. Slid his hand up her thigh. “Put your hand in your *.” He leaned forward, inhaling hungrily. “Show me the secret pink girl parts. Let me smell you. God, you’re so f*cking hot and yum.”

Even an hour before, such a thing would have been unthinkable, but his mysterious alchemy had burned away her self-consciousness.

She splayed her legs and slipped her fingers inside herself. The only sound in the dim room was the wet sound of her hands moving on herself. He sat next to her, stroking his cock as he stared intently at the spectacle. She stared at the way he touched himself, too. Aroused by his thick, swollen shaft, the tracery of dark, pulsing veins.

The pleasure that burst from her depths startled her. A shuddering flush of heat pumped up through her chest, down her legs, her arm, all the way to her fingers and toes. Even her face tingled.

“Beautiful,” he muttered. “Wow. Bonus orgasm.” He grabbed her slippery hand and squeezed it around the head of his cock. His slick precome and her own lube blended into a perfect, slippery fluid.

He guided her hand into a tight, twisting yank, up and down the length of his pulsing shaft. “You do that . . . while I do this.” He slid a finger delicately inside her * and circled with his fingertip. Her body convulsed, shuddering.

“Does that hurt?” He pulsed it tenderly inside her, finding some mysteriously perfect spot in there that was soft, glowing with molten heat. It did hurt, just a little, but she’d die if he stopped, so she shook her head, unable to speak. Her throat was locked and trembling.

He guided her hand. She clenched and squirmed around his caressing fingers. Their pants turned to gasps. They were a taut, straining knot, making low, guttural sounds. His fingers probed deeper. Her strokes on his cock quickened. They fought their way toward that burning inevitability that beckoned and lured.

Sveti reached it first, pulsing around his hand with a shocked wail. Sam tightened his fist over hers, jerking it over his cock with frenzied intensity. He shouted as he spurted hot jets of creamy white come all over her belly, her breasts.

They stared at each other, drenched and limp, for a long moment.

“It’s just so f*cking good with you,” Sam muttered. “Why did it have to be so good?”

She responded to the note of accusation in his voice. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s my own fault, for getting all intense.”

Sam got up and headed to the bathroom. He came back with a hot wet washcloth, with which he proceeded to wipe the sticky fluid off her body. The slow rasp of hot, wet terrycloth over her belly and her sensitized breasts felt like a big, caressing tongue against her skin. She stretched voluptuously to give him better access. She’d never felt this relaxed, limp, soft. Empty, floating. Strange. Soothing.

It couldn’t last. As soon as she realized how much she liked it, it was ending. The heavy cold dragged at the bottom of her insides again.

Sam felt it, human antennae that he was, and the hot towel stopped moving. “Really?” he said, incredulous. “You’re sad again? That’s all the relief you get? That’s one hell of a narrow window, babe.”

“I know,” she admitted. “It really is.”

“Maybe it’s a good thing you’re leaving the continent,” he said. “Managing your moods with sex would probably kill me.”

She forced herself to smile. “Lucky you. Narrow escape.”

He tossed the washcloth through the bathroom door, where it landed with a wet plop in the sink. He stretched out beside her again, pulling her into his arms, and hugged her, fiercely. Defiantly.

To her utter shock, she dissolved into tears.

“Oh, God. What, Sveti?” He shook her gently. “Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head, hiding her face against his chest.

“Okay, whatever.” He grabbed the tissues, put the box by her pillow.

She groped for them and mopped up the mess. She’d known this would happen. That the sex would knock down barriers that held in a huge mess of inconvenient, inappropriate, dangerous feelings.

Sam held her quietly, kissing the top of her head. So sexy, that he was unfazed by geysers of nonspecific grief. Of course, he’d get sick of it eventually. And it was good that he wouldn’t get the chance.

It had to be this way. Because she had oceans of grief inside her.

She might never plumb those depths.





CHAPTER 6

Sam stared up at the ceiling after Sveti’s tears eased off, his jaw clenched so hard, it ached. He rarely allowed himself to descend to this nadir of suck-ass misery. Under normal circumstances, he had a whole arsenal of tricks for jumping tracks, taking his mind elsewhere. He’d gotten good at it, way back, while Mom was dying. He was very deft.