In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(44)

His hair was wild and snarled. She ran her fingertips just barely along the tangled locks. No hair goop, just the salt of his dried sweat.

That timid, careful caress woke him instantly. His eyes snapped open. The sudden shift in his energy made her body tingle and tighten.

“What?” he said. “What is it?”

It burst out, uncensored. “The guy who questioned me,” she said. “He was the one who killed my mother.”

Sam gazed at her, unblinking, for a long moment. His eyes narrowed. “I thought your mother committed suicide.”

“So did I,” she said. “Until now.”

“What made you change your mind?”

She closed her eyes, to keep her mind from being scrambled by his direct, blazing gaze. “The guy said it was amazing, how I resembled her. How she wore a red dress like mine the night she died.”

He processed that. “And why would this mean he killed her? Did he say that he killed her, in so many words?”

“No,” she admitted. “But taunting me about how much I looked like her, taunting me about the dress—how would he know what she wore that night if he wasn’t there? If it wasn’t him?”

His gaze slid away from hers. Her frayed patience snapped. “So?” she demanded. “What are you thinking? Say it.”

“Okay.” His voice was carefully even. “I think that guy would have said anything to hurt or scare you. And you’ve got a truckload of problems already. You don’t need to go digging for problems from the past. Their outcomes are fixed, and can’t be changed. They can wait.”

She shot upright. “I’m not digging! These problems came after me, Sam! Do you think I went out looking for those guys who snatched me?”

“Of course not,” he said. “Don’t get twitchy. I’ll keep an open mind, but I will not open it so far that my brains fall out. I would not be doing you any favors if I did.”

“I’m not asking you to! But that guy asked me about Mama’s photo, Sam. And The Sword of Cain. Whatever that is, it’s not in the past! He would have cut me to pieces for it. If it hadn’t been for you.”

Sam’s face was unreadable. “I will concede. Him asking you about your mom’s photo is very strange.”

“I had this dream, and now I . . . oh, never mind.” She swallowed the words back. He was going to think she was a fatuous fool. Dreams.

“Yeah?” he said gently. “Tell me.”

She bit her lip. “I’m watching her fall. But this time . . .” She swallowed, to steady her voice. “This time she’s wearing my dress.”

He nodded calmly. “So your mom’s got a red dress on in your dream. The guy suggested that image to you, Sveti. Very forcefully.”

She covered her face. It had felt so clear when the wordless images were fresh in her head. Now it felt garbled and faraway.

“I just think it’s all connected,” she said. “You don’t see it?”

Sam smoothed her hair off her forehead. “I don’t know what to think,” he said.

“It’s connected,” she said stubbornly. “It wasn’t a suicide. She was murdered. I just . . . feel it.”

He pulled her closer. “Keep on feeling,” he said gently. “We’ll figure it all out, in time. Try not to worry.”

“Try not to what?” She stared at him for a moment, baffled, and then voiced her growing, horrified realization. “Oh, my God, Sam. You don’t believe me, do you? You think I’m nuts!”

“Not at all,” he said forcefully. “Nobody’s saying you’re nuts. Nobody’s saying anything. Don’t get uptight. Just breathe. Just rest.”

His gentleness made her furious. “Do not condescend to me!”

He rocked back warily. “Hey. Simmer down.”

“No!” She clambered up on top of him.

He was bewildered for a second. She kissed him, fiercely.

She was having none of this shit. She wasn’t some delicate deluded girl, to be treated like fine china. She was a force to be reckoned with, and he needed to know her for what she was. Deal with her, full on.

They devoured each other with a furious tenderness. She positioned herself on the hot, rigid club of flesh that lay flat against his belly, shifting until her wet folds slid against the whole length of his shaft, painting him in long, lazy strokes with her lube.

He arched, gasped beneath her. “Oh, God. Sveti.”

“Now.” She reared up onto her knees and seized him by the base of his phallus. Danced over him, anointing his cockhead with teasing little swirls of contact, like kisses. When he arched, shuddering beneath her, fists clenched in the sheet, she finally maneuvered him inside herself, and sank relentlessly down. A slow, luscious caress.

They froze, trembling at the intense sensation. Neither dared to move. Wow. A marvel, every time. She could barely move, she felt so filled, but she tried, lifting herself up, sliding down. Working herself on that thick, stiff shaft. So hard. So hot. So good.

She wanted everything he had. Wanted to devour him. His energy, his strength, his heat—things she could not formulate as thoughts, but only understand with her skin, her heart, her guts, her blood. Her clutching hands, her throbbing sex. The movement of their bodies became phrases of a language she almost understood, but with some exiled, struggling part of herself that she could not quite reach.