In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(62)

He twisted to take a look at the oozing slash. “There’s cotton and gauze and antibiotic ointment in the bag.”

She cleaned it, patted it dry, dabbed antibiotics down its length. This activity gave him an excellent view into the secret wonderland inside her shirt. He wanted to crawl in there and just stay.

He hooked his finger into her belt. Pulled her upright.

“Sam,” she murmured. “Let me finish. I have to tape you up.”

“Go ahead.” He pressed his nose against the vee of petal-smooth skin above her shirt, savored the springy heft of her luscious breasts with his lips. Her nipples tightened to sharp points. Oh, yeah.

He cupped her ass, dragged her closer with a hungry growl.

Sveti reached down and stubbornly continued taping down the gauze, but he could feel that high-frequency thrum of bright energy building in her body, sparkling against his face, buzzing beneath his greedy, stroking hands.

She fumbled to finish, her fingers caressing the tape flat. Every stroke a tingling promise. Mmm. He liked the ministering angel routine.

The tube of antibiotic gel thudded onto the bed. Her hands rested on his bare shoulders. Her nails bit in. Fingers shaking.

He dragged in her scent the way a guy about to go underwater would drag in air. “I like that bra,” he said. “Open your shirt. Show me.”

A swift jerk would have done it, but he wanted those doors to open from within, flung wide and willing. Sweet surrender. That hot blush, that dazzled look. He wanted her soft and sopping wet. So he petted, stroked, nuzzled. And waited. Time measured by heartbeats.

She put her hands to the buttons. Fumbling, clumsy and shy.

The bravery and trust of that gesture humbled him, knowing what he knew about her. The hell she’d been through. She still trusted him.

It made him feel thick and stupid. Tearful, even. Ready to fling himself at her feet, make some grand, stupid-ass gesture to move her, charm her, win her. Of course, nothing so clever came to him. All he could do was press his face against her chest. Fighting for control.

When the hot fog had receded, he tugged the stretchy lace down, tucking it under the curve of her tits until they jutted proudly from a lacy harness. So sweet and full, those tips pert and inviting, the pearly undercurve flushed pink. He slid his hand up between her legs, petting her hot core through her jeans. She moaned as he tongued her nipple, sucking it slowly into his mouth. He lashed it, delicately. His tongue was a fine-tipped paintbrush, and he was painting a holy masterpiece that would endure for all time on the canvas of her sweet, perfect body.

She shivered, clutching his shoulders, then his hip. Her hand skittered nervously away from the bandage, with an incoherent apology.

“It’s okay,” he muttered. “Oh, God, Sveti. Lose the jeans. Please.”

Her hands went to her belt—and a knock sounded. Rat-tat-tat.

They leaped apart. Sveti frantically rearranged her bra, buttoned her shirt. Tat-tat-tat again. Hard, rapid, imperious. The staff would not knock like that. In fact, the staff would not knock at all. He grabbed his gun, though anyone he would need to use it against would probably not be the knocking type. “Who’s there?”

“Your father,” said a chill, disapproving voice.

Sam froze. His gun hand dropped. No way. He’d called Martin, the head of security, last night. His father was in Hong Kong for the rest of the week.

Well, f*ck it. He got up and opened the door.

Richard Petrie stood there, arms folded. Tall, silver-haired, distinguished. His sealed mouth and pinched nostrils said what he was too restrained to voice about his rebellious son, but he’d verbalize it soon enough. It always sneaked out somehow.

“Hey, Dad,” Sam said, resigned. “I thought you were in Hong Kong.”

“Counting on it, I expect?”

Sam stoically ignored that. “They said you’d be back next week.”

His father’s eyes flicked over Sam’s chest. “Why are you half naked?” His gaze fell on the Glock, and his lip curled. “Sam. Must you?”

“This?” Sam held up the gun. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I must.”

His father leaned forward and caught sight of Sveti. He scowled. “Was I interrupting something?”

“Nothing we can’t get back to later. Why are you back early?”

“Put that thing down. It’s not necessary to play cops and robbers here.” His father’s gaze fastened on Sveti. She was as composed as ever, though he could sense the subtle get-me-the-f*ck-out-of-here vibes coming off her, thick and fast. His father’s gaze flicked away from her.

“What’s wrong with your hip?” he asked abruptly.

Sam braced himself. “You know me. Accident prone.”

His father made a disgusted sound. “Put on a shirt, for the love of God. You look like a car wreck. A fresh wound, to add to your collection. My compliments, Sam. Well done.”

“He got that wound saving my life,” Sveti said.

His father looked at her, startled. Sveti gazed right back, her big golden brown eyes bright and very direct. “And you are?” he asked.

“Dad, this is Svetlana Ardova, a friend of mine,” Sam said. “Sveti, this is my father, Richard Petrie.”

Sveti did not mouth pleasantries. His dad met her glare for glare.

“I was not speaking to you,” he informed her, icily.