In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(72)

“Yes,” she whispered. “I want your cock.”

Another slow stroke, and . . . oh, God, she was almost there . . . and his hand slowed, just as she was about to pitch forward into a glorious free fall. He grinned and took his hand away.

She stared at him, quivering. Poised to explode. “Sam!”

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Just a couple more hours,” he said, his voice silky. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you. In good time.”

“You sadistic bastard!”

“Not sadistic, just practical. A guy uses what tools he has.”

“You’d use sex as a tool, on me?”

“Shhh,” he murmured. “Not against you, baby. For you. I want you to ache for me. I want you in physical discomfort from how bad you want me to f*ck you. That’s how I want you. All day. Every day.”

“That’s kinky and controlling,” she snapped.

“Too bad,” he said. “You drove me to this. If I can’t make you love me, then I’ll make you crave me. Because I can, Sveti. You know it.”

“You’re pissing me off,” she told him. “On purpose.”

He grinned. “Be pissed. It won’t change the ache. Every time I make you come, you’ll want more. I’m going to pound that nail, babe. I’ll pound it, and pound it. Until you’re so stuck on me, you can’t move.”

She tore her eyes from his smoldering gaze. “Enjoy your sexual power fantasies. I won’t have time to cater to them when we arrive.”

“Oh, cruel Sveti,” he murmured, laughter in his voice, just as the intercom announced that the flight would be landing in forty minutes.

She spent the rest of the flight trying to ignore him.

The next argument began in the passport control line, when she told him their first stop. Which was Sasha.

“It’ll be too late to speak on the panels anyway, even if we drove straight there,” she explained. “I’ll only make it for the gala this evening, so I might as well find Sasha now. He’s the real reason I came to Italy. The conference is just a pretext. I can’t think straight until I know he’s okay.”

“I can’t believe that after what happened, you’re voluntarily seeking out a mafiya vor’s son,” Sam said. “Your synapses aren’t firing.”

“Sasha had nothing to do with what happened, Sam.”

“He’s living high on the hog on his daddy’s dirty money, Sveti.”

Sveti shook her head. “That’s not Sasha. You’ll understand when you meet him. And you’re being unfair. So his father is a mob boss. Mine was a cop. Yours is a tycoon. Nobody chooses. And I trust him.”

“Don’t toss the word trust around when you’re talking about a junkie,” he said. “It’s like punching your own self in the face.”

She looked pained. “Sam, we went through hell together! We could barely breathe in there. There was hardly any light, hardly any edible food. We almost lost our minds. It hurt him. I know, because it hurt me, too. He was all I had to keep me sane. Rachel was just a baby who clung to me to survive, but Sasha was there for me!”

Sam just looked at her. His expression gave her a strange, nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach. “What? What’s the look?”

“Just jealous,” he said. “All that passion from you. All that loyalty. Lucky Sasha.”

“Sam, that’s stupid!”

“I was there for you,” he said. “Sasha gets a break, even if he’s a junkie. But there’s no break for me, is there?”

Her first response was anger, but it faded as the scene played, in brutal detail. Him, bursting through the door, against all hope.

Yes, Sam had been there for her. But she couldn’t say it. The channels were stopped up. She felt like a volcano straining to explode beneath mountains of solid rock.

She shifted gears, instinctively. “So giving myself over to your voracious sexual appetites does not count as giving you a break?”

The guy behind them in line choked and sputtered.

Sam’s mouth twitched. “Talk a little louder, Sveti. I don’t think they heard you in the baggage claim.”

She nudged him toward the window of the customs agent, her face hot. “Go on,” she hissed. “We’re holding up the line.”

At the arrivals hall, she was startled to spot a man holding a placard with her name on it. She was about to say something when Sam jerked her around and dragged her in the opposite direction.

“Don’t look at him,” he said harshly. “Just haul ass.”

“Sam, relax,” she soothed. “Probably Hazlett is just—”

“No, there’s no reason anyone should be waiting for you. You didn’t communicate your new flight number. The flight that went through New York landed two hours ago. If it’s Hazlett’s guy, he’s overly focused on you, waiting too eagerly. And if it’s not Hazlett’s guy . . .” He steered her toward a tall man, holding a sign that read WESTWICK INC.

“You had a driver meet us?” she said.

“Not a driver. I don’t like to be driven, but neither do I like to stand in lines at rental agencies. I called ahead, had a car delivered.”