In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(82)

“Don’t tell me about my heart. My heart is my own business.”

Sam slid his hand up between her thighs. She shuddered with startled pleasure, arching so hard she lifted him up.

“I know more than you do about what’s going on in there,” he whispered. “I know what your body says. Your body doesn’t lie.”

“You’re fantasizing,” she scoffed, squirming under his weight.

“Sure, babe.” He slid his fingertip over the gusset of her panties. “You want the naked truth, no masks? You like me this way. You like me strong. You like to push, and you want something hard to push against. And I’ve got something really hard for you right here, Sveti.”

She opened her mouth, but nothing but a breathless moan came out as his finger teased her panties aside and slid delicately inside her.

Sam’s face contracted. He thrust deeper. After having washed up, she was slick and soft and ready for sex all over again, and he’d gotten her that way with words alone. With his power games and his posturing and his sexy talk. Her face was hot with shame, but it didn’t keep her hips from jerking up to meet his hand, or the muscles inside her from clenching convulsively around his fingers.

Sam reared onto his knees, tossing her skirt up. His stance was arrogantly wide, displaying the thick bulge in his jeans. He inhaled the scent on his hand. Licked his fingers. Waiting. So damn sure of himself.

Oh, to hell with it. She reached for his belt, almost angrily, and yanked it loose, tugging on the heavy buttons of his jeans. His cock sprang free, bobbing against her hand. He shucked his jeans, then resumed his blatant, show-off pose, with his big phallus jutting toward her, the blunt tip swollen and red with eagerness.

A quick tug, and the gusset of her panties gave way. He shoved the ruined garment up to her waist and shoved her thighs wide.

“Damn it, Sam!” she snapped. “What did you do that for?”

“Saving time. And making a point,” he said, with a swift grin.

“It’s a stupid point!”

“Yeah, terribly wasteful,” he agreed. “Shhhh.” He nudged the blunt tip of his cock barely inside her. Pulsing, hinting, promising.

“Sam,” she whispered. “Please.”

“Of course,” he said. “But first, tell me something. No masks.”

She clutched his shoulders. “What?”

“You like me,” he said. “I’m not talking about just liking the way I f*ck you, or how my dirty power games get you all hot and bothered, or any of that. I’m talking me. Just me. At least a little bit. Don’t you?”

It hurt, in her throat, like some wild thing trying desperately to get out, but a mountain of rock crushed it. Wouldn’t let her speak.

He waited, looming over her. Eyes relentless. He cupped her face, and kissed her, with a sweetness that broke her heart.

It lightened the load, just long enough for her to whisper it. “Yes.”

He entered her, slowly. So good, so sweet, both gasping with pleasure. Each long, gliding stroke caressed a million shivering points of delight. Momentum gathered, and soon they were locked in a straining knot, panting and heaving. Struggling toward that shining prize.

Waves thundered through her, tearing her wide open, inside her chest, her head, exploding out into infinity.

It mellowed, slowly, to the tender glow of starlight on the water.

She opened her eyes when he pulled out of her. Cool air, against her wet skin. He still knelt between her spread legs, sliding his fingers boldly inside her, clasping her mound. Blatantly possessive.

“I love to see my come dripping out of you,” he said.

Her throat was too parched from yelling to reply.

The phone rang. She jerked up, but Sam gestured her down and reached for it. “Yes?” He listened. “Give us ten, then send them up.”

Sveti slid off the bed as he hung up. “Samuel Petrie,” she said. “I didn’t go through hell and back again to be a rich man’s bed toy.”

His face hardened. “We don’t have time for me to get my feelings hurt about that,” he said. “Your ten minutes are ticking away. Get to it.”



It took a judicious combination of charm and ruthlessness to get rid of Nadine and the saleswoman from the boutique, both of whom had accompanied the wheeled rack of plastic swathed garments up to Sam and Sveti’s suite. But no one needed to witness the knock-down, drag-out fight about to take place between him and his stubborn girlfriend.

A very generous tip satisfied the boutique lady, giving him further reason to be glad that Sveti was in the shower. He had to pick his battles carefully. Good thing the prices weren’t marked on the garments themselves. He’d arranged for them to be charged to his bill.

He sat down on the bed outside the bathroom door after he got rid of the would-be spectators, and tried to occupy himself with his laptop, check his messages, think strategically. No luck.

The sound of running water eventually gave way to the sound of a blow dryer, which he construed as progress. He glanced through the dresses, discarding several immediately. He leafed through the contents of the envelope Nadine had given Sveti, taking note of the venue, the Villa Fenice, a half hour down the coast. He plugged the address into his phone, studied the route. Straightforward enough. He loafed.

Finally, the door clicked, and Sveti emerged, swathed in a thick white terrycloth robe. She’d blown out her hair into swirling waves.