Standing in the Shadows (McClouds & Friends #2)(78)

But not all, something whispered. Six months in an American prison, and now this. He was shrinking, curled up on a floor that smelled of urine and vomit. Smaller and smaller until he was the size of a child's doll, with tiny balls like shriveled raisins.

Too small to be seen by the bank personnel in Zurich.

He pressed his tongue against the smooth capsule and wondered if they could listen to him through it, if there could be a microphone so small. He started, hysterically, to laugh again, even though every jolt of his diaphragm hurt like knives stabbing.

"Fuck you," he muttered, just in case they could hear him. And then, for good measure. "Fuck you both. Fuck Kurt Novak. Fuck Georg Luksch. Fuck your mothers, your grandmothers. Fuck you all."

It happened immediately, as if in answer to his words. A pop inside his mouth, a burning. A sharp, bitter taste, and his heart froze in his chest. Arrested, in midbeat.

The pain was huge, but he felt no surprise. He understood a million things in that timeless moment that his heart ceased to beat. The choices that had led him to this stinking concrete floor. The boredom and greed and restless anger that had gotten him mixed up with that murderous scum. The many cruel things that he had done with them, for them. It raced through his mind, together with all the choices that he could have made, and had not.

He could have married Sophie, joined his uncle's wine business. Sunday mornings strolling in the village square, he with their young son on his shoulders, she with the baby carriage, their infant daughter asleep beneath her pink blanket. A splendid lunch, and then lazy afternoon sex with his wife while the children napped. A game of cards at the club, a beer with the friends watching soccer on TV Weddings, baptisms, funerals.

The ordinary seasons of a blameless life.

He watched it spin by, until real time caught up with him. The iron fist closed, and crushed his heart out of existence, and what could have been and what truly was were both extinguished.



* * *





Chapter Fourteen





She was still on top of him when she woke up. Dawn had lightened the dingy brick wall outside the window, turning it a charcoal gray. She glanced up at Connor's face. He was gazing at her with his usual intensity, but it no longer flustered her. She liked it now.

She shifted on top of him, murmuring with pleasure. He was so solid and warm. Her thigh was flung across his, and his erect penis pressed against her, as hot as a brand. She poised herself over him so that her hair fell around them in a shadowy curtain, and touched his lips with hers. His mouth opened at her urging. Their tongues touched, a delicate, questing flick that melded into a deliciously sensuous kiss. It brought her body to tingling wakefulness.

She expected him to spring to action, but he just lay beneath her, rigid and trembling. She lifted her head. "Connor. Don't you want to… ?"

He rolled his eyes. "Like you have to ask." She dropped a kiss on his jaw. "Then why don't you?"

"You gave me a hard time last night. About pushing you around."

She was indignant. "I never said—"

"I'm sick of it. I'm just going to lie here and see what happens. If you want something, take it. If you need something from me, ask for it."

He folded his arms back behind his head, and waited.

She was disconcerted, but not for long. She didn't need instructions. She had ideas coming at her by the truckload. If he wanted to be a love slave, he'd come to the right place.

She flung back the quilt and rose up onto her knees. This was going to be fun. She leaned over and kissed him, thrusting her tongue aggressively into his mouth, the way he so often did to her. He murmured in surprise, and his body shook.

"Give me your hands." The ring of command in her voice was so unfamiliar, she barely recognized it as her own.

He unfolded his arms. She seized his hands and pressed them against her breasts. "Touch me," she said huskily. "Lightly. With your fingertips. Like butterfly wings."

He obeyed her. His eyes were bright with fascination, and his gentle fingers traced lines over the curves of her breasts. She flung her head back and danced above him, letting pleasure lead her. His breath got harsher, his erection harder. She leaned over so that her breasts dangled in his face. "Suck on my nipples," she commanded.

He writhed beneath her and gripped her waist, murmuring in a pleading voice. He covered her breasts with his hot mouth. She shook with excitement. The tremors were shaking her apart.

She pulled away, panting and flushed. They stared at each other, their eyes bright with discovery.

"Wow," he whispered. "Oh, my queen. What is your royal will?"

She shimmied down his body until she straddled his thighs, and tormented him with her fingertips, exploring every line and curve. He squeezed his eyes shut and moaned when she took his penis in her hands. She swirled her hand around the head, so smooth and bursting with pent-up need. She poised herself above him, and slid the blunt tip of him up and down her vulva. She wiggled, shifted, seeking the right angle, and forced herself down, enveloping him with a shuddering sigh. He was so amazingly thick, as hard as a hot club throbbing inside her.

"God," he muttered. "Please. Erin."

She rose up again, sank deeper. The small, quivering muscles inside her sheath clenched him with loving, jealous tightness, caressing the whole, delicious length of him.