Street Game (GhostWalkers, #8)(125)

He couldn’t imagine the feeling her mouth created, that warm, amazing pleasure, the moment of complete awareness; there was only reality or nothing. Fantasy didn’t cut it, not when he’d had the real thing. She paid attention to detail. She always had. What turned him on. What made him hard as a rock. What made him lose his mind and thrust helplessly into her silken mouth. Jaimie always made him feel as though she loved every part of him, as though bringing him pleasure was her pleasure.

“I missed it too,” she admitted. She touched her fingers against his until he tangled them together. “I love making you happy, Mack. I always have.”

He rolled onto his side and propped himself up, pushing damp curls from her face. “I need you to tell me the truth, baby. Can you live with what I do? I swear to you, I’ll leave it for you. We’ll find something else.”

She shook her head. “I know what you need in your life, Mack. I’ve always been about making you happy. I like keeping your house, and cooking for you. I love waking you up in the morning and meeting every need you have. I’ve always loved being yours. I needed to know what we have isn’t all about sex and I’ve learned that. We’re so hot together, so wild and out of control sometimes, that I needed to know there were feelings involved.”

“See, honey.” He leaned in to kiss her. “I just don’t get that. How could you not have known?”

She smiled at him. “I guess women need the words sometimes, Mack.”

His teeth flashed at her. “You’re going to be getting words, honey. We’ve got to get you packed before they call me. You know it will be soon.”

“I’m going to work, not just stay home naked waiting for you.”

“I know you will. You always have. And you want a baby, we’ll have a baby.”

“Do you?” Her gaze remained steady on his.

A slow smile warmed her. “If I’d thought about it before, I’d have realized having you tied down with children only helps my cause. Sure. I can handle a few kids.”

“That boy, Dae-sub, he was an amazingly stoic teenager. He was tortured.”

“He’s his father’s son. And he protected Mi-cha as best he could. I have to say, honey, I didn’t feel too sorry for Armstice thinking about him in the hands of Dae-sub’s father.”

“Sergeant Major said the Special Ops team drove them right to the front gate of the Korean embassy, got out, and walked away, and just left the car.”

“A guard was waiting. He drove the car onto the embassy grounds and they were all officially taken into custody. The great part was, they had no idea what happened or how they got there. The only one to escape us was Blaine. He was outside the embassy, waiting to call reporters and film the kid’s death. If North Korea or China manages to pick him up, all to the good.”

She sat up, trying in vain to tame her disheveled curls. “I hope the general can figure out who paid Armstice to kidnap those children.”

“Believe me, they’ll find out,” he said grimly. “And did you read the newspaper report on Jefferson? They gave him a wonderful burial. A heart attack. Very sad. A good man cut down in his prime.” He glanced at his watch. “We’d better get moving. We’ve got a lot of packing to do. I’m not going without you and if they call . . .”

“You’ve got to go.”

“And you’ll be coming without all of your fancy equipment.”

Jaimie straddled his body, settling over his hips, her knees on either side of his thighs. “Are you absolutely certain we have to go right this minute?”

He reached up to wrap a hand around the nape of her head, slowly pulling her down to him. “I guess we’ve got a little time.” He fastened his mouth to hers and just let himself drown.





Keep reading for a sneak preview

of the next exciting book

by Christine Feehan

WILD

FIRE

Available May 2010

from Jove Books!

He heard the birds first. Thousands of them. All varieties, all singing a different song. To an untrained ear the sound would have been deafening, but it was music to him. Deep inside, his leopard leapt and roared, grateful to inhale the scent of the rain forest. He stepped off the boat and onto the rickety pier, his eyes on the canopy rising like green towers in every direction. His heart shifted. It didn’t matter what country he was in—the rain forest was home. Any rain forest, but here, in the wilds of Panama, he had been born. As an adult he’d chosen to make his home in the Borneo rain forest, but his roots were here. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed Panama.

He turned his head, looking around, savoring the mingled scents and noises of the jungle. Each sound, from the cacophony of the birds to the shrieks of the howler monkeys to the hum of the insects, contained a wealth of information if one knew how to read it. He was a master. Conner Vega flexed his muscles, a small shrug only, but his body moved with life, every muscle, every cell reacting to the forest. He wanted to tear his clothes from his body and run free and wild as his nature demanded. He looked civilized in his jeans and simple T-shirt, but there wasn’t a civilized bone in his body.

“It’s calling to you,” Rio Santana said, glancing around at the few people along the river. “Hang on. We have to get out of sight. We’ve got an audience.”