He couldn’t have been gentle if he wanted to be, and he didn’t. Sliding his hands under her butt, he lifted her enough to bring her to the perfect angle for his sudden, deep thrust.
She didn’t make a sound. She didn’t need to—he could feel the resistance and then welcome inside her hot, wet cunt, pulling at him, and he wanted to slam into her, to rut his way to the mind-blowing climax that was starting in his balls and spiraling outward.
She’d already had a small orgasm—the contractions of her sex had stopped his forward progress, and he still had a good three inches to go. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he needed to get inside her, all the way in, to drown himself in pleasure and pain and forgetfulness, to wipe out the staring eyes of the dead men, to fill this woman with his seed, his life, to take back what he’d lost.
He braced himself over her, kissing the side of her mouth, letting his tongue trace her lips, slip past her teeth to coax her tongue forward, kissing her as he’d never kissed anyone before. He moved his mouth to her ear, biting into the lobe, and she made a muffled sound of pleasure. “I need more,” he whispered. “I need you to take more of me.”
He felt her hesitation, and he kissed her mouth again. “I’ll help you,” he murmured, licking the side of her neck, and he slid his hand down between their sweat-slick bodies to find the bud of her clitoris. She trembled in his arms as he slid his finger over that sensitive spot, and he pulled his cock out, then sank in again, a little bit deeper, but still so far from reaching home. He did it again, feeling the flutters along the walls of her sex, drawing him in deeper, and he couldn’t know whether that whimper was of pain or desire. He was almost home, and he knew he should hold back rather than risk making her uncomfortable, but need was raging through his body, and he needed his entire cock deep, deep inside her.
He pulled out, pushing in gently, then pulled out again, and she reached up and caught his arms in her tight grip. “No,” she said. “I want all of you. Give it to me.”
He couldn’t have stopped himself to save his life. He rubbed her clit, her vaginal walls grabbed at him, pulling him in deeper, and unable to help himself he shoved all the way in, slamming her hard into the mattress, drowning in her body.
She hadn’t made a sound, and he was sure he’d hurt her, and a good man would have pulled away, but he was a bad man, a man burning with need for the surcease only she could provide, and with each hard thrust she answered him, her knees cradling him. He reached back and pulled her legs around his hips, and he sank in deeper still. He drank in her gasp of pleasure and pain, reveled in the feel of her fingers digging into his butt, pushing him, and then he was there, shooting into her, an endless orgasm milked by the trembling, grasping walls of her sex as she threw back her head in a silent scream.
He didn’t have the wherewithal to cover her mouth, and he didn’t care. If they’d accidentally alerted Soledad’s two elite guards, then it would be as good a way to go as any. Sex couldn’t get any better than this, than the ridiculously innocent sweetness of her. He would die happy, but there were too many things they hadn’t done yet. He hadn’t taken her from the back, standing up, sitting down. She had barely touched his cock, and he needed her to put her mouth on him before he could die a happy man.
He pulled out of her, and she made an unhappy noise. He was unhappy as well—despite the power of his orgasm he was still mostly erect, and he knew he
could keep on.
She, however, looked as if she’d been hit by a truck, and he wasn’t about to push her any further. Instead, he rolled over and pulled her into his arms, and she lay sprawled on top of him, naked, limp, totally satiated. He brought her closer, as she snuggled up against him, and he could feel her warm breath against his skin, the pounding of her heart as it began its slow return to normal, the dampness of her face against his skin. She was crying, and he didn’t want to know why. Maybe for what could never be.
It would be two thirty in the morning—he had an instinctive knowledge of the time of day burned into him. No one would come until at least six and with luck a lot later—he’d had enough time to watch the guards’ routine, and they wouldn’t bother to check in until later. He could afford to lie here with his woman in his arms, if only for a short while.
Even if she wasn’t really his woman. Right then it felt like she was, when he’d never felt that way about anyone before. Dangerous thoughts, and he wasn’t going to pay any attention to them. Except for the next couple of hours, when he could be at peace.
Until he had to rise and kill again.
Chapter Twenty-One
When Jenny awoke she was alone on the thin mattress. The room was empty, and for a moment she wondered if she’d dreamed it all. Until she realized she was stark naked beneath the scratchy wool blanket and wet between her legs.
She staggered to her feet, heading for the small toilet off the sparse bedroom, and managed to clean herself up. She lifted her head to look at her reflection in the mirror. Her brown hair was a tangle around her face, her lips were swollen, and she could see a love bite at the base of her neck. She was a woman in danger for her life, and instead she looked like a well-stroked cat, slumberous and contented. She had to be out of her mind.
Where the hell had he gone, she thought as she swiftly yanked on her clothing, trying not to think about how they had come off the night before, trying not to think about him. She was infatuated with him, nothing more, and given the highly dangerous situation she was in, it was little wonder she’d clung to him like the savior she wanted him to be.
Except she had the gloomy feeling she would have clung to him no matter what the circumstances. Her attraction to him went deep—it had been haunting her a long time—and whether they were safe in a hotel room or in imminent danger, she reacted to his touch as she’d reacted to no one else.
Where the hell had he gone? Had he decided she was collateral damage after all? Why hadn’t he woken her, told her what his plans were? Now all she could do was hope Soledad wouldn’t notice the whole atmosphere of saturated sex in the room.
She sat on the mattress, drawing her legs up and wrapping her arms around her knees. She could still feel him inside her, still taste his skin on her tongue. Fuck it. If she was going to die she’d die with some of him still inside her, and she would revel in it.
Could she trust him to save her? Could she trust anyone but herself? Clearly her instincts about people were dead wrong—she’d been so sure Soledad was an innocent victim, so certain Ryder was nothing but a danger. Was she wrong about her baby brother as well? Someone had tried to kill her back in New Orleans, and it couldn’t have been Soledad, who’d been put in almost as much danger.
Someone had hired a killer to shoot at her. Someone had blown up her beloved cottage and almost taken her with it. While she could believe it of her unnatural father, it wasn’t really his style. Besides, a man like Fabrizio Gauthier, no matter how estranged he was from his children, would never endanger that child’s life. Blood meant too much to him.
The workings of the Committee were complicated and devious enough to have done it, but again, they would have been more efficient. If they wanted her dead she’d be dead.
Or it could be an enemy of her father’s, looking to hit him in a vulnerable place. But everyone knew they were estranged, and killing one of his sons and heirs would make far more sense.
Which left one more possibility, one so unacceptable that she wasn’t even going to consider it. That kind of betrayal would be too awful to bear.
She heard the sound of the door being unlocked, and she braced herself. Soledad had sent two guards, and despite her efforts at being cooperative, they dragged her back into the living room, shoving her down on the sofa.
Soledad was sitting at a table, dressed in a pale designer suit, her hair in an elegant chignon while she sipped at a cup of coffee. She barely looked up when Jenny was hauled into the room, continuing to read the paper in front of her.
The phone still lay on the coffee table. So did the baseball bat, a warning. At least it meant that Ryder hadn’t managed to get the phone and abandon her. She still had a chance.