d, and she shivered, arching, throwing her head back as sensation rocked through her. She could feel her hair ripple down her back, his hands hard on her hips. She wanted more of him, more of that blissful, wicked, startling feeling, and she rocked, finding a rhythm that burned through her, made her tremble.
His hands slid up her body to cup her breasts and she moved her hips, taking him, reveling in the power of it, of using him for her pleasure. All of his strength was at the command of her body. The crazy, mad explosion of heat and strength, vulnerability and wicked control finally flared into mindless acceptance, as he caught her hips once more, his fingers digging into them, his body arching up into hers, and she was shivering, struggling, fighting.
“I can’t …” she gasped, wanting to weep. “It’s too much. I can’t.”
“You can,” he whispered, his voice dark and insistent, and she moved faster then, searching for something she knew she couldn’t find, something that eluded her.
He moved his hand and touched her between her legs, and her reaction was so abrupt it shocked her. She was catapulted into a spasm of such unrelenting power that she was barely aware of him spilling inside her, and she climaxed, open and vulnerable, no place to hide as the powerful contractions clamped around her body.
She collapsed against him, feeling his arms come around her, and she wanted to weep, but she’d already shed all her tears. She felt boneless, lost, empty now that he’d finally left her, and she wanted to hold him, to kiss him, to beg him to love her, to …
But all the things she wanted vanished, and like any selfish lover, she felt into a deep, endless sleep, sprawled on top of him like a limp doll.
MacGowan waited until he was sure she was deeply asleep. He liked her spread over him like a lazy cat – she was light enough that he could barely feel her except along his knife wound, and even that he didn’t mind, but he moved her anyway, rolling onto his side again and tucking her against him.
He saw the blood on her pale skin, and he froze, then realized it was from his hand. It was a mess – he was lucky he hadn’t broken it, but he’d still managed to bleed all over her. He touched his shoulder with tentative fingers, and felt wetness there as well. She’d bitten him hard enough to draw blood, and to his amazement he could feel his cock stir again.
Damnable piece of male equipment – it never did what he told it to. She needed sleep, and he could do with a few hours himself. Not with her, of course. He didn’t sleep with the woman he fucked, no matter what.
Of course, he’d already slept with her, in that hut in the mountains, on this very cot when she’d been sick. And at the moment he’d wanted to curl around her, keeping her against him , and stay that way.
But that would bring nothing but trouble, and pain when he left her, and if he had any sense of self-preservation he would pull away. He’d told her it was a one-night stand, an event, not a relationship. They were done. It was over, and he needed to go back to his room.
As soon as he could muster the energy. As soon as he was certain she was deeply asleep. For now just holding her seemed the wisest thing to do.
And so he did.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Vincent Barringer was not happy. His people had failed him, time and again. How was it possible that Sully could have screwed up so badly, not once, but twice? The Guiding Light was a bunch of drugged-out fools who’d lost their vision years ago, more interested in money than idealism, but they should have still have the killer instinct.
He had no authorization for this particular mission, and he had to admit it chafed him. That after all these years he suddenly had to get an okay from the higher ups. It was the liberals, he’d decided long ago. They destroyed the economy and then wanted to strip the country of its defenses. He had no choice but to go rogue.
Which troubled him. He had been a man who followed the rules scrupulously, and yet, at the very end of his career, he had to throw everything out the window to get this last, most important mission of his career accomplished. If they were ever able to put details in his epitaph he hoped they would mention that. In fact, he’d been writing his own. Not that he had any intention of using it any time soon. He came from a long-lived family, and he had every intention of reaching the century mark. But he liked to keep his life tidy and organized, and he couldn’t rely on anyone else to cover the points that needed to be covered.
One version, the official obituary, listed his impressive accomplishments, his life of service to his country, his charity work and various accolades. The second added his tenaciousness in finding Thomas Killian, though of course names could never be mentioned. Particularly in Killian’s case, since he had never existed in anyone’s data bank.
He would work on that version, tweaking it slightly. This was proving more difficult than he expected. Despite the Committee’s impressive success rate he’d always viewed them with disdain. They didn’t have to worry about congressional oversight or tightening budgets. They didn’t need to worry about a squeamish constituency.
They were always a thorn in his side, and they were proving an unacceptable one. They’d corrupted Killian in the first place, and now they were making it extremely difficult to lure him out of hiding.
He had one more ace up his sleeve, so to speak. The Gargonne brothers had been very useful in the past, and they were just the ticket. If they couldn’t handle the matter then he was ready to give up and see to it himself.
The bed was empty when Beth awoke. Of course, she thought, burying her face in the sheets. They smelled like sex. They smelled like MacGowan and they smelled like her and she should jump up and strip the bed. She lay very still, letting the odd feelings surround her.
Her body felt … glorious. Strong and beautiful and capable of anything. Was that what good sex did? Make you feel like Superwoman? No wonder women liked it. Apart, of course, from the shattering, mind-numbing pleasure of the actual event, the lingering benefits were impressive.
She should have sex more often.
Unfortunately there was at least one other side effect. She could remember precisely what she said, what she did. If she concentrated she could remember how he felt inside her, his hard body above her. She could remember her tears. She was a weak, stupid woman.
But she could remember him holding her, comforting her. As he had in the kitchen at the mission, when reality had finally hit her.
Why? He wasn’t the type to deal with weeping women, he was practical and hard-hearted. And deeply, intrinsically sexual.
She’d always known it, whether she’d wanted to admit it or not. Even after three years of abstinence he still moved like a man who knew how to use his body any way he wanted to. The way he had touched her, the way he had kissed her, the way he had come inside her. She wanted to hold onto that feeling, hug it to herself. Because she knew damned well it wasn’t going to last. She’d bet another hundred thousand dollars that he was going to be distant, polite, as if he hadn’t performed the most intimate acts on her body. As if she hadn’t lost herself to the way he touched her.
Fucked her, she reminded herself morosely. He’d told her that was what it was, and she needed to remember it. Sex, plain and simple, with no emotions, no strings, no relationship. Just sex. A one-night stand, and it was finished.