Assassins in Love (26 page)

Only he couldn’t do anything, except let the sensation run through him.

Finally, it ended, and his legs became rubber. He wasn’t sure if he had ever had an orgasm standing up, a real orgasm, not one of those surprise ejaculations that happened to boys in puberty.

He didn’t think so, and he was beginning to understand why. His legs no longer supported him. Them. Him. He shook, and she laughed.

Not a mean laugh. A joyous laugh. She leaned backwards, grabbed the counter with her hands, and braced herself, but didn’t disengage from him.

“Shuffle this way,” she said.

He could see the muscles in her arms, the only thing holding both of them up. She didn’t let him collapse. Instead, she rubbed on him, using her hips and her arms together, and damn, if he didn’t get hard again, just like a young man.

He shook just a little, and his pants finally fell the rest of the way. Then he stepped forward, out of the pants, moving with her, and grabbed her, putting his hands beneath her and hoisting her onto the counter.

She shoved the weapons aside, and he hoped they were all disarmed. But nothing happened. Nothing accidentally fired or started humming.

He forgot them then, climbing on the counter with her, and taking her right there, thrusting deeply, like he had wanted to do before, but couldn’t because of the position they had been in.

He had never felt like this, as if he was actually caressing her inside, but with strength, each thrust carrying part of him into her. She clutched at him, then gripped the countertop itself, her hands shaking, and she came again, so powerfully this time, that she pulled something out of him, and he came too, thrusting until he couldn’t any longer.

He wanted to collapse on top of her. He needed to do so, his arms were trembling so badly, but he didn’t want to crush her with his weight.

“Good heavens, you’re hurting yourself,” she said and pulled him down, his slick torso against hers.

He was shaking and spent and he had never felt this good in his entire life. Or this exhausted.

“Sincere enough for you?” he asked softly.

And she laughed again. “What would you do if I said no?”

“I don’t know,” he said, his words sounding a bit muffled, even to him. “Try again?”

He didn’t look like a man who could try again. Rikki wrapped her legs around Misha, holding him in place. His hair was a tousled mess, falling over his face like bangs. His skin was flushed, his eyes so blue that they seemed lit from within.

She had never in her life beheld such a gorgeous man. And he had just made love to her.

Sincerely.

Earnestly.

With more passion than she had ever experienced in her life. Except for that one night on the ship. The night she couldn’t get out of her mind.

He braced himself on one elbow and brought a hand forward to caress her face. His gaze was tender.

“You’re unbelievably beautiful,” he said.

“And you’re quite the liar,” she said.

“No,” he said. “I’m not.”

He kissed her, gently, his hand still cupping her cheek. Then he feathered kisses down her neck and onto her chest. He moved his hand down, and caressed her breast, bringing it forward, taking it in his mouth, and sucked.

Her skin was so sensitive that it almost hurt. And it felt good. No. It felt great. She shifted beneath him, aroused again.

“We’re going to hurt each other,” she said, her voice raspy.

“I don’t care,” he said, his breath light on her skin.

He slid down farther, his feet knocking something off the counter, feathering kisses along her belly, his hands on her hips. He brought her up to his mouth, and gently, ever so gently, kissed her.

Then his tongue was inside her, and she got crazy all over again. She reached for him, trying to pull him up so he could be inside her, but he held her, using his mouth to make her come—not once, not twice, but three times.

He made his way back up her torso, lingered on her breasts, and then put his mouth on hers. He tasted of her, which she wasn’t sure she liked. But then she forgot it as he slipped inside her again, moving slowly, gently.

He braced himself on his elbows and looked at her, his gaze on hers, just like it had been when he told her that awful story of their past, when he made her remember everything she had forgotten.

His gaze held hers, and they watched each other as they reached one last climax—together.

Then he did collapse on her.

She could feel his heart racing. Or maybe that was her heart. Or both of theirs.

Either way, she was spent, and overly sensitive, and satisfied. For the moment, anyway.

“I didn’t think I could do that,” he said.

Be
sincere?
she almost joked, but she didn’t. That was a precious statement, a statement she didn’t want to make into anything funny.

His hand cupped her breast, his touch warm and soft. “I thought only young men could come that many times in a row.”

“You’re not young?” she asked in that light tone she heard in her head. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He lifted his head and grinned at her. He really did look young now. And handsome. And perfect.

And God, she wanted him again. Or at least, she knew she would want him.

Right now, she was too tired.

And her back hurt.

Something was digging into her spine.

“I think we have to move,” she said.

He shifted his hips. He was still inside her, even though he wasn’t hard.

She grinned. “I was going to say ‘Not that kind of move,’ but you can continue as long as you like.”

“If only I could,” he said and slipped all the way out.

She felt a loss, as if he had taken something important with him. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself reaching for him, so that he would stay with her like that forever.

And she immediately crushed that mental image: too needy, too vulnerable. She wasn’t ever any of those things.

Although she had been this afternoon.

With this man whose mother had killed her father.

But even that no longer had the talismanic power it had had just a few hours earlier. She didn’t hate him for that.

Especially since she could now acknowledge that she wanted her father dead—that Misha’s mother had done her a favor that night, and Misha knew it.

Rikki knew it.

“Something’s gouging my back,” she said.

He levered himself off her. A flush still colored his pale skin. His body was amazing. She was impressed at the strength he had shown. Holding her up while having an orgasm, without leaning against anything.

She looked at those legs, the muscles in them, the muscles in his torso and arms and back.

She sat up, cupped his face, and kissed him. She didn’t want to let him go, and that terrified her.

She had never felt like that about anyone before.

He put his arms around her and helped her off the counter. Then he looked at her back.

“There’s a dent in the skin,” he said. “You were on one of the forks, but tongs didn’t break the surface. You’ll probably be bruised.”

She had been bruised from the last time they had made love, and she hadn’t cared then. She didn’t care now.

“I’ll be all right,” she said.

“I don’t like hurting you,” he said, and that sounded sincere too.

“You didn’t hurt me,” she said. “Believe me.”

She touched that skin of his, so smooth and hard, over those amazing muscles. “How come I can’t get enough of you?”

“It’s not touch drops,” he said, and there was a bit of irritation in his tone.

She looked at him. “I know.”

He nodded, looked down, as if his own words had surprised him. “I think that offended me more than anything.”

“That a man like you would need touch drops?”

He shook his head. He still wasn’t looking at her. “That what we had that night could even be considered something artificial.”

She swallowed. “What do we have?”

He lifted his head. “I don’t know.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Then he kissed her, a light kiss, almost a benediction.

“But whatever it is,” he said. “It’s the most powerful thing I’ve ever experienced.”

Powerful and out of control and addicting. Maybe that was why she had compared it to touch drops. She could get used to this man. Only that was the wrong way to put it.

She wanted to explore this man. She wanted to know every inch of him, everything he liked, everything that made him as wild as he had made her.

She could dedicate months to studying him, to figuring out what made his eyes that amazing blue, what could make him moan like he had, make him lose complete control.

She wanted to love him for days.

She kissed him, and then she stopped, frozen again. That word she had used. Over and over again—fortunately only inside her own mind.

Love.

She had made love with him. That was what she had thought. Twice, she’d had that thought. And now, she wanted to love him for days.

She never used that word. She didn’t believe in that word.

She screwed men. She had sex with them. She had even fucked one or two.

But she had never made love before.

And if she had to guess what that felt like, she would have guessed that it felt like this.

He stuck a finger under her chin, and brought her head up so that she looked at him.

“You all right?” he asked.

Was she falling in love with him? Was she even capable of that? And, more importantly, could she stop it?

Because she couldn’t love anyone. Any more than she could need anyone.

She was okay with craving him, okay with wanting him. Maybe even okay with obsessing about him.

But she couldn’t tie herself to him in any way.

“I’m okay,” she said, even though it might have been a lie. “Are you?”

“The best I’ve ever been,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling. “Quite honestly—No. Make that quite sincerely, Rikki—this is the best I’ve ever been.”

Somewhere in the middle of that incredible afternoon, Misha had decided he was going to be completely honest with her. He wasn’t going to lie, he wasn’t going to forget to tell her something. He was going to be as much of himself as he was capable of being.

He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he was going to try.

Could this feeling, this desire for her that was so intense it almost hurt, be something he could get out of his system?

He wasn’t sure.

And he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

They ended up in her bathroom, showering together, playing with each other’s bodies, but both clearly too tired to do much more. He dried her off, then dried himself off, and led her to bed.

The bedroom was as bright as the rest of the apartment, with floor-to-ceiling windows. It wasn’t until he went in there, naked, holding her hand, that he realized they both were visible to the entire city—and had been throughout that incredible sexual marathon.

And what really surprised him was that he didn’t care.

She hit some kind of button and the windows darkened. The bed was the only thing in the room besides the windows and two occasional tables. She pulled the covers down, and then got in bed, bringing him in.

For a moment, he thought she was going to start again. But she didn’t. She just wrapped herself around him, nestled her head against his chest, and closed her eyes.

After a moment, he closed his eyes too.

***

He woke up hours later, hungrier than he ever remembered being. Rikki was still cradled in his arms, and he was hard against her. But his body ached, and even though the desire was there as strong as it had been earlier, he knew he might actually hurt them both if he started something so soon.

They needed to eat, not act like teenagers on a honeymoon. After they ate, they could resume their teenage-honeymoon behavior.

He smiled and stroked Rikki’s hair. It was so soft. It cascaded around her, covering her. He loved the color—the real color. He kissed the crown of her head, then eased himself out. Gently. Slowly.

He didn’t want to wake her. She had awakened him, twice, twitching and crying out with what had clearly been bad dreams. He wondered if her sleep was haunted by the death of her father, or if she was dreaming of other unpleasant things.

Still, he knew enough about brain science as it pertained to post-traumatic stress to know that sleep would help repair the emotional damage. It would link the connections, make the newly revived memories firmer, keep them easy to access.

And that was important, because she had to stop questioning herself.