In For the Kill (12 page)

“My ass. I killed for you today. I spent the whole day sorting that shit out. You owed me a phone call.”

She twined her legs around his, swiveling with subtle, pulsing movements around his cock. “I'm sorry,” she said simply.

“Good.” He swiveled his cock inside her, with a slow, seductive deliberation that made her squirm and gasp. “That's a start.”

“Don't be angry,” she said. “They gave me some sedative, and I didn't even know what I was—”

“Stop it right there.” He forged inside, savoring her delicate clutch and drag. “Don't even try to act delicate and confused and wounded on me. I see right through that crap. You are as tough as a steel cable.”

She let out a jerky sigh. “You say that like it's a bad thing.”

He shook his head. “Not good, not bad. Just true. You blew me off because you didn't know how to deal with me.”

“And you? Do you know how to deal with me?” she asked, canting her hips eagerly to receive the slow, sensual slide.

“I'm learning,” he said. “I think I'm starting to get the hang of it.”

She reached up, cupping his face. “Strong is good,” she said with sudden vehemence. “The strong ones stay alive.”

“I like your strength,” he conceded. “It makes me hard.”

“I'm glad it has this effect. You're the first it ever did.”

“Good,” he said, staring down at the tender, shining pink petals of her cunt clinging to him on the outstroke. He gleamed, steaming hot from plunging into her sweet depths. “Stay strong, babe.”

“I try,” she whispered. “You're my weak spot.”

He froze, breathing down the rising energy of his own orgasm. He was not done with her yet, not by a mile. There was something very wrong with her reasoning, but all his red blood cells were getting busy down in his groin, and he couldn't be bothered to thrash it out.

“Which weak spot was that?” He held his hand over her heart. “This one? Or are we talking about this one, down here?” He diddled her clit delicately with his thumb.

“Oh, Sam.” Her breath hitched, hiccuping. “Oh . . . oh.”

“That's not weak,” he said. “That's soft and juicy and hot and alive. There's a difference, and you need to learn it.” He worked the sensitive pink pearl of her clit, lifting her mound up, so he could look at it in all its shiny, flowerlike, pink glory, his cock gliding in and out.

The wave was breaking over her again. She pulled him along with her this time. He lost control, clutching her as he exploded.

He rolled to the side, after his moment of oblivion. Cold air intruded against his sweat-dampened skin. He let his cock slide out, reluctantly. They were drenched. “I didn't use a condom,” he said.

She opened her eyes. “You have no diseases. I have the implant. As long as you're not sleeping with anyone else, what's the problem?”

His cock twitched with enthusiasm at this sentiment, but the words burst out of him just the same. “No,” he said harshly. “You ditch the latex when you're committed. Not for a throwaway fuck buddy you're blowing off some steam with before you climb on your plane.”

She sat up. “Blowing off steam? Are you
scolding
me? You should have given me this lecture before you came inside me, not after!”

“Yeah, I should have,” he agreed.

“I never saw you as a throwaway! Or a . . . a fuck buddy!”

“Guess what, Sveti?” he said through set teeth. “That's what you call the ones that aren't keepers.”

She made a pained sound, folded up, and pressed her face to her knees. Oh, Christ, why? He was being a raving asshole to her. Again.

“Sorry,” he said gruffly. “I didn't mean to give you a hard time, particularly not tonight. It just popped out. Really, Sveti. I'm sorry.”

She shook her head, still hiding her face.

He tried again. “Listen. I appreciate that you trust me, about unprotected sex. But trust is a dangerous thing. If you're not sure—”

“You think I don't know?” She looked up, eyes blazing. “Jesus! Do you think I was still a virgin at my age because I am so
trusting?
”

Sam blew out a savage sigh. “No, but you don't owe me sex, because of what happened today. Shit, I don't know what I'm saying. Just don't do anything that'll hurt you. Protect yourself. From everyone. Including me, because I can't seem to stop ranting at you.”

Her lashes swept down. “That's sweet of you.”

“No, actually,” he said through his teeth. “On the contrary.”

“But if you were wondering, I did not drag you into my bed to thank you for saving me, Sam. That was a completely selfish gesture on my part. That was all for me, me, me. Rest assured.”

He was obscurely comforted by that. “Ah. Okay.”

“Everybody has their vice. Some like tequila, some smoke crack, some skydive, some crave chocolate chip brownies. All I want is your . . . cock. Deep inside me.” She flung her leg over him, a just-try-to-stop-me look on her face, and danced over him, her hair tickling his chest as she wedged him slowly inside her snug little hole. They gasped, rocked.

Sam held his breath, teetering on the brink. “I am willing to bet money that the word
cock
has never spontaneously come out of your mouth in your whole life before you met me,” he said.

Her lips twitched. “Could be,” she said primly. “It's a word I don't have cause to use much in my daily conversations.”

“Another first, huh?”

Her smile widened to a beautiful grin, all perfect teeth and dimples. “You get off on that, don't you? That really yanks your chain.”

He rolled her over. “Oh, yeah.”

They went at it again, nothing held back. She kept stripping layers off him. A person could get so spoiled, being known like that. Having his soul laid bare, offered up to her.
Here. All yours. Take it.

His last thought, as he sank into the pit of adrenal exhaustion, was that it was going to suck serious ass when she shut him out again.

C
HAPTER
9

 

Sveti jerked upright with a sharp gasp. Sam shifted in his sleep without waking. She was glad. She didn't want to be seen like this.

Stay strong, he said. It was good advice. She would try.

She drew her knees up tight around the sour ache. She'd expected this, even before she got nabbed. Dreams of Mama's suicide were routine. Yuri was a classic, too. But her subconscious had never tossed the two anxieties together. They were bad enough singularly.

She stared up at the intricate moon shadows on the ceiling. Her mother had never worn a red dress in her dream before. In fact, she'd never noticed Mama's clothes at all. And she'd never known nor wanted to know what her mother wore the night she jumped. The day's fog of terror was starting to lift, just enough for her to realize the implications of what her tormenter had said.
It's amazing, the resemblance to Sonia. . . . And she wore a slut red dress, just like yours, the night she died.

This man had known Mama. What she looked like, what she'd worn. As if he were suggesting that he was the one who had killed her.

All these years, Sveti had wondered why Mama had not asked for help. Why she had not talked to someone, checked into a hospital. Or at least called her daughter to say good-bye. All Sveti had gotten was that photo in the mail, covered with cryptic scrawls. Cold comfort.

It would seem those scrawls weren't so meaningless after all.

Her mother had urged her to take the opportunity to study in America. She'd been a focused, dedicated professional, teaching French and English poetry at the university before the bad stuff happened. Absorbed by her passion for photography. Madly in love with Sveti's father. Devastated by his death. She hadn't been particularly maternal, but Sveti had loved her all the same, and had felt loved in return.

Then, suddenly, she was gone, leaving Sveti tormented by the stupid, awful fucking empty waste of it all. The terrible quiet.

But if Mama had been murdered . . .

She shied from the thought. It was a trap. She longed to blame someone besides Mama, Papa, Zhoglo. That crowd gave her no satisfaction. Just the vast silence of the dead from their direction.

But if it wasn't Mama's choice, if there was someone else to punish . . . oh, God, yes. Her hunger for that scenario could corrupt her good judgment all to hell. She had to watch herself, and keep it real.

She stared out the big window of the bed nook at the ocean. The big cloud had blown past, and the moon left a bright trail of light.

Until this morning, she'd had no reason to think anyone might have wanted to hurt Mama. Now that the possibility was unleashed, it was blundering around in her head, knocking everything into disarray. All her deepest assumptions about the world, her mother, herself.

It hurt to think about it, but she was accustomed to the trail of pain and tension certain thoughts made as they burned through her body. And at least this was a different kind of pain. It was preferable to be angry at a murderer than at Mama. At least, the sad, pitiful version of suicidal Mama that she'd been forced to swallow in place of her brighter memories. A brave, intrepid Mama, tragic victim of a terrible injustice . . . a Mama who could be avenged . . . that suited Sveti's fantasies so much better, she dared not trust it.

Dawn was glowing faintly in the sky, and she was as far from sleep as she'd ever been. Sam slept heavily on. She was tempted to wake him and tell him her realization, but that would be selfish and unfair, exhausted as he was. Besides, he would be restless and mercurial, full of strong opinions about everything she thought and said. She would end up struggling against him. Striking sparks.

The thought exhausted her.

Better to lie there, savoring the contact with his hot, naked skin, staring at his beautiful face. He looked so different sleeping. She barely recognized his bold eyebrows when they were not frowning or furrowed, expressing some strong emotion, usually about her. He seemed younger. His mouth so soft. Kissable. The tenderness that stirred inside her as she watched him sleep was strangely unsettling.

His hair was wild and snarled. She ran her fingertips just barely along the tangled locks. No hair goop, just the salt of his dried sweat.

That timid, careful caress woke him instantly. His eyes snapped open. The sudden shift in his energy made her body tingle and tighten.

“What?” he said. “What is it?”

It burst out, uncensored. “The guy who questioned me,” she said. “He was the one who killed my mother.”

Sam gazed at her, unblinking, for a long moment. His eyes narrowed. “I thought your mother committed suicide.”

“So did I,” she said. “Until now.”

“What made you change your mind?”

She closed her eyes, to keep her mind from being scrambled by his direct, blazing gaze. “The guy said it was amazing, how I resembled her. How she wore a red dress like mine the night she died.”

He processed that. “And why would this mean he killed her? Did he say that he killed her, in so many words?”

“No,” she admitted. “But taunting me about how much I looked like her, taunting me about the dress—how would he know what she wore that night if he wasn't there? If it wasn't him?”

His gaze slid away from hers. Her frayed patience snapped. “So?” she demanded. “What are you thinking? Say it.”

“Okay.” His voice was carefully even. “I think that guy would have said anything to hurt or scare you. And you've got a truckload of problems already. You don't need to go digging for problems from the past. Their outcomes are fixed, and can't be changed. They can wait.”

She shot upright. “I'm not digging! These problems came after me, Sam! Do you think I went out looking for those guys who snatched me?”

“Of course not,” he said. “Don't get twitchy. I'll keep an open mind, but I will not open it so far that my brains fall out. I would not be doing you any favors if I did.”

“I'm not asking you to! But that guy asked me about Mama's photo, Sam. And The Sword of Cain. Whatever that is, it's not in the past! He would have cut me to pieces for it. If it hadn't been for you.”

Sam's face was unreadable. “I will concede. Him asking you about your mom's photo is very strange.”

“I had this dream, and now I . . . oh, never mind.” She swallowed the words back. He was going to think she was a fatuous fool. Dreams.

“Yeah?” he said gently. “Tell me.”

She bit her lip. “I'm watching her fall. But this time . . .” She swallowed, to steady her voice. “This time she's wearing my dress.”

He nodded calmly. “So your mom's got a red dress on in your dream. The guy suggested that image to you, Sveti. Very forcefully.”

She covered her face. It had felt so clear when the wordless images were fresh in her head. Now it felt garbled and faraway.

“I just think it's all connected,” she said. “You don't see it?”

Sam smoothed her hair off her forehead. “I don't know what to think,” he said.

“It's connected,” she said stubbornly. “It wasn't a suicide. She was murdered. I just . . . feel it.”

He pulled her closer. “Keep on feeling,” he said gently. “We'll figure it all out, in time. Try not to worry.”

“Try not to
what?
” She stared at him for a moment, baffled, and then voiced her growing, horrified realization. “Oh, my God, Sam. You don't believe me, do you? You think I'm nuts!”

“Not at all,” he said forcefully. “Nobody's saying you're nuts. Nobody's saying anything. Don't get uptight. Just breathe. Just rest.”

His gentleness made her furious. “Do not condescend to me!”

He rocked back warily. “Hey. Simmer down.”

“No!” She clambered up on top of him.

He was bewildered for a second. She kissed him, fiercely.

She was having none of this shit. She wasn't some delicate deluded girl, to be treated like fine china. She was a force to be reckoned with, and he needed to know her for what she was. Deal with her, full on.

They devoured each other with a furious tenderness. She positioned herself on the hot, rigid club of flesh that lay flat against his belly, shifting until her wet folds slid against the whole length of his shaft, painting him in long, lazy strokes with her lube.

He arched, gasped beneath her. “Oh, God. Sveti.”

“Now.” She reared up onto her knees and seized him by the base of his phallus. Danced over him, anointing his cockhead with teasing little swirls of contact, like kisses. When he arched, shuddering beneath her, fists clenched in the sheet, she finally maneuvered him inside herself, and sank relentlessly down. A slow, luscious caress.

They froze, trembling at the intense sensation. Neither dared to move. Wow. A marvel, every time. She could barely move, she felt so filled, but she tried, lifting herself up, sliding down. Working herself on that thick, stiff shaft. So hard. So hot. So good.

She wanted everything he had. Wanted to devour him. His energy, his strength, his heat—things she could not formulate as thoughts, but only understand with her skin, her heart, her guts, her blood. Her clutching hands, her throbbing sex. The movement of their bodies became phrases of a language she almost understood, but with some exiled, struggling part of herself that she could not quite reach.

His face was strained and taut, jaw clenched. He clutched her upper arms in a grip just short of bruising. His hips slid up, jolting into her from below, each slick stroke caressing her inside.

It stung, a little, but she was already swept into the huge surge of a shining crescendo that could not be delayed or denied.

It tore through her. Took her apart.

When her eyes fluttered open, she was sprawled limply on top of him. The look on his face squeezed her heart.

She slid off him. He shifted onto his elbow and looked beneath himself. “I think my bandage got detached. Aw, shit. The sheets.”

She leaped up. “Oh, my God, Sam!”

The sheet was spotted with blood. The gauze that had been taped over his hip had ripped loose, revealing the bloody bullet graze.

She gasped. “I'm so sorry! I forgot all about your wound!”

“It was worth it,” he assured her. “I didn't even feel it, swear to God. Those sex endorphins are some serious shit.”

“Come on. Tam puts first-aid stuff in the bathroom cabinets.”

She herded him into the bathroom. He perched on the tub while she made a fuss over his wound, dabbing with antibiotic ointment and cotton until it was decently taped up again. Torn loose by wild sex under the greedy, selfish harpy girl. She horrified herself.

“Does it still hurt?” she asked anxiously. “Are you okay?”

“What guy wouldn't be okay with your tits bouncing six inches from his nose?” he asked. “Come here, let me just . . .”

“No!” She batted his hand down and put the first-aid stuff away, then hurried to strip the sheets and the mattress cover, also stained.

She dragged them into the bathroom and set herself to scrubbing the marks under cold water with a handful of liquid soap.

Sam watched quietly. “We're hard on bed linens,” he commented. “We've ruined two sets less than twenty-four hours into our affair.”

She laughed silently, dumped the sodden, foamy sheet on the floor, and got to work on the mattress cover.

“I'll replace them,” he told her gently. “Don't sweat it.”

“That's wasteful,” she said. “And it's not the issue.”

“I know the issue,” Sam said glumly. “It's that Tam Steele hates my guts, and my bodily fluids along with them. This will gross her out.”

“She can't say a thing!” Sveti snapped. “You were a goddamn hero! You got that wound in my service! From a fucking bullet!”

“And leaked blood all over her sheets while being lustfully ridden by a beautiful nymph with bouncing tits,” he said dreamily. “That salacious detail might cost me my manhood. Being in your service is dangerous, but it has some kickass perks.”

She snorted in derision, but Sam's face had gone suddenly somber. “In your service,” he repeated. “I like how that sounds, Sveti.”

Her body tensed. The words sounded formal, antique, and archaic. Something from an epic poem, or a fairy tale. “I'm sorry,” she said. “About, uh, saying . . . my service. I didn't mean—”

“I did,” he said. “It's okay. I like it.”

“But I . . . but you . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Sam seized her wet hand, gazing intently into her eyes. “Your service,” he repeated softly. “That's exactly where I want to be.”

She started shaking. The moment felt fraught with mysterious significance. Something solemn and irreversible was happening. Wonderful and terrifying. And dangerous. “Sam,” she said. “Don't.”

“Don't what?” Sam kissed her knuckles, stroked them against his cheek. He sank down to his knees, looked up at her. “Accept it.”