Mackenzie's Pleasure (26 page)

stroked the upper curves of her breasts, where they plumped above the protection of her crossed

arms. "We can put them behind us and move on, but we can't undo them. They stay part of

us, they change us inside, but as other things happen, we change still more. I remember the

face of the first man I killed. I don't regret doing it, because he was a bomb-happy piece of

scum who had left his calling card on a cruise ship, killing nine old people who were just trying to

enjoy their retirement. Right then he was trying like hell to kill
me...
but I always carry his

face with me, deep inside."

He paused, thinking, remembering. "He's a part of me now, because killing him

changed me. He made me stronger. I know that I can do whatever has to be done, and I

know how to go on. I've killed others," he said, as calmly as if he was discussing the

weather, "but I don't remember their faces. Only his. And I'm glad I won."

Barrie stared at him, the shadows emphasizing the planes and hollows of his somber

face, deepening the oldness in his eyes. Deep inside she understood, the realization going

past thought into the center of instinct. Being kidnapped had changed her; she'd faced that

before Zane had rescued her. She
was
stronger, more decisive, more willing to take action.

When he'd shown up that afternoon, she had been preparing to take extraordinary measures to

protect herself and the child she carried by disappearing from the comfortable life she'd

always known. She'd been naked with Zane before—and enjoyed it. She would again.

Slowly she lifted one hand and stroked the precise line of the small scar on his left

cheekbone. He turned his head a little, rubbing bis cheek against her fingers.

"Take off
your
clothes," she suggested softly. Balance. If her nudity was balanced by

his, she would be more comfortable.

His eyebrows quirked upward. "All right."

She didn't have to explain, but then, she'd known she wouldn't. She lay on the bed and

watched him peel out of his jacket, then remove the shoulder holster, which once more

carried its lethal cargo. This last was carefully placed on the bedside table, where it would be within

reach. Then his shirt came off, and he dropped it on the floor, along with her dress and his

jacket.

The new scar on his upper abdomen was red and puckered, and bisected by a long

surgical scar where the ship's surgeon had sliced into him to stop the bleeding and save his

life. She had seen the scar before, when he had removed his shirt before showering, but she

had been under orders not to touch him then lest she make him forget his priorities. There

was no such restriction now.

Her fingers moved over the scar, feeling the heat and vitality of the man, and she

thought how easily all of that could have been snuffed out. She had come so close to losing

him....

"Don't think about it," he murmured, catching her hand and lifting it to his lips. "It

didn't happen."

"It could have."

"It didn't." His tone was final as he bent over to tug off his boots. They dropped to the

floor with twin thuds, then he stood to unfasten his pants.

He was right. It hadn't happened. Pick yourself up, learn something, and go on. It was in

the past. The future was their marriage, their child. The present was
now,
and as Zane swiftly

stripped off his remaining clothes, a lot more urgent.

He sat beside her again, comfortable in his own skin. It was such wonderful skin, she

thought a little dreamily, reaching out to stroke his gleaming shoulders and furry chest and

rub the tiny nipples hidden among the hair until they stood stiffly erect. She knew she was

inviting him to reciprocate, and her breath caught in her chest as she waited for him to

accept.

He wasn't slow about it. His hands went to the parted cups of her bra, and his gaze lifted

to hers. "Ready?" he asked with a slight smile.

She didn't reply, just shrugged one shoulder so that her breast slid free of the cup, and

that was answer enough.

He glanced downward as he pushed the other cup aside, and she saw his pupils flare

with arousal as he looked at her. His breath hissed out through parted lips. "I see our baby

here," he whispered, gently touching one nipple with a single fingertip. "You haven't gained

any weight, your stomach's still flat, but he's changed you here. Your nipples are darker, and

swollen." Ever so lightly, his touch circled the aureola, making it pucker and stand upright.

Barrie whimpered with the rush of desire, the familiar lightning strike from breast to loin.

He rubbed his thumb over the tip, then gently curved his hand beneath her breast,

lifting it so that it plumped in his palm. "How much more sensitive are they?" he asked,

never looking up from his absorption with these new details in her body.

"Some—sometimes I can't bear the touch of my bra." she breathed.

"Your veins are bluer, too," he murmured. "They look like rivers running under a layer

of white satin." He leaned down and kissed her, taking possession of her mouth while he

continued to fondle her breasts with exquisite care. She melted with a purring little hum of

pleasure, lifting herself so she could taste him more deeply. His lips were as hot and forceful

as she remembered, as delicious. He took his time; the kiss was slow and deep, his tongue

probing. Her pregnancy-sensitive breasts hardened into almost painful arousal, her loins

becoming warm and liquid.

He bore her down onto the pillows, his hands slipping over her body, completely

removing the bra and then disposing of her underpants. His eyes glittered hotly as he leaned

over her. "I'm going to do everything to you I couldn't do before," he whispered. "We don't

have to worry about being on guard, or making noise, or what time it is. I'm going to eat you

up, Little Red."

She should have been alarmed, because his expression was so fierce and hungry she

could almost take him literally. Instead, she reached out for him, almost frantic with the

need to feel him covering her, taking her.

He had other ideas. He caught her hands and pressed them to the bed, as she had once

done to him. He had trusted her with control, and now she returned the gift, arching her

body up for whatever was his pleasure.

His pleasure was her breasts, with their fascinating changes. He took one distended

nipple into his mouth, carefully, lightly. That was enough to make her moan, though not

with pain; the prickles of sensation were incredibly intense. His tongue batted at her nipple,

swirled around it, then pushed it hard against the roof of his mouth as he began suckling.

Her cry was thin, wild. Her breath exploded out of her lungs, and she couldn't seem to

draw in any replacement air. Oh, God, she hadn't realized her breasts were
that
sensitive, or

that he would so abruptly push her past both pleasure and pain into a realm so raw and powerful

she couldn't bear it. She surged upward, and he controlled the motion, holding her down,

transferring his mouth to her other nipple, which received the same tender care and enticement,

then the sudden, deliberate pressure that made her cry out again.

He wouldn't stop. She screamed for him to, begged him, but he wouldn't stop. She heard

her voice, frantic, pleading: "Zane—please. Oh, God, please. Don't—more.
More"
And then,

sobbing,
"Harder!"
And she realized she wasn't begging him to stop, but to continue. She

writhed in his arms as he pushed her higher and higher, harder and harder, his mouth

voracious on her breasts, and suddenly all her senses coalesced into a huge single throb

that centered in her loins, and she came apart with pleasure.

When she could breathe again, think again, her limbs were weak and useless in the

aftermath. She lay limply on the bed, her eyes closed, and wondered how she had survived

the implosion.

"Just from sucking your breasts?" he murmured incredulously as he kissed his way down

her stomach. "Oh, damn, are we going to have fun for the next seven months!"

"Zane... wait," she whispered, lifting one hand to his head. It was the only movement she

had enough energy to make. "I can't—I need to rest."

He slid down between her legs and lifted her thighs onto his shoulders. "You don't have to

move," he promised her in a deep, rich voice. "All you have to do is lie there." Then he kissed

her, slowly, deeply, and her body arched as it began all over again, and he showed her all the

things he hadn't been able to do to her before.

He brought her to completion once more before finally crawling forward and settling his

hips between her thighs. She moaned when he filled her with a smooth, powerful thrust.

She quivered beneath him, shocked by the thickness and depth of his penetration. How could she

have forgotten? The discomfort took her by surprise, and she clung to him as she tried to

adjust, to accept. He soothed her, whispering hot, soft words in her ear, stroking her flesh,

which was already so sensitive that even the smooth sheet beneath her felt abrasive.

But, oh, how she had wanted this.
This.
Not just pleasure, but the sense of being joined

together, the deep and intimate linkage of their bodies. This fed a craving within her that the

climaxes he'd given her hadn't begun to touch. Her hips lifted. She wanted all of him, wanted

him so deep that he touched her womb, ripening with his seed. He tried to moderate the

thrusts that were rapidly pushing her toward yet another climax, but she dug her nails into his

back, insisting without words on everything he had to give.

He shuddered, and with a deep-throated groan, gave her what she asked.

She slept then. It was long after midnight on the east coast, and she was exhausted. She

was disturbed by the presence of the big, muscled man beside her in the bed, though, his

body radiating heat like a furnace, and she kept waking from a restless doze.

He must sleep like a cat, she thought, because every time she woke and changed

positions, he woke up, too. Finally he pulled her on top of him, settling her with her face

tucked against his neck and her legs straddling his hips. "Maybe now you can rest," he

murmured, kissing her hair. "You slept this way in Benghazi."

She remembered that, remembered the long day of making love, how he had sometimes

been on top when they dozed, and sometimes she had. Or perhaps she had been the only one

who dozed while he had remained alert.

"I've never slept with a man before," she murmured in sleepy explanation, nestling

against him.
"Slept
slept, that is."

"I know. I'm your first in both cases."

The room was dark; at some time he had turned off the lamp, though she didn't remember

when. The heavy curtains were drawn against the neon of the Las Vegas night, with only thin

strips of light penetrating around the edges. It reminded her briefly of that horrible room in

Benghazi, before Zane had taken her away, but then she shut out the memory. That no longer had

the power to frighten her. Zane was her husband now, and the pleasant ache in her body told

her that the marriage had been well and truly consummated.

"Tell me about your family," she said, and yawned against his neck.

"Now?"

"Mmm. We're both awake, so you might as well."

There was a twitch of flesh against her inner thigh. "I can think of other things to do,"

he muttered.

"I'm not ruling anything out." She wriggled her hips and was rewarded by a more

insistent movement. "But you can talk, too. Tell me about the Mackenzie clan."

She could feel his slight shrug. "My dad is a half-breed American Indian, my mom is a

schoolteacher. They live on a mountain just outside Ruth, Wyoming. Dad raises and trains

horses. He's the best I've ever seen, except for my sister. Maris is magic with horses."

"So the horses really are a family business."

"Yep. We were all raised on horseback, but Maris is the only one who went into the

training aspect. Joe went to the Air Force Academy and became a jet jockey, Mike became

a cattle rancher, Josh rode jets for the Navy, and Chance and I went to the Naval Academy and

got our water wings. We can both fly various types of aircraft, but flying is just a means of getting

us to where we're needed, nothing else. Chance got out of Naval Intelligence a couple of

years ago."

Barrie's talent with names kicked in. She lifted her head, all sleepiness gone as she ran

that list of names through her head. She settled on one, put the details together and gasped.

"Your brother is General Joe Mackenzie on the Joint Chiefs of Staff?" Of course. How

many Joe Mackenzies were Air Force generals?

"The one and only."

"Why, I've met him and his wife. I think it was the year before last, at a charity

function in Washington. Her name is Caroline."

"You're right on target." He shifted a little, and she felt a nudging between her legs.

She inhaled as he slipped inside her. Talk about right on target.

"Joe and Caroline have five sons, Michael and Shea have two boys, and Josh and