Must Love Ghosts (Banshee Creek Book 1) (13 page)

She turned to walk out the bathroom, the Banshee Creek Hardware bag swinging behind her in silent invitation.

"Not so fast," he said, using his Master Sergeant voice.

It was the most authoritative tone he could muster and apparently it had the same effect on seductive sirens as it had on raw recruits. Abby paused in the doorway and glanced back at him, her gaze sweeping over his half-naked body. The bag swung one last time, then paused, hanging invitingly from her hand.

She stared at him, eyes grown wide, and he could swear she actually gulped down a breath.

It was a very flattering reaction. He never thought he'd see Abby looking at him with naked desire.

He was seeing it now.

"It's your turn," he said, making her jump.
 

She grabbed the pedestal sink for support, drawing his gaze to the pink marks around her wrists, abrasions left by the plastic ties. He remembered staring at her bound hands as he thrust into her and his body grew hard at the memory.
 

"I...I already took a bath," she stammered, looking adorably confused.
 

He stepped forward. "That's not the kind of bath I'm thinking of."
 

He took the hardware store bag from her and let it fall, with a dull thud, on the porcelain tile floor.

She made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a moan, and it made his mouth go dry. He took a deep breath, trying to control himself. This was a tricky tactical situation and the execution had to be flawless.

"Go on," he said in a firm tone that belied his inner turmoil. "Take the robe off."

She held on to the sink, as if unsure as to what to do. Her tongue slid over her lips in a nervous gesture and he felt himself harden. Control, he reminded himself, control.

This had to be perfect.
 

 
"Take the robe off," he repeated.
 

She untied the belt slowly, as if uncertain as to where this was going. Her hesitation only excited him more
 

"Hang it on the hook," he ordered.

She obeyed and stood still, dressed only in a thin cotton camisole and pajama pants. She had to stand on tiptoe to reach the hook on the back of the bathroom door and the motion made her stiff nipples press against her white camisole. He swallowed hard. The whole package—her perfect body, her wet lips—was indescribably erotic.

Well, except for the pants. In true Abby fashion, the neon green pajama pants had tiny silver UFOs printed on them.
 

"Take the pants off."
 

The UFO pajamas dropped to the floor and she kicked them out of the way. Her underwear was, in sharp contrast to the space-themed pajama pants, quite feminine, pink with a little lace detail on the waistband.

"Keep going," he ordered.

She pushed her lacy panties down obediently and the pink panties joined the UFO pants on the floor. She straightened, her eyes wide and dark, and stood patiently with arms hanging loosely at the sides.
 

She was perfect.

"Do you like this?" he whispered, as he reached down to caress her inner thigh.
 

The touch made her shiver and a warm, sweet wetness covered his fingers.

"You do," he answered for her. "I can feel how much you like it."

Her breath grew ragged and he felt another surge of wetness against his fingers. The telltale response seemed to embarrass her and her fists clenched as she tried to control her physical response.
 

But she didn't move. She stood perfectly still waiting to see what he would do next. Her passivity was intimidating, mainly because he really had no idea what to do.
 

Operating on pure instinct, he pulled his hand up her thigh slowly, tracing her labial folds with his fingers. A tortured sound escaped her, somewhere between a moan and a sob, and he struggled to hide a triumphant smile.
 

His doubts washed away like sand under a chopper's blades. He knew what he was going to do. He'd done it a thousand times before, though only in dreams.
 

He raised his hands, touching his fingers to her lips.

"Taste yourself," he whispered.
 
The words echoed in the tiny room, or maybe it was his imagination.

Abby looked faintly scandalized, which made his blood boil. He suspected that her sexual experience far surpassed his own and was pleased to see that he'd managed to surprise her.

"Lick my fingers, Abby," he ordered.

She obeyed reluctantly, touching his finger lightly with her tongue, the delicate caress made him hunger for more.

"Suck it." His voice came out as a growl. He couldn't help it, the touch of her tongue was warm, delicious torture.
 

And the torment was not going to end any time soon. Her mouth closed around his finger and his body hardened in response. He held his breath as she sucked the digit greedily. There was no hesitation now, only desire.

He closed his eyes, enjoying the sweet pull of her mouth. He wanted that mouth wrapped around him. Wanted that more than he wanted his next breath. But he couldn't risk that. If she so much as touched her lips to his dick, he'd come. He was that excited.

"Stop," he ordered hoarsely.

Abby pulled away, her lips wet and her eyes bright with mischief. "You don't really want me to stop," she whispered, her voice thick with lust.

She was absolutely correct, but this wasn't about him.
 

"Take the shirt off and get in the bathtub," he said, using every ounce of self-control he had left.
 

That did the trick. She practically ran to the bathtub, giving him an enticing view of her lovely buttocks as she climbed in.
 

 
"You've been a very dirty girl, Abby Reed, I think you need to clean up," he said, walking up to the tub where Abby's naked body lay, open and vulnerable. "Hold on to the sides."

 
She obeyed his order, her fingers tight and white-knuckled as they gripped the sides of the tub. His hand shook as he grabbed the bottle of Banshee Creek Bótanica shampoo.

Abby stared at the bottle, hot, bothered, but thoroughly confused.

"It's time to clean you up," he explained, tilting the bottle and pouring sweet smelling, lavender-colored liquid over her puckered nipples. She winced as the cold, creamy liquid hit her flesh, but he squeezed the bottle mercilessly and moved it over her bare body, down her ribs and over her tight stomach.

She writhed under the onslaught. "Shit, Mike. It's cold."

He chuckled and put the bottle back on the floor.
 

She sighed with relief, still gripping the sides of the tub.
 

"By the way," she gasped. "Did you check if Mercury is in retrograde?"

He paused, trying to figure out what she meant. Then he remembered the bottle label. "Very funny. Clean yourself up, Abby."

 
"Sorry." She smiled wickedly and let go of the tub. "Didn't mean to ruin your dom vibe."
 

"Don't flatter yourself," he replied, figuring that this wasn't the right time to ask what she meant by "dom vibe."
 

In any case, Abby wasn't in the mood for explanations. She dipped her fingers into the pool of shampoo in her navel and shivered. She closed her eyes and Mike watched, enthralled, as she slowly rubbed the shampoo over her stomach. His breath caught as her fingers traveled up toward her breasts, but she just smiled dreamily and continued the soapy trail over her ribs and onto her neck.

The minx was trying to torture him.

"Clean your breasts, Abby," he commanded, trying to hurry the process.
 

She complied, running her fingers slowly down her collarbone before cupping her breasts. Her touch was teasing at first, as she tried to tempt him but, eventually, her eyes closed, and she lost herself in sensation.
 

He watched her hips spasm as she caressed herself. She pinched her engorged nipples and her back arched in pleasure. But her hands didn't leave her breasts. She writhed helplessly on the slick porcelain surface, her thighs glowed with moisture, but her fingers did not wander down her body to touch her hungry clit.
 

"Mike," she breathed. "Tell me to come, please."

"Not yet, baby."
 

He watched as she tortured herself obediently, waiting for him to give her permission to relieve herself.
 

"I can't," she begged, eyes closed tightly. "I can't. Please."

He picked up the hand shower and turned the knob.

Abby's eyes jerked open when the cold stream of water hit her leg.
 

"What —" she gasped as he aimed the stream between her legs.

She spread her legs and moaned as the water pulsed against her flesh. Her muscles clenched and she moaned as he held the spray in place, forcing her to the edge of orgasm. She whimpered, hips jerking wildly as the pleasure hit her again and again.

It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
 

But he didn't let her go over the edge and she squirmed in frustrated desire as he turned the spray off and put it back in its holder.
 

"
Mike
," she groaned, eyes wild and disoriented.

That ragged cry broke his self-control. He pulled her up roughly and lifted her out of the tub. The soap was all gone now and she felt wet and slick in his arms. He put her down in front of the pedestal sink and she bent over it, displaying her perfect derriere.

"Hurry, hurry, hurry," she moaned and this time her bossiness was quite welcome. He reached for the box of condoms, took one out and ripped it open in record time. He put it on and stepped behind her.
 

"Look at the mirror, Abby," he ordered, hands clenched on her waist.
 

She looked up and their eyes met in the mirror. Her hair was wild, her pupils were dilated and he simply couldn't stop looking at her. Her harsh breaths, the smell of her shampoo, the feel of her skin under his fingers, it was intoxicating.
 

"I want to watch your face when you come," he said.

She clutched the sink as he thrust into her. He wanted to go slow, he wanted to make it last, but he couldn't. A savage need overtook him and he took her roughly, plunging into her again and again. He'd wanted to be gentle, but gentle was not something he was capable of right now. He was nothing but instinct and need.
 

Abby moaned and her body clenched around his. He held her gaze as the orgasm overtook her, then he came, still drinking in her moans of pleasure.

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

"T
HE
PINK
unicorn sleeping bag is fluffier," Abby said, offering Mike a pink bundle. "But the purple unicorn one is longer."
 

She smiled widely, a brightly colored sleeping bag held in each hand. They were in the garage, rummaging for camping supplies, and Mike was not impressed with the selection. But, hey, beggars and choosers, right? He'd probably go for the purple one, she thought, and the thought of tough-guy Mike wrapped in a sparkly purple sleeping bag made her want to giggle

Mike considered his options, looking distinctly doubtful. "Is there a non-unicorn option?" he asked.

Abby shook her head mournfully.

 
"Honestly," he said, looking a bit like a stoic Christian introducing himself to a hungry lion. "I'm not sure which one to pick."
 

"I understand," she teased. "The awesomeness of my sleeping bags has blinded you. These are collectors' items, you know. Do you have any idea how long it took me to find
two
adult-sized unicorn sleeping bags?"

Years. The pink rainbow unicorn had been easy to find, but the purple one with the nebula on the background had been quite a challenge. But Mike's horrified expression was worth every single second.

"So this is all you have?" he asked, assessing the pile of camping supplies.

"Yep," she answered. "We're not heading to the Himalayas here. Caine would love to go Yeti-hunting, but his budget, alas, doesn't stretch that far."

He looked around the garage as if expecting military-grade expedition gear to materialize out of thin air. "What are you planning to do with all this stuff?" he asked, gesturing towards the back of the garage. It was full of boxes labeled "Cole Hunt—books," "Cole Hunt—Mulder gear," and "Cole Hunt—Toro Negro research."

"Oh, those?" She glanced at the boxes. What were those doing there? Cole's sister should have picked them up ages ago. "Those aren't mine, but Cole's family isn't ready to go through them yet. I should call Elizabeth and see what she wants me to do with them."

She frowned at the boxes. Cole's death had devastated his family and, as far as Abby could tell, his mom was still suffering from a lingering depression. She hadn't wanted to bother them with the boxes. After all, she had plenty of space for them in her garage.
 

But two years? That was a long time. It was time to get rid of the boxes.

A part of her felt sad, and, let's face it, guilty. After all, she'd just had fantastic, out-of-this-world sex with her dead fiancé's best friend. But Cole had been dead for years now, and the future beckoned, even if it was unclear whether that future would involve Mike, who was staring at the back of the garage, a strange expression on his face.

"What's in them?" he asked, staring at the box labeled "Chessie sightings."

Abby shrugged. She wasn't going to explain about the Great Chessie Hunt of 2010. It had been an epic failure, except, of course, for Caine's recipe for the Chessie Mary, a particularly deadly combination of Old Bay Seasonings, cheap vodka and tomato juice.

And she didn't think Mike was interested in that. He was probably wondering why she still had Cole's things in her garage.

 
"Just stuff," she said, her tone firm. "But there's no sleeping bags in there. If you don't like the purple unicorn bag, we are going to have to get you a new one."