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She could no more deny him than she could stop the beat of her heart.
His hand left her breasts and smoothed down her side and hip, over the curve of her belly. His touch firm, he dragged his fingertips through her cleft, found the soft, damp opening between her legs, and bit her in the curve between her neck and shoulder as at the same time he slid two big fingers deep into her. The heel of his rough palm pressed down hard on her clitoris, sending little lightning shocks all through her.
Her body bucked and shimmied under the triple onslaught. A breathless little cry slipped from her lips and she turned her face against the pillow, fighting to contain the sensation, and the sounds she was making. What he was doing felt so damn good, and if she gave in it would be over far too soon.
He licked where he’d bitten, then bit her again. He shifted his position so he was lying half over her, controlling her with his weight. His other hand stroked over the coolness of her bottom, down, between her legs, touching where his fingers entered her and stroking, stroking, taking her higher.
There was so much sensation she was drowning in it, yet when he removed his fingers and slid his erection into her, she was jolted yet again. There was friction, heat, stretching, fullness. He flattened his hand low on her belly and braced her for his slow, powerful thrusts. She felt every inch of him dragging out, squeezing back in. And despite how much she wanted to make it last, all too soon she was lost to the delicious, maddening increase of tension, winding tighter and tighter inside her, until she couldn’t take any more and went flying.
Even then, when the mindless spasms of pleasure eased, there was more. There was the feel of him moving hard, pushing deeper and deeper, until she heard that grunt he gave, followed by the rhythmic surges of orgasm. She loved it, loved that their lovemaking was as intense for him as it was for her.
Sweaty, lungs heaving, they settled together. He brushed her hair away from her face and rumbled, “You awake?”
Despite everything, she found she could laugh, the sound soft in the darkness. “No, I was faking it.”
“I have to go back.”
There it was, the decision that had been hanging over them for the entirety of the time they’d been together, which wasn’t that long at all, only about twelve hours—twelve precious hours when she’d felt as if a missing part of herself had been restored. But they couldn’t run for the rest of their lives, and Xavier wasn’t a man who turned his back on a problem, anyway. Odd that her clearest memories, her strongest instincts, revolved around him; or perhaps it wasn’t odd at all, given what they’d shared, how intense their time together had been.
“Yes,” she said. “We have to go back.”
“We?” There was iron in his tone. She’d known that particular argument wasn’t over with, so this was as good a time as any to revive it.
“Yes, we. If you leave me behind, I’ll follow. If you lock me in a house and board up the windows, I’ll set the place on fire. Trust me. And don’t tell me ‘your people’ will take care of me, because I’m not buying it. We’re in this together.”
“You’ll hinder me. You’re out of shape and out of practice—”
“Hey.”
“Training shape,” he clarified, running an appreciative hand over her breasts and hips. “Your instincts are good, but how long has it been since you fired a weapon?”
“My guess? Four years.” Since she’d fired the shot that killed the President, in fact.
“It’s a skill set that requires constant practice to maintain. You’d be lucky to hit the broad side of a barn.”
That was an exaggeration, but in his world being able to hit a target wasn’t good enough; the shot placement had to be precise.
“Not only that,” he continued, “but you don’t remember what either Felice or Al look like. Either of them could take you, and you wouldn’t have a clue until it was too late.”
Felice? Al? The names were new to her, yet they resonated. They were part of her lost years … “They’re behind the people who tried to kill us?”
“Felice, definitely. Al, possibly. It has Felice’s handiwork written all over it.”
“How?”
“She used outside people. Al would have used some of his own people, and we’d both probably be dead.”
“Al … what are his people like?”
“Me.”
“Oh.”
From out of nowhere swam an image of a lean, whipcord-tough man with short-cut, graying hair. “Is Al in his fifties, gray hair?”
Behind her, Xavier tensed. “That’s Al. Have you seen him?”
“I remember him.”
