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  She screamed at the shocking rapture, her orgasmic cries exploding in the quiet room, and Nick sucked harder. But his mind was multitasking, every nerve on full alert, monitoring her progress. And the moment she finished coming he was going to replace her vibrator with his cock.

  He was already reaching for a condom as her orgasm diminished and when he slid between her legs seconds later and plunged deep inside her, she sucked in a shocked breath.

  He didn’t move for a second, not necessarily out of courtesy. He was trying to decide if he was light-headed because all the blood in his body was in his cock or whether being buried in Miss Chandler’s delectable cunt was somehow affecting his senses.

  But suddenly, Zoe curled her legs around his ass exactly like his libidinous fantasies had divined and, shifting her pelvis upward, she whispered with heartfelt fervor, “Finally the real thing.”

  “Speaking of real things,” he whispered, nominally back in the real world, although the pleasure was so stupefying he wasn’t altogether certain he wasn’t experiencing some crackpot out-of-body event. Not that it was going to impinge on him climaxing. That presumption would survive a nuclear attack. “I’d suggest you hang on.”

  As she quickly complied, he considered himself a very lucky man for the first time in a very long time. No games, no pretense with Zoe Chandler. She wanted it as much as he did.

  He slid his hands up her arms, grabbed her wrists and exploited her availability, eagerness, and the highly salacious fact that on occasion—like now—she was definitely subject to his whims.

  Her skin was hot to the touch, her cunt perfection as in a perfect fit, the scent of her in his nostrils outrageously aphrodisiacal.

  Or was it his response to her, rather than her particular flesh and blood humanity? Not that it mattered. Not that he was about to debate cause and effect when currently effect was scorching and vaporizing everything but pure, megalomaniac sensation. This was about raw feeling. Intense, profound feeling. The kind of feeling previously absent from his life.

  At the moment, Zoe was quite willing to forgive him for any and all past, perhaps future transgressions as well, because the explicitly carnal, glorious pleasure heating her body to fever pitch was unprecedented. Seriously, she reflected, she didn’t know she could feel this good. This hot. This shameless level of ravenous desire. And apropos of nothing but her own gratifying ravishment, she noted he had the most gorgeous butt, currently oscillating like a pile driver on steroids.

  Halfway through what turned out to be a wild, rampaging, plunging, pounding—reciprocal—quest for orgasm, Nick took note of his highly unusual conduct. He didn’t normally approach sex with untamed fury. Correction—he never did. And if he wasn’t fast approaching climax, he might have given more than a fleeting consideration to the possibility that Harry’s girl had drugged him.

  He couldn’t help but grin at the transient thought as his climax exploded with such violence he thought his head would blow off. If she’d slipped him something, he decided, it must have been a doozy.

  He didn’t even notice that she’d climaxed along with him until his brain shifted from automatic pilot back to normal function and he felt the small, diminishing ripples of her vaginal muscles fluttering over his cock.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” he murmured, blowing out a breath as he lay braced above her. “That was one helluva ride.”

  “I hope you’re up for more.”

  He chuckled. “Don’t be shy.”

  She met his gaze and raised her brows infinitesimally. “I never am.”

  “No kidding. Not that I’m complaining.”

  “I can tell.” She shifted her hips as his penis swelled inside her.

  “I hope like hell Harry didn’t send you,” he said, softly. “You’re really fun to play with.”

  She heard the unspoken menace in his words, however soft his tone. “I prefer playing with you to whatever your alternative might be. And seriously, I don’t know any Harry.”

  “Whatever. I just can’t take chances.”

  “At least these cuffs are velvet lined.”

  That was carte blanche if he ever heard it. “Let me get a fresh condom,” he said, withdrawing in a smooth, supple movement that brought him to his feet beside the bed. “Do you want a drink or anything?”

  She laughed. “A polite wild man.”

  “I apologize for that head-banging shit. I’m not usually like that. You’re way too sexy—what can I say?”

  He disposed of the condom in a convenient wastebasket, Zoe noticed, not sure why his former love life annoyed her. It did, however—perversely making him even more attractive. As if he wasn’t alluring enough already.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said, breaking into her sexual reverie. “I need a drink.”

  He returned with a frosted, half-empty bottle of vodka, offered it to her, and when she shook her head, he sat, cross-legged, at the foot of the bed, facing her. “Break time,” he said, and lifted the bottle to his mouth.

  “It doesn’t look as though he needs a break,” Zoe murmured, pointing her toe at his engorged dick.

  “One of us does. Don’t worry, I won’t keep you waiting long. Tell me how you don’t know Harry.”

  “Let me count the ways,” she teased, thinking that he looked exactly like those workout machine ads she’d considered earlier. His body was slick with sweat, every muscle vividly accentuated as if he were oiled down for some bodybuilder contest—his rigid cock the picture of vigorous, bracing good health. “I don’t know Harry, not yours, not anyone’s. Sorry. Tell me how you came by that scar.” It didn’t stop at his waist. Now that he was naked, she saw that the ragged scar ran down the entire length of his body and halfway down the outside of his left leg.

  “Someone shot at the Humvee I was riding in.”

  “It must have been more than a rifle shot.”

  “Shoulder-fired missile.”

  “Jeez. You’re lucky to be alive.”

  “My driver wasn’t so lucky.”

  “I’m sorry.” His eyes had gone blank.

  He didn’t answer. He took another slug of vodka, waved the bottle in her direction, and said brusquely, “Spread your legs.”

  “Maybe you should ask nicely.”

  “Please spread your legs,” he said, not nicely at all.

  “When you growl like that, I’m not inclined to oblige you.”

  “Then again,” he said, leaning over and placing the bottle on the floor, “whether you choose to oblige me or not doesn’t really matter.” Drawing himself back into a seated position by his abs alone, he leaned back against the footboard of the bed and held her gaze.

  “I suppose it’s easy to be a prick when I’m trussed up and can’t hit you.”

  “I suppose it is.” No way was he taking the bait. He had plans for the night, and they didn’t involve him getting killed. “But I’m thinking you won’t care if I’m a prick when you’re coming so hard your screams raise the fucking roof.”

  “So you’re good. I never said you weren’t. You’re still a prick.”

  “Sorry. I’ve got lots of shit going on right now.”

  He actually sounded contrite. “I understand,” she said more civilly than she’d planned.

  “I’d uncuff you if I could,” he quietly said.

  She abruptly smiled. “And if I didn’t want your big cock, I’d get the hell out of here.”

  “And go where?”

  “I have places I can go. Friends Willerby doesn’t know about.”

  “Good,” he said, enormously relieved. He was off the hook. Come morning, he’d help her pack her car. “So, are we done?”

  “With you being a prick you mean?”

  “Whatever you say.” He smiled. “Feel better now?”

  “I do. Thanks for apologizing.”

  Little bitch. But he only smiled. He could see her cunt from here and it looked ready for action—slick and receptive. “You’re more than welcome,” he said, smooth as silk.
“How about we take it a little slower this time?” He grinned. “You know—get to know each other better.”

  His idea of getting to know each other better turned out to be a world-class talent wedded to a professional expertise that any accomplished yogi would envy. He knew exactly how to move, how slowly or quickly, how deep and when, with the kind of delicacy and virtuoso technique that could only have been acquired through diligent practice.

  He seemed willing to let her take the lead, as if he’d squandered his sum total of wildness and was content to relinquish the reins. And when she was ready to come, he gave her what she wanted—once, twice, three times in relatively swift succession. He came with her the third time, as though he understood before she did that she was momentarily sated.

  He untied her hands afterward, although he didn’t uncuff them. And he sat across the room with his vodka bottle while her breathing returned to normal.

  Pushing herself up on the pillows after a time, she smiled and said, “Thank you. You’re very good, although I expect you know that.”

  “Thank you, too. You feel like heaven.”

  She held up her cuffed hands. “Maybe later I could feel you.”

  He smiled faintly. “Maybe in the next lifetime.”

  “You’re not given to rash impulses, I gather.”

  “Au contraire. You’re my rashest impulse to date.”

  “Are you getting tired?”

  She spoke softly, politely, unlike her earlier imperiousness. “No, I’m good,” he said, setting the bottle on the floor, understanding what she meant. “You ready again?”

  He was so incredibly courteous, she wanted to shower him with kisses and hugs and endless gratitude for the pleasure he’d given her. “You really are nice,” she said, as he neared the bed.

  “Thank you.” He was watching her closely. “Now be a sweetheart and lie down.”

  She obeyed because it was decidedly to her advantage. She didn’t even care anymore who was right or wrong, in control or not. She was only looking forward to the intense pleasure he offered—with expertise and largesse.

  He retied her hands to the bedposts and stood looking at her for a moment afterward.

  “What?”

  “I was just wondering what your pussy tasted like,” he said.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God. She was going to die of pleasure before the night was over. But she was still rational enough to say in a relatively neutral way, “Be my guest.”

  He moved the pillows so he could push her up to the head of the bed and give himself more room. While she was already beginning to pant in anticipation, he gently shoved her legs apart, then taking her feet, eased them upward until her knees were bent. “It’s close quarters,” he murmured. “Bear with me.”

  As if she wouldn’t. As if she was about to complain when he was going to entertain her so gloriously.

  And when he’d finally gotten into position, lying half on his side so he’d have room for his legs, draping her left leg over him so he could get in close, he looked up and grinned. “Now, make sure you let me know if I’m doing something you don’t like.”

  “Arrogant bastard,” she muttered, but she was smiling.

  “Insatiable bitch,” he grumbled, but he was smiling, too.

  He didn’t actually touch her clitoris for the longest time. He licked and sucked every other portion of her genitalia, every fold and crevice, every sleek surface and aperture. His tongue was gentle, thorough, sometimes fast and other times slow. He nibbled at her pulsing flesh with a tantalizing delicacy that managed nonetheless to bring a cold sweat to her skin and a jolt to her senses.

  She had long since grabbed the velvet ties and was holding on for dear life, overcome with a near hysteria. Wanting more.

  And when she couldn’t wait another second, she sobbed, “Oh God, please, please, please!”

  He finally obliged her, playing a tune on her clitoris until she found a song she liked and climaxed with an uncharacteristic little soft sigh.

  Then he played several of the other songs he knew until she finally gasped, “No more . . . no more . . .”

  He gently lifted her leg off him after that, rose up to kiss her tenderly on the cheek, then coming to his feet, uncuffed her wrists and returned to his chair and his bottle.

  “I am speechless. I am without words,” she whispered, her eyes still shut, her body immobile, her blonde hair frizzy from her sybaritic exertions. “You are . . . incredible.”

  “Then we have a mutual admiration society going here,” he murmured, lifting the bottle to his mouth, begrudging his feelings. Struggling with an inclination to keep the lady for a few more days and fuck his brains out.

  He could wait until morning at least. He’d probably be more rational with the light of day. Or maybe Tony could talk some sense into him.

  “Would you like something to eat or drink?” he asked, thinking she’d been using a fair amount of energy in the last few hours.

  Her eyes opened and she smiled. “You’d be on my list.”

  “Maybe later,” he politely replied. “I need a little downtime.”

  “How much downtime?” she playfully queried.

  He laughed. “Not too long—okay?”

  And so it went throughout the afternoon and evening, both apparently in the mood for a sexual marathon. Zoe finally fell asleep after ten and Nick rolled up in a blanket on the floor. He hadn’t said he wasn’t planning on sleeping with her. He just figured he’d wait for her to doze off.

  There was no point in going over old ground.

  She was who she was or who she said she was.

  And he wasn’t taking any chances.

  Eighteen

  That afternoon, while Nick and Zoe were on mile five of their marathon, Harry Miller was talking to his crew chief, Bob Hanover, who was in a car traveling north on Highway 53.

  “You understand now? Don’t go in earlier than three. I want everyone in the neighborhood down for the night.”

  “Gotcha.” Bob and his driver were close facsimiles: square-jawed, military haircuts, tanned, both dressed like tourists in jeans and sweatshirts.

  “Mirovic will have traps out.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “He’s no amateur.”

  “He’s not CIA.” Translation: Everyone else was an amateur.

  Harry frowned, debating whether to offer additional warnings. But a moment later, he decided Hanover was one of his best men. He should be able to deal with Nick Mirovic— competent bastard or not. After all, he was sending in an entire team to kill one man. How hard could it be? “Call me when it’s over.”

  “Roger that.”

  A teenager mowing the weeds in the parking lot of the long defunct Sweet Sue’s Café in Cotton paused his John Deere tractor and watched the caravan of unmarked black sedans speed by. Just like in the movies, he thought, but the idea of government agents in his backwater neck of the woods was way too weird to be real. Maybe some car dealer was moving his drab lease cars to Enterprise rental in Virginia.

  He let out the clutch and went back to his mowing.

  Nineteen

  At 3:05 Nick’s motion sensors activated the floodlights, set off the alarms, and brought Harry’s assault team to a momentary standstill in the woods.

  Zoe shot upright in bed, stifling a scream. Why . . . she had no idea since she refused to buy into the whole freaky situation where people were out to get her or Nick or both. Her stalwart defiance began to vaporize, however, when she suddenly realized she was alone in bed.

  Oh God. She’d been left in the lurch to deal with possible killers all by herself!

  Most women would scream at a time like this, Nick thought, watching her from the window. “Looks like some of your friends are outside.”

  Thank God she wasn’t alone! She didn’t even care that Nick’s voice was grim. “They’re definitely not my friends. In fact, I’ve never been more scared.” She squinted into the darkness . . . there! Nick’s shadowy form materi
alized from the shadows across the room.

  “And I’m supposed to believe you?” he muttered, his gaze trained on the floodlit yard outside the windows. He’d seen scared before and she didn’t quite fit the bill.

  “Look, I don’t have a clue who the hell is out there,” she snapped. “And I’m guessing you do.”

  “Maybe,” he said, figuring anyone Willerby hired would have been amateurs. This assault had paused to make adjustments. Professionals. “Okay—let’s say I believe you,” he heard himself saying, knowing full well what was driving him. Sex, sex—and sex. He hoped his libido wouldn’t make him a dead sucker. “Get dressed. We have to get out of here.”

  He’d shifted his stance slightly, giving her a glimpse of a deadly looking sidearm holstered at his hip, and all of a sudden, she really, really, really wanted to go back to her old safe, pre-death-threats life. Unfortunately, that possibility wasn’t likely with whomever was outside. “My clothes are next door,” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking.

  “Bring in your duffle bags and dress here,” he directed, turning back to the window as a floodlight suddenly went out. More correctly, was shot out. “I suggest you hurry.”

  Tossing the covers aside, she leaped from the bed and moved toward the door. “Could this be Willerby’s operation?”

  “I doubt it. It looks like professionals.” Another floodlight went dark.

  “Oh, God, don’t say professionals. Professionals for what?” she squeaked.

  “Just get your gear,” he gruffly replied, ignoring her question, as the ping of another round hitting a light echoed inside and the lakeside went black. “We don’t have much time. I’m gonna check the other side of the house and I’ll meet you back here in five. Go.”

  He hadn’t raised his voice, but she understood authority when she heard it.

  By the time she’d fetched her luggage from the bedroom next door, he was back, carrying a slim leather bag in one hand. “I’ll carry your bags. It doesn’t matter what you wear. We’re just going down to the boathouse.”