Hearts Under Siege (6 page)

“Good call,” he said. “We’d have run right into them.”

“Go,” she urged him. “Before they realize they went too far and missed us.”

“Hang on.” He watched, seemed to be counting. Then he pulled out and turned right, so tight the rock scraped Molly’s door with a screech she was sure their pursuers must have heard.

But though she watched, fear building a lump in her throat until she couldn’t swallow without a long, slow, burning pain, no one came up behind them.

“What now?” she asked him. “We’re going the wrong way.”

“I know. Can you get my GPS out of my bag? We can’t go back to the main road. I have to find another way.”

Retrieving the unit gave her something to do, which eased her throat, then Brady kept her busy looking up coordinates on a map from the glove compartment and navigating him through a maze of back roads through the jungle. It kept them safe, but took four hours instead of the expected two, and by the time they reached the city, they’d missed the last flight of the day and had to get a hotel room until morning.

Molly couldn’t say she minded. She let Brady check them into the chain hotel, struggling not to sway where she stood. No one had better attack them here. She was too tired to fight. In fact, she couldn’t seem to expand her awareness outside a two-inch perimeter. Her surroundings were a buzzing blur. Or a blurry buzz. Like a Monet painting, or sidewalk chalk. Non-HDTV.

“Come on, Puddle.” Brady’s hand closed around her arm, his tone amused but weary. She didn’t need extra resources to hear that. She could identify Brady
and
his mood in her sleep.

Okay, she’d completely lost it. She hadn’t been that unguarded about Brady, even in her own head, for years.

“Don’t call me Puddle,” she managed, and let him walk her to the elevator. She’d always hated that old nickname, which started the summer she’d first gotten her period and cried every other minute. “What floor are our rooms on?”

“Room.”

A spark, a rush, and okay, now she was alert. “Room? Singular?” She slid out of his grasp and leaned against the elevator wall. “You only got one room?”

“Yeah, it’s safer.” He was watching the numbers above the door. When she didn’t say anything, he glanced over. “What?”

“So there was more than one room available.”

“I didn’t ask. If those guys find us, I don’t want you somewhere else.” He frowned as the bell pinged. “What’s the problem? It’s a double. And we’ve shared a room hundreds of times.”

Of course they had, even the same bed back in college, after a couple of parties in his frat house. But that was then. She hadn’t even been in the same building with him for a very long time, and never under the pressure of the emotions stewing in them both. Too tired to explain, she just shook her head and stepped out of the elevator.

“Whatever,” Brady muttered, aiming for a door at the end of the hall. Molly concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other without staggering, and wondered how drunk she looked to anyone watching.
Was
anyone watching? She pivoted all the way around, and nope, the hall was empty. No visible cameras.

Then she was inside the hotel room. Relief hit hard, and she stumbled the five feet to the nearest bed, falling flat on her face.

Brady hauled her back up. “Not yet, Puddle. You need a shower.”

Molly groaned and opened her eyes, startled to find him standing so close. The hard wall of his chest was within leaning distance—oh-so-fucking tempting—and with a slight flick of her eyes, she could see the pulse in his throat, the rough stubble on his jaw, and his perfectly shaped mouth. She could hardly breathe, her heart pounding, her brain short-circuiting with a need she could never, ever give in to.

Especially now.

Strangely, Brady didn’t back away. His chest expanded, contracted, as he breathed in time with her. His lips were parted, but she wouldn’t look up higher, to see his eyes. She just waited, not allowing herself to hope, though her entire body screamed “Do it!” Didn’t matter what “it” was, she’d take it.

And then he stepped back.

“You can go first. You look wasted.”

She scrubbed her hands over her face. Fighting grief on every level. “I am. Thanks. Shit. My bag.”

“Here.” He picked it up off the floor and tossed it onto her bed. She hadn’t even noticed him carrying it.

“Thanks. Sorry.”

“Hey, no apologies.” His voice was soft, admiring. “You were amazing today. I owe you.”

“No, that’s what family does.” It came out without forethought, but she meant it. Unfortunately, the word “family” reminded them both why she’d done what she’d done. Brady’s expression went hard, stoic, and the dark well of pain she’d managed to ignore during their adventure overflowed again. “Um…I’ll be out as soon as I can.”

“Take your time. I’ve got to call in, get instructions. Let them know…”

Molly couldn’t handle the horror in his eyes now, and ducked into the bathroom to escape. She stripped off her still-damp, starting-to-reek clothes, and turned the water on in the shower to heat while she did other necessary things. The moment she stepped under the spray was the purest pleasure she’d ever felt in her entire life. She moaned as the hot water flushed away her tension and fatigue, eased every muscle, caressed and massaged, and oh, she might never leave here. The spray hit tender spots on her back and shoulders that she hadn’t noticed, easing the tightness, and when she lathered up the complimentary bar of soap to clear away the layer of grime, she let out a another moan.

But that was one indulgence too much. She burst into tears, grief and longing digging in, turning pleasure and relief into agony. Chris, whom she’d never see again. Jessica, alone and scared. And Brady, oh, Brady. She dropped the soap and pressed her palms flat against the wall to hold herself up while her body shook, the sobs drowned out by the hiss of the water. She hoped. The last thing Brady needed was to be burdened by her rampaging emotions.

She didn’t know how long she cried. The water never went cold. Brady didn’t knock on the door or ask if she was okay. So it probably hadn’t been that long. But it drained the last of her reserves. She reluctantly turned off the shower and pushed back the curtain. The towels were thin but soft, and she rubbed one over her hair and body, not caring what she looked like. A minute to put on sleep shorts and a tank, and she went out into the main room, not sure what to expect.

Brady stood by the window, peering out through the tiny gap at the side of the curtain. She could see his eyes darting around the city, checking the street below, the windows of whatever building was across from them, the nearby rooftops. He looked alert, focused, but the fist clenched in the drapery told her he was barely holding it together. She suddenly felt guilty, as if she’d betrayed him by hiding her own grief, venting it alone. But then she was glad she had. The release had left her drained, but also neutral, which could be strength. Maybe now she could hold him up without breaking down herself.

She checked the locks on the door—training, not that she expected them to be unsecured—and stowed her things. She stood for a few seconds, watching him, wondering if he’d even noticed she was in the room.

“Brady.”

He didn’t move, but said evenly, “No sign they tracked us.”

“Good.” He still didn’t move, not a single muscle, and the room almost vibrated with his tension. Molly murmured, “Fitz, come here.”

The curtain bunched, and Molly’s heart seized as if his fist clutched it rather than the padded polyester fabric. She circled the beds and squeezed up next to him, prying his fingers off the drapery. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “We’re safe here. You can let go.”

At first, she thought he would. His face went from stoic to tortured, crumpling like a tin can, and a sharp noise forced itself out of his throat. She leaned into him, offering herself as support, and he clutched her against his chest, burying his face in her neck. His entire body tightened, harder, harder, and Molly held her breath, waiting for the explosion. And also because his arms were banded so tightly across her back she had no room to draw in air.

The explosion didn’t come. Instead his muscles slowly loosened, a deliberate progression as he held tightly to his control.

He couldn’t go on like that, she knew. Mustn’t. He had to give in now, while they were safe, so he didn’t cave at the worst moment, later.

“Brady, love,” she murmured, raising her head and cupping his face in her hands. “It’s okay. Let go.”

…

I can’t
.

Brady couldn’t form the words. Couldn’t explain to Molly that he was afraid if he released the rage and hatred and bone-deep sorrow caged within him, he would never be able to regain control. If he was uncontrolled, he couldn’t protect her, or the data he was trying to get home. He stood still, his hands resting on her waist because he couldn’t seem to let her go, and she stroked his hair back from his face, murmured to him, comforted him. He wanted to accept it, to sink into her and let her absorb his pain, and he knew she’d let him. But she had her own grief, her own burdens. She didn’t need his, too.

Somehow, her body had curved closer, and suddenly, his awareness of her shifted. It wasn’t comfort he craved anymore, and his brain clicked off just as a sharp warning flashed across it. He closed his eyes, dropped his head, and for the first time in their three-decade friendship, he kissed his best friend.

Her mouth was soft and warm, and tasted familiar and strange at the same time. She didn’t hesitate, just opened to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed her body— Oh, God, she was so soft and curvy and clean and smelled so sweet and she was strength and power and so many things he’d pretended for twelve years he didn’t miss, didn’t need. He tugged her closer still. She arched, rubbing against his sudden erection, and hunger blazed through him, blinding in its intensity. His hands roamed up and down her back, over her hips, and her surprisingly tight ass. The noises she made in the back of her throat inflamed him even more.

“God, Molly,” he gasped, tilting his head back but not seeing the ceiling above him, only a red haze. “I need you. Please—”

“Yes,” she said, and pulled his head down to kiss him again, her tongue stroking his, her mouth open, carnal. He slid his hands under her tank top and the feel of her skin was so soft, so hot, he stripped it up over her head, and dropped his hands immediately to her breasts. Her nipples were tight and hard—a sign of her arousal that some minuscule, rational part of his brain catalogued with relief. She wanted this, too. He wasn’t pushing himself on her.

She tugged and shoved his shirt off, too, then her hands were rubbing him, all over, her fingers digging in to the muscles of his shoulders, his arms, his back, sending flares of desire every time she clutched at him. Once her nails pricked him, and he gasped, thrusting forward and nearly knocking her over. That fleck of rationality grew slightly larger, nagging at him. He latched on to Molly’s neck, breathing in her clean, musky scent, her arousal now noticeable that way, too. He told the rational nag to shut the fuck up, but that only made it fight harder.

“Shit.” He squeezed his eyes shut, hard, and set Molly off him an inch or so as he tried to regain a measure of control.

“What?” She was breathless, too, her fingers undoing his fly and dipping—

He grabbed her wrist and ground his teeth. “Whoa. Hold on.”

“Brady, come on,” she growled. “What’s wrong?”

“Is this— Are you— I can’t, if—” He couldn’t even form a coherent sentence.

But she understood. “Yes, God, yes, fuck me, Brady.”

It was exactly the right thing for her to say. He’d heard that word from her a million times, had laughed when she got her mouth washed out with soap for using it. But never had it had this effect on him. His cock pulsed and swelled and she shoved off his jeans and underwear, and then her own shorts and, Jesus, she was naked underneath. She fell backward onto the bed, pulling him on top of her, and for a split second, he almost lost himself and plunged into the hot wetness between her thighs. If he’d moved another inch, let his cock touch that slick heat, it would have been all over. But too many years of care stopped him.

“Condom,” he ground out, but couldn’t remember where or how to get one. Her breasts were too close, and he bent to lick her nipple, then bite when she arched and cried out. God, she tasted good. He feasted, vaguely aware that her body twisted under him, that she reached for something. There was a thud, something falling, but he didn’t care.
Hell, forget condoms
. He moved down her body, kissing and nipping her smooth abdomen, her hipbone, tongue to belly button, inhaling deep, savoring, craving. Another few inches, and there it was. He spread her thighs, lifted them over his shoulders, reveling in her cries as he tongued her. Her clit throbbed, swollen, and she shuddered with every stroke. She was close. He pressed a finger into her—God, she was tight, and she tightened even more, her body tensing, bowing. He lunged upward, needing to be inside her, and let out his own cry when Molly’s hand wrapped around him, squeezing. He dimly realized she’d found a condom, was rolling it onto him, the very act almost making him come.

The instant she released him he pushed inside her. She was so wet there was almost no resistance. Her body stroked him, accepted him. He thrust as deep as he could go, his whole body sighing in relief. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, and he slid one arm beneath her back to hold her close while he braced with the other arm, giving himself leverage to pull out, plunge in, and then he went insane with lust and need. He was lost in himself, lost in her, and all he could do was bury his face in her neck and thrust, over and over, until she screamed and closed around him, and he exploded into a million pieces, his yells mingling with her panting moans.

Fucking bliss.

He tried very, very hard to stay in that place, that floating mist of ecstasy, to avoid any hint of reality. Her hands stroked softly up and down his back, and just as he was about to admit to himself he couldn’t hide any longer, blackness descended.