Latimer's Law (13 page)

* * *

Cade saw uncertainty enter Abby’s expression and realized he was rushing her, that his baldly stated admission was probably off-putting.

It was too soon for him to be making love to her. Bruised and battered as she was, she could only be capitulating out of fear or seeking to placate him.

But by God, he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted a woman. Wanted to feel her body warming to his touch, see her arch in the pleasure he knew he could give her. Knew, too, that the scar on his face didn’t disgust or alarm her. He remembered the gentleness of her fingers as she cleaned his scalp wound and lightly traced the barest edge of his burn. Remembered the thrum of electricity that skittered over his skin and heralded a different kind of awareness of her—no longer only a criminal in his mind, but a woman.

Last of all he replayed the long minutes she had spent in his arms, awkwardly held by him as she sobbed out her terrible story. Those minutes had entirely changed his view of her, and himself, as well.

“Abby, I—” He was about to tell her he’d changed his mind, though he thought the unsatisfied desire might halfway kill him, when her head turned and she kissed his palm. She looked back at him, lips warmly parted but eyes meeting his with hesitation, and Cade was stunned by the realization that she simply didn’t know how to continue the dance they’d begun in the shower. He brought her lips to his and felt the tension begin to melt out of her.

Take it slow.
It was desperately difficult to hold on to that thought with Abby sprawled above him and his erection lying snug along her crease. The small writhing movements she made as he kissed her obliterated good intentions and made him crave the sweet release of burying himself in her body. He could feel her arousal in the slipperiness of her flesh against his as she moved. It would be so easy and so utterly satisfying to reverse their positions, catch the backs of her thighs in his hands and
take
her.

The urge was so strong that he had to let go of her with one hand and clench it in the sheets to control himself. A moment later he released the sheet because her mouth had opened and she was gasping something against his lips, something he urgently wanted to hear but couldn’t make out. His hand came to rest against her hip and suddenly there was no turning back, not when he could cup the sweet flare of her iliac crest in his palm and from there slip his hand lower, and lower still, until he was pushing her back against him and his thumb slid between their bodies.

Abby
did
arch in pleasure at his touch. Her upper body lifted away from his and Cade watched with desire-slitted eyes as she caught her lower lip between her teeth. The shattered groan she gave when his thumb stroked the slick bud of flesh it found was nearly enough to make him come on the spot.

“How about you ride?” he managed to choke out.

“What?” Abby looked down at him, confused, her back still arched, breasts jutting forward.

“You set the pace, baby,” Cade heard himself say, giving voice to the fantasy that had so aroused him only an hour ago in the truck. “It’s all up to you.... It’s all for you.”

“I—I feel so clumsy, Cade. I’m not good at this. It’s been so long—”

“I can help.”
Sure you can. You can wait. You’re a grown man.
He stroked a hand down her body, brushing her breast and lingering to stroke the puckered peak. He wanted to pinch the nipple, watch her head fall back in the passion he thought he could evoke, but the bruises deterred him.
Easy. Be tender.
“Lift up, just a little.”

Abby, trembling, did as he suggested. Cade watched her closely as his fingers slid between her legs and stroked her. Her eyes closed when he pressed a finger into the sweet, dark center of her desire. Her flesh was snug around his finger, snug but slick. She would feel better than good around him—she would be a haven of heat, a silky grip. He stroked the inner walls once, twice, and heard her moan softly.

There could be no more waiting, not for him. His stroking hand shifted to guide her pelvis back and up. And then he was in and Abby was settling slowly onto him, her eyes dark and distant, as if her focus was turned inward and she could see what was happening where their bodies joined.

The thought made him arch upward and he learned how deep she was—deep enough to take him, all of him, yet she was lusciously snug. He let go of her hips and clenched his fists in the sheets again. Thank God the rubber helped, reducing sensation just enough that he thought perhaps he might be able to hold out more than a few thrusts before convulsing in his climax. He wanted more than anything not to leave Abby unsatisfied. He had already pictured her orgasm in his mind, her skin flushed, eyes closed, head hanging down and hair tossing while he parted her the way a stone in a stream parted the current around itself.

Abby slumped forward when he pushed inside her, catching her balance with her palms over his pectoral muscles. He heard her panting harshly, and then she gave a sudden gasping moan that dwindled into the half-sung sweetness of a sigh. A moment later she began to move and Cade was lost. His hands moved to her hips and helped drive the slow, rocking grind of her body against his own. It was better for both of them when he snugged her body tight against his own. His restriction of her movements meant she pressed harder, striving for more and more friction. With a cry she was there—he felt the clench of her around him—and her climax was just as he had pictured it, the flush of blood over her skin and the boneless rag-doll tumble of her against his chest.

“Baby,” he heard himself saying again as he let himself follow her into the maelstrom, where the slowing rhythm of her hips and his deep strokes were all he needed, all he could feel. “
Baby.
Abby.”

So much what he’d pictured, right down to the slightly stunned look on her face when she lifted her head from his chest and pressed a slow, deep, open-mouthed kiss on his lips. Cade, mindful that the condom was probably filled to near-bursting, shifted his hips away from her and helped her slide gently to the side. He pulled her close once more, pillowing her head on the bulge of muscle between his shoulder and upper arm. Her breathing was still quickened, and with her heavy head resting on his shoulder he could feel his own pulse hammering hard down his arm. She lay with her eyes closed, leaving Cade free to gaze down her body at her curves, the way her breast trembled with each fierce beat of her heart.

What he hadn’t pictured was the way the rush of blood made the bruises stand out on her tender skin. The thought of someone touching her in anger was like a brand burning his brain. He kicked a little to bring the tumbled covers into reach and pulled them over their still-damp bodies, cooling rapidly now that passion had left them beached, tired and sated.

Minutes later, Abby gave a giant twitch like a toddler settling into sleep. It half wakened her enough to turn her head toward Cade, and ask him if he needed more room in the bed.

“I’ve got what I need,” he told her softly. “Sleep.” He was aware of the wetness of the sheets they lay between, and as he ran a hand down her flank, felt the coolness of her skin. He moved them both so that she lay cupped in the bend of his body, his knees drawn up to warm her as much as possible. She murmured again, but he felt the sudden laxity of her muscles and knew she had fallen asleep. He lifted his head enough to see his watch on the nightstand.

Four in the morning. The time he always wakened and rehashed old debts, wounds and aggravations. The time he remembered the hypophosphorous acid at the meth lab flying his way too quickly for him to do more than fling up an elbow, how the liquid seared away skin and scored muscle. The period in the hospital afterward when he knew he’d have a face of sorts, but more important, undamaged vision. The time he remembered reporting for duty and being told he couldn’t do undercover work anymore, he was too distinctive. The time he thought about walking away from law enforcement entirely, walking away from his life. The time he saw the faces of old girlfriends, trying to hide their revulsion at the raw meat that had once been a face, pleasant and balanced if not exactly handsome.

Four in the morning. He should have been exhausted enough to sleep. Sex should have been the sweet end to a long but perversely rewarding day, yet all Cade could feel was a sense of dread. He didn’t want to think about what had to happen next. Abby seemed to fit him like the matching ragged end of a broken bone, but what did that even mean? Where was there a path forward for two people like them?

Four in the morning. He stroked Abby carefully and got no reaction. She was deeply asleep at last, despite the last of the thunder outside and the noise of the rain on the roof, and the heavy splatter of water overflowing the motel eaves. He eased himself out of the bed and went into the bathroom to clean himself up and take a piss. It might be easier to think clearly if he could see his own eyes in the mirror, mine their blue depths for what little sense was left. Get that grip on reality he needed so badly, because at the moment all he wanted to think about was ways to convince Abby to leave behind everything in that rattletrap little town of Wildwood and come away with him.

Maybe even forever.

His big hand pushed the bathroom door closed, and then he leaned his forehead against the door, which smelled more of paint than wood.
That’s stupid talk, Latimer. The woman has serious trouble written all over her.

Trouble, yes—but Cade would have bet his life—even Mort’s—that the worst thing Abby had done in her life was steal his truck out of desperation. That kind of trouble he understood. She’d gotten herself the hell out of a rough situation. Maybe it wasn’t the best solution, but it was a step. How many women had he seen who hadn’t made it this far before someone broke them for good? And how many had he seen who got this far, and then went back?

He pushed away from the door and met his own blue gaze in the mirror. Good eyes, yes—they’d always been his best feature, the one that conned the ladies and the crooks alike. Sincerity writ large and clear, impossible to look away from, impossible to doubt.

Cade turned to the shower, where their soaked clothing was still in a heap, draining in a slow trickle. With a small smile at the memory of that delicious encounter, he bent to wring them out and hang them where they might stand a chance of drying sometime in the next week. Then he took a few minutes for himself before he padded silently back to the bed and the uncommon luxury of nestling behind a sleeping woman who woke only long enough to speak his name.

It went through him like a spear, that soft murmur.

He’d just have to convince Abby to stay with him, where she would be safe.

He and his blue eyes. He had nothing else.

* * *

The storm had left Wildwood clean and cool, the sky blue as a little girl’s hair ribbon. By noon it would be hot and humid again, building toward more afternoon thunderstorms. Marsh didn’t care about the weather. All he cared about was getting the sign on the door, the one reminding families the day care was closed for the day. He was up and out well before the first client could’ve been dropped off—not that he expected any of them, since he’d warned their keepers the night before.

He was headed to the convenience store. He had a job to do. Abigail hadn’t come home last night, and it was time he took things into his own hands.

The clerk on duty was exactly the sort of hipster pest Marsh hated most. Pierced and tattooed, growing a smudge he called a beard on his chin, hair looking unwashed and uncombed.

Disrespectful, that’s what it was.

Marsh clenched his hands on the steering wheel and tried to convince himself Abigail wouldn’t have slept with a little weasel like the one standing behind the cash register handing a pack of smokes to a customer. The kid was nothing like Gary or himself, too young, fresh-faced and fresh-mouthed, certainly, but that might make the kid ripe for the picking if Abigail turned on the charm.

He could feel his face reddening. His pulse stepped up a little, revving to that point he sometimes felt when Abigail made a mistake that needed correcting, or when he found himself wanting her, aroused and yet unable to follow through on the most basic of male duties because too much was at stake. He could practically see her leaning on the convenience store counter, gray eyes full of smiles.

Smiles for someone other than Marsh. It had been a long time since Abigail smiled at him. For him. With him.

Marsh unbuckled his seat belt and stepped out of the Honda. He stood next to it, head down, breathing deeply, until he felt he could go into the store and not instantly reach to throttle the hipster behind the register.

Maybe coffee would help. The rye had done a number on his head, left him feeling fuzzy, less acute than it had done formerly. It had been a long time since he’d last polished off a bottle. Aspirin had taken the edge off, but coffee might finish the job. Of course, sleeping on the floor in the front hallway hadn’t been the best idea he’d had lately, but he’d been waiting for her to come home. One more thing to lay at Abigail’s feet. He lifted his head, took a deep, calming breath and pushed open the glass door.

“Morning,” said Marsh, as he headed for the back of the store where the coffee urns waited.

“Good-looking day out there! Did you hear that monster of a thunderstorm last night?” The hipster was grinning like a fool. Marsh didn’t doubt the kid had been out in it, dancing in the lightning. Too bad it hadn’t struck him. “Just let me know if I can help you find anything. Got a great twofer on candy bars up here at the counter.”

“Coffee to start.” Marsh put a cup beneath the spigot of the urn marked Dark Rich Roast and twisted the lever. Brown liquid gurgled into the foam cup, but it didn’t look dark or rich to Marsh. He capped it with a couple of tubs of too-sweet creamer and stirred slowly, giving himself a chance to think.

“Hey, I hear ya. Can’t think without my caffeine, either.”

Marsh’s hand tightened on the cup. The coffee level rose dangerously, threatening to slop over the rim.
Shut up. Shut up before I make you shut up.
He let go and reached for a lid before he made a mess. Carrying his cup to the register required every ounce of control he possessed. He had to be sure he didn’t walk as if he was angry, that his expression was schooled and bland.