Pursuit (39 page)

She was
dying
to get naked for him. But that didn’t seem like the thing to say, and given that her heart was beating like a jackhammer now and she was breathing way too fast to make intelligent conversation anything but a remote possibility and she was afraid to talk anyway, for fear she would blurt out something that was better left unsaid, she just didn’t say anything at all.

What she did was sit up in his lap, trying to look several degrees less turned-on than she felt, trying to keep a modicum of cool, and took off her glasses and put them on the table behind her.

“Hey, I like those.”

She shook her head at him. Not that she didn’t feel sexy with her glasses on—with Mark, she now kind of, sort of, sometimes did—but she definitely felt sexier without them.

“They’ll just get knocked off.” At least, if she had anything to say about it they would.

The sudden gleam in his eyes made her go weak at the knees. “You think?”

“Yes.”

His head rested against the back of the couch now, and his grip on her had loosened enough to allow her freedom of movement although his arms still encircled her waist. He watched her with what looked like lazy interest, and if she hadn’t been close enough to see the hard restlessness in his eyes and the carnal set of his mouth, she might have started feeling a little uncertain, even shy. But she did see them, did feel the rock-hardness of his body beneath her legs, and so took his stillness for what she was almost certain it was: the calm before the storm.

“Let me see you, baby.” His voice was low and husky. His eyes ate her up.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, she took hold of the hem of the T-shirt and lifted it over her head, then dropped it on the floor beside the couch. Even as the garment fell she had a flash of clarity in which she saw herself, sitting upright in his lap, naked except for a pair of plain white cotton underpants, the bluish light from the silent TV flickering over her small pert breasts with her nipples, already aroused, dark and erect and wanton-looking against the creaminess of her skin. She was small-boned and slender, with a narrow waist and slim hips. More boyish than voluptuous, actually, but in that moment, with his eyes on her, she felt incredibly female.

“Jesus, you’re beautiful,” he murmured. This time, when he said it, the look in his eyes made her believe it, too. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her breath caught. Then his gaze slid down her body. Even as she leaned toward him, even as his head lifted and his back straightened and his arms tightened around her and he pulled her into an embrace, his hands moved down her back to slide over the smooth cotton of her underwear.

“Ah, granny panties. My favorite.”

“What?” She almost frowned. The husky, sensuous-yet-satisfied-sounding murmur made no sense, but she was so dizzy with longing that she couldn’t quite care.

“Forget about it.”

By then his mouth was on hers and his hands were inside her panties, cupping her cheeks and squeezing and stroking and then pulling her astride him, so she did—forget about it, that is. She melted against him, her breasts burning and swelling against his chest, shuddering because his hands on her felt so good, kissing him back with a fierceness that shook her to her core. Rocking against him, feeling the heat and hardness of him pressing into her with only that thin layer of cotton between them, she felt as if her bones had turned to lava and her insides to flame.

He moved against her deliberately, holding her still for it, making her feel him, dropping his mouth to her breast and suckling it at the same time, and the sensation was so incredibly arousing she cried out.

“That’s it. I’m going out of my mind here.” His voice was so thick it was hardly recognizable. Then he stood up with her, kissing her with a hungry intensity that rocked her world as he carried her toward the bedroom. Curled against him, her arms around his neck, her mouth locked to his, she kissed him back, so hot for him she could have sworn the very air around them sizzled.

More than she had ever wanted anything in her life, she wanted this.

When he pulled his mouth away from hers, she made a tiny sound of protest and opened her eyes. Without her glasses the world was more of a blur, and the bedroom was dark except for the faint illumination provided by the distant glow of the television, but she could see him, see how heavy-lidded and hot his eyes were as they moved over her, see the chiseled planes and angles of his face set hard now as if he was trying to maintain control, see the sensuous line of his mouth.

Then he looked away and juggled her a little awkwardly. About the time she realized what he was doing—yanking the covers down—her back was making contact with the cool smoothness of the fitted sheet. But instead of coming down on top of her, which she wanted so badly now her teeth were clenched in anticipation and her hands clung to his shoulders, reluctant to let go, he pulled away from her, standing over her, looking down at her. With his back to the only source of light he suddenly looked very tall and strong. Very broad-shouldered above narrow hips and long, powerful-looking legs. Very big and fit, like the pro football player he had once been. Intimidating, even.

Except he wasn’t, not to her.

“Mark . . .”

But his name died in her throat as he hooked his fingers in her waistband and pulled her panties down her legs, pulled them off and threw them on the floor. Suddenly she was naked and he was looking at her and she loved that he was, loved it so much that her breath caught and her nails dug into the mattress and her heart thundered.

Their eyes met. Electricity surged between them as powerfully as a lightning bolt. She felt a rush of desire so intense that she shivered.

He was already shucking his boxers when she sat up, rolled onto her knees, and took him in her mouth.

She heard him inhale sharply. He stood stock-still for a moment. Then his hands found her head. His fingers threaded through her hair.

“Jess.” It was almost a groan. She heard the shock in his voice, the deep pleasure, the mounting urgency.

His butt was high and round and tight, an athlete ’s butt. The feel of it in her hands made her insides melt, made the pulsing deep within spiral tighter. She was dizzy at the idea of what she was doing to him, at the intimacy of it, at the searing response she could feel radiating from him in waves.

When he pulled away from her she could do nothing but blink up at him, still dazed with sensation. Her hands slid down his thighs. Muscular, hair-roughened thighs . . .

“Mark . . .”

“Easy, baby. Wait.”

She got the impression he was talking through his teeth, but she didn’t really have time to think about it because he was already tumbling her onto her back and coming down on top of her, his weight and hardness heavenly against her, but only for a moment.

Pressing scalding wet kisses over every inch of her skin, he slid down her body until he reached the velvety delta between her legs. When he kissed her there, she moaned and writhed against him and went totally mindless with sensation. He knew just what to do, how to turn her on, how to make her shiver and pant and burn.

When he slid back up her body at last she was trembling like her insides were made of jelly, so hot and hungry for him that all she could do was clutch him and breathe, arching her back and moving in silent, compulsive invitation as he pressed lingering kisses to her breasts before claiming her mouth. Kissing him back as if she would die if she didn’t, she wrapped her arms around his neck and surged against him, needy and wanting and absolutely on fire for him. He came inside her then, hard and fast and filling her to capacity, and it felt so good, so incredibly, mind-blowingly good, that she cried out. Murmuring something thick and throaty that she didn’t catch, he pulled back, then plunged inside, deeper and harder than before, and she cried out again.

Wrapping her legs around his hips, drawing him in, she matched his movements with her own, lost in an urgent maelstrom of desire.

“Mark, oh, Mark,” she gasped, burning higher and hotter as their tongues met with greedy passion and he pushed her down into the mattress, coming into her with such fierce need that she was driven to the brink, quaking inside, building . . .

“Oh, God, Jess,” he groaned, and seemed to lose control, taking her higher and hotter with furious pounding thrusts that drove her out of her mind with passion, winding her tighter and tighter, making her wild.

Making her come.

In a shattering series of fiery explosions that was exactly what she wanted, what she craved.

“Mark, Mark, Mark, I love you so much,
Mark,
” she cried at the end, breaking hard, shaking, clinging to him as she was swept away.

“Jess.”
He buried his face in the tender hollow between her neck and shoulder and drove into her one last time and held himself deep inside her and found his own release.

Lost in bliss for a good minute or so afterward, Jess came crashing down from the heights of ecstasy to face the terrible reality of what she had said.

Maybe he hadn’t noticed.

It had been so hot between them, so incredibly, indescribably good, and, like her, he ’d been so caught up in it that maybe . . .

She remembered every word he ’d said. Every groan and growl and indrawn breath, too.

What were the chances that he’d been so blissed out that he had missed her declaration of love?

In two words, not good.

Opening her eyes, she assessed the situation. Mark lay sprawled on top of her, deadweight and sweaty and heavy as a load of wet sandbags, his face still buried against her neck, his arms still wrapped around her, his legs still stretched between hers. Her hands rested on his back. His skin was hot and damp, and she could feel the rise and fall of his rib cage. His breath felt warm against her throat.

Much as she wanted to, she couldn’t quite convince herself that he was asleep.

She quit breathing as he stirred.

A moment later he was propped up on his elbows, looking down at her. His eyes were sleepy-looking, and a smile just touched his mouth.

Their gazes met.

“Hey,” she managed feebly, and felt color flood her face.

His eyes narrowed. His smile widened.

Then a sound—a metallic-sounding click—from the other room made him sharply turn his head.

B
efore Jess could say anything, before she could do anything, Mark clapped a hand over her mouth and shook his head warningly at her. Their eyes met, and she saw that his had suddenly gone diamond-hard.

Shh,
he mouthed. When she nodded, he placed his mouth against her ear. “Get down behind the bed. Be as quiet as you can.”

Then he slipped silently from the bed.

There was another sound—the faintest of rustles, like clothing brushing against something—from the living room.

Her heart gave a great leap. Her blood ran cold.

Somebody was out there, in the living room. She might be wrong—maybe the congressman was back—but the first thought that popped into her head was
bad guy with a gun.

Holding her breath, watching Mark move soundlessly toward the door, she slithered off the far side of the bed, which—wouldn’t you know it?—gave a slight creak. Her eyes widened. Her stomach clenched. As her knees hit the carpet, she shot a fearful glance toward Mark, toward the door, but nothing changed. Mark kept going. He didn’t even glance around.

He was flattened against the wall by the door from the living room, his back pressed against it, his head turned toward the doorway, she saw an instant later, having scuttled on her hands and knees to the foot of the bed and peeped around the corner of it. Despite the darkness of the room, she could see the shape of him outlined against the white wall. Her hand touched crumpled cloth—the blue shirt he ’d been wearing all day, she realized, as her fingers explored further. Hastily pulling it to her, pulling it on, fastening just a couple of buttons—naked was no way to confront a killer—she had a sudden flash of terrible memory: Mark had left his gun in the living room, on the table by the couch.

He was unarmed.

Without warning, a small white light—the beam of a flashlight, Jess realized with horror—shone into the short hall between the kitchen and the bedroom, moving from side to side, checking out the space.

A man appeared. Holding a gun. This she saw in an instant, as a dark silhouette against faint light, before he turned toward the bedroom and played his flashlight over the bed.

Light-headed with terror, heart pounding so hard and fast it sounded like a drumroll in her ears, she shrank back—and Mark exploded from the shadows, launching himself onto the man in a low, fast dive. The flashlight hit the carpet and rolled. The gun fired. There was no
bang
—it must have been equipped with a silencer, which made the sound more like a whistle—but Jess knew for sure because the bullet buried itself in the wall with a
thunk
just an inch or so past her head.

She yelped and ate carpet.

“Jess?”
There was real fear for her in Mark’s voice. The question was flung over his shoulder as he fought for his life, Jess saw as she looked up. He was in a desperate struggle with the gunman. They were cursing and grunting and bouncing off the walls, careering through the doorway, through the hall, and into the living room.

“I’m okay.” Scrambling to her feet, she raced to help, meaning to grab Mark’s gun off the table and hand it to him. Or something.

The sound of blows came thick and fast. As she rounded the corner she saw that they were on the floor. Mark was on top—no, on the bottom—they were rolling around, trading punches, grappling for possession of the gun in the bad guy’s hand. With the blue glow from the television flickering over them, it was like watching outtakes from an old movie—a violent and scary movie.