Lethal

“I’m not. Not anymore.” But even as she said it, fresh tears slid down her cheeks.

“Why’d you risk your life?”

“What?”

“Why’d you leave the garage on foot? Why were you coming toward the train?”

“I told you. I just… I… I don’t know.” The last three words rode out on a sob.

He started walking toward her. “Why are you crying, Honor?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” When he reached her, she said once again in a hoarse whisper, “I don’t know.”

For what seemed like the longest time, he did nothing except stare deeply into her tearful eyes. Then he raised his hands to either side of her face, slid his fingers up through her damp hair, and cupped her head. “Yeah you do.”

Angling his head, he kissed her as passionately as he had the night before, but this time she didn’t fight the sensations it evoked. She couldn’t have even if she had wanted to. They were explosive, consuming, and she gave herself over to them.

The stroking of his tongue, the mastery of his lips, even the placement of his large hands when they moved to her hips and drew her up against him made the kiss intensely sensual and caused dark and seductive curls of arousal deep within her lower body. And when he growled against her lips, “Are you gonna stop?” she shook her head and drew him back to continue the kiss.

He lifted the hem of her T-shirt and worked it up her torso, then unhooked her bra and took her breasts in his hands. Honor whimpered with pleasure at the light tugging of his fingertips and gasped his name when he bent his head and closed his mouth around her nipple.

With one hand, he unfastened the khakis, then raised his head and held her mesmerized by the blue-hot intensity of his eyes as he took her hand, placed it on himself, and moved it up and down. He lifted his hand away, but hers remained and stroked him. He hissed a curse of surprise and delight when her thumb rubbed the tip.

Leaning into her, with his mouth against her ear, he whispered, “I think I’m gonna like the way you fuck.”

They kissed recklessly and hungrily as he kicked out of his pants and whipped the T-shirt over his head. He removed her T-shirt and bra just as quickly, then dropped to his knees and undid her jeans and pulled them down her legs along with her panties. He pressed a kiss just below her navel as he drew her down onto the floor.

Moving between her thighs, he stretched out above her, then thrust into her. Once. Because, as he did everything, he acted without hesitation or apology to claim her entirely. Her eyes went wide and her breath caught. Holding her gaze, he pressed himself deeper, barely easing back before pressing deep again.

She loved his weight on her, loved the heat of his clean skin, the feel of the hair on his chest against her breasts, the pressure he applied from inside and out, the smell and rough texture of his body, his maleness. Boldly, he pushed her knee back toward her chest, changing the angle of his thrusts and heightening the friction, and the pleasure increased tenfold.

It was immense. Almost unbearable. She bit her lower lip. She covered her eyes with the back of one forearm, while with her other hand she tried to get a grip on her spinning universe by attempting to dig her fingers into the hardwood floor. But she continued slipping, slipping, slipping toward…

“Honor.”

Gasping, she lowered her arm from over her eyes and looked into his face.

“Put your hands on me. Pretend this means something.”

With a whimper, she wrapped her arms around him and clutched his back, then slid her hands down over his ass and drew him even deeper into her. He groaned, buried his face in the hollow of her neck, and rocked his body against hers. An orgasm burst through her at the same time he came.

She pretended nothing.

Chapter 38

For Clint Hamilton the wait was agonizing.

An hour ago, an agent in the Lafayette office had called to inform him that the scheduled meeting between Honor Gillette and Tom VanAllen had ended disastrously with a car bomb explosion.

Since receiving the staggering news, Hamilton had been alternately pacing his Washington office or sitting with his elbows propped on his desk supporting his head while he massaged his forehead. He considered taking a shot from the bottle of Jack that he kept in his bottom desk drawer. He resisted. Whatever the forthcoming update from Tambour was, he needed to receive it with a clear head.

He waited. He paced. He wasn’t a patient man.

The anticipated call came shortly after 01:00 EDT.

Unhappily the update confirmed that Tom VanAllen had died in the explosion.

“My condolences, sir,” the agent in Louisiana said. “I know you had a special regard for him.”

“Yes, thank you,” Hamilton replied absently. “And Mrs. Gillette?”

“VanAllen was the only casualty.”

Hamilton nearly dropped the phone. “What? Mrs. Gillette? Coburn? The child?”

“Whereabouts unknown,” the agent told him.

Mystified, Hamilton processed that, but couldn’t come up with an explanation. He asked, “What is the local fire department saying about the explosion?”