Tipping his head back, he rinsed the soap from his hair. Such a luxury. He took his time, soaking in the feel and letting the dream claim him. His cock stirred. He’d woken up sticky and already satisfied—hence the early shower—but a fantasy that potent wasn’t meant for just one use. It was a gift from his subconscious that would keep on giving. He could survive any sexual dry spell on the memory of Rosa’s expression as she came. Unlike any he’d ever seen on her lovely face.
But, God, if her face was beautiful, her body was hot enough to end all brain function. High breasts with dusky brown nipples. A tight waist. Hips that flared wide—all athletic curves. He’d loved sliding his fingers down her ribs, taking in each little ridge until he could grab her hips and hold on tight. And the way she’d stared down at him, as if he were a feast for her alone. No woman had ever looked at him with such possessive intensity.
The idea of belonging to Rosa wove heat into his chest. It was more than just being horny, more than lust. But it was also a hell of a lot scarier.
He shoved that thought aside. Turning toward the wall, he fumbled for the nozzle and turned off the water, conserving the scant supply. Then he grabbed his cock with one hand and braced his weight with the other. The whole damn village would be awake soon. He wanted to enjoy himself just a little longer, before the day dried up his fantasies.
What had she whispered to him? Dirty talk, he remembered. He’d liked that too much. But the actual words they’d shared were more elusive than the blunt-force images of Rosa thumbing her own nipples. As he hardened, he sank into the memory. His hand moved faster along his dick, from balls to tip and back. Finding his rhythm, he pictured Rosa rocking on his lap. Her hair had hugged the outer curves of her breasts as she bucked.
“It’s a race, love,” he’d said. “Let’s see who can get there first.”
She’d used him and he’d adored it.
He was breathless now. His strokes became shorter, truncated, just flicking quick pulses over his swollen head. So hard. So close. His orgasm gathered and built like a blaze over kindling. A moan started low in his chest as he remembered that last kiss—the one that had sent him over the edge. Sharp teeth. Rough. She’d grabbed his hair, fingers tunneling to the scalp. She’d fucking savaged him with her sweet little mouth.
God, what had she said?
“Cristián.”
Release hit him like a sledgehammer to the back of the head. With a hard grunt, he shot against the wall. He used his free hand, fisted tight, to bang the slippery stucco. Pleasure washed over his skin.
Chris came back to the world with the sudden feeling of being watched.
Shit.
With as much confidence as he could muster, he turned.
Rosa was leaning against the opposite wall. A small bundle of bath supplies waited at her feet. She wasn’t standing in the doorway as if she’d just walked in. No, she had settled in. To watch him.
“All done?”
“Yeah,” he gritted out.
He was still stark naked, holding his flaccid cock.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
He grabbed his washcloth off a nearby hook and wiped his hands, then ran a little water to rinse the wall. As calmly as he could manage, he found his towel and began to dry off.
Rosa didn’t budge. She followed his every movement with a dark, unreadable gaze. “Don’t do that again unless you want a hard-up bravo to help you out. There are one or two.”
“Lay off, all right?”
She looked perfectly relaxed, her hands tucked behind her back. That pose thrust her breasts against a plain white button-down, one long enough to just cover her ass. Did she use it as a nightgown? It looked rumpled as if she’d slept in it. Beneath the clinging cotton her nipples were rock hard.
In the dream he’d been arrogant. He’d known what it was to be wanted. Maybe that was because she’d looked at him the way she was doing just then. Stark appreciation shone from her luminous brown eyes. He could knock down trees with his bare hands when she ate him up with her stare.
Chris wrapped the towel loosely around his waist and eased nearer. Any minute she’d pull a gun on him, but he didn’t care. She was the inspiration behind two of the most satisfying orgasms he’d had in years. And he felt like paying homage to his muse.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“Letting me finish.”
She licked her lower lip and smiled. “I won’t lie, Cristián. I enjoyed the show.”
Only then did he realize that the name he’d heard wasn’t a fantasy. She’d been there the whole time. She’d stolen the name from his dream and tossed him over the edge with it.
What the hell?
He believed in possessed dogs and people who could shift into animals a damn sight more than that much coincidence.
“What did you call me?”
That got her. She scooped up her toiletries and slipped away from the wall. “Forget it.”
“No, Rosa. I mean it. What did you call me?”
With her back toward him, she said, “Cristián.”
A cold shiver warred with the lust that name sparked off inside him. But he kept pushing.
“Why?”
“It’s the Spanish way.”
He stood beside her and breathed. The dream hadn’t gotten her scent quite right. More salt. Less sweet. “But how did you know it was Christian, not Christopher? And don’t say ‘lucky guess’ or some bullshit. You said it like you knew.”
But dream-Rosa and voyeur-Rosa were gone. She was
la jefa
again, all prickly thorns and sharp edges. “Drop it.”
She tensed when he settled his hand on her shoulder. “You said it and I came,” he whispered against her temple. Her body hummed a quiet tension that made him think of live wires and lightning strikes. “
You
did that to me.”
As if the effort took all the strength she had, she met his gaze. The panicking tension in his bones was reflected in her dark gaze. Chris grazed his thumb over her lower lip. She didn’t move, didn’t blink. Just slowly sank her teeth into his flesh. He hissed softly, then absorbed the pain, wanting more. Shit, even now—wanting more.
“Entre la sombra y el alma,”
he whispered.
Rosa blinked. She spit him out and shoved hard against his chest. Taken aback, Chris stumbled away. His feet slipped on the wet tile so that he nearly fell.
“What the fuck did you say to me?” she snarled.
“Sure, it’s fine when you crawl into
my
head.”
“It was just a dream!”
Chris froze. His head felt hot, heavy enough to fall off his neck.
No way. Too weird.
They stared at one another like opponents across a ring. If he pulled down the collar of her shirt, would he find a gunshot scar on her shoulder?
An alarm sounded outside. Rosa kicked the wall and spewed a few choice Spanish curses. “All I wanted was a goddamn shower!”
“What the hell is that? That’s not the hellhound alarm.”
“No. Trucks. It’s time to mount up for a raiding party.”
“How long do we have?”
“About five minutes.”
She tore out of the shower, with Chris following right behind. “I’m coming with you,” he called.
“You’re not a bravo. So you’re staying here.”
“Like hell.”
He raced to his room above the store and dressed in a blink. He kept just enough of his possessions in the room to keep any curious snoops from discovering that he spent every night out in the caves.
Out on the main street the bravos had already started to assemble, like Minutemen of old. Bikes, guns, bleary but determined faces—all ready to roll. Brick strapped what looked like a small cannon to his back. A bandana covered his bald head. He straddled his bike, then leaned over to accept a hot, open-mouthed kiss from Jolene. She wore only a threadbare robe that flapped open at her knees when the hot morning wind kicked up.
“Be careful,” she said simply, and then turned back toward the nearest building. A woman seeing her husband off to a day at the office might do so with more drama.
Ex grinned into the low red sun edging over the horizon. “Shit, it’s early,” he said. “This had better be good. Like, Cubans and cocaine good.”
“As your doctor,” Chris drawled, “I’d advise against both.”
“Okay, tools, then. I can always use new tools.”
Rosa strode down the street. She’d thrown on cargoes and was fastening a black leather vest over the white button-down. Not enough time to have donned a bra. Chris was high on adrenaline, but that fused so easily with thoughts of sex.
But something else nagged at him. That feeling of déjà vu had returned. Not a sense. Not really. More like a warning, like the flicker of a dream he had already forgotten.
“Where do you want me,
Jefa
?”
She checked the chamber of her pistol. “Here.”
“Bullshit.”
“Bullshit is you arguing with me,” she hissed. “You don’t see Jameson arguing with me when I told him to stay behind with Tilly. I won’t have her alone this close to her due date. And if he can agree to stay behind, you sure as hell can.”
“Rosa, think about it. You said it could take months between shipments. Now you get another rolling through so soon?”
“My patrol said it’s the O’Malley organization. They’re based out east and truck quality supplies—ammo, gasoline. We’ve warned them before about our tolls. Now their goods are ours to claim.”
“It’s not that cut-and-dried.” Daring what he wouldn’t have tried even a few hours ago, he grabbed her biceps. “It isn’t right—just like the raid the other night.”
She shrugged out from his grip and holstered her weapon. Next came the wicked bowie knife she strapped to her hip. But her frown said she was thinking. “A trap?”
“I can’t say.”
“All the more reason for you to stay. Help protect those who stay behind.”
Falco tore down the street on his stripped-down bike. He wore goggles and a nasty grin. A shotgun rested at an angle between his shoulder blades. He slid the bike’s rear tire as he skidded to a stop, spraying an arc of dust toward the end of town.
“Ready,
Jefa
?”
Rosa didn’t hesitate. She climbed aboard. Chris tasted bile and blinked through a haze of red. What the hell was wrong with him? She was the same fearless bitch she’d been two weeks ago, but seeing her astride Falco’s bike ripped away part of his brain. The rational part.
“
Mis bravos
have been doing this for years,” she said. “I trust them.”
“But you don’t trust me.”
Her grin was as heart-stopping as the one she’d flashed in the shower room. “No. Not you. But if you’re bothered, remind me when I get back—we can talk about your initiation. I like the idea of you kneeling at my feet.”
“Fuck that.”
She winked. “
Adiós
.”
With a fierce cry, she signaled to the cyclists. Her bravos echoed the call up and down the street, no matter whether they sat astride a bike or cheered from a second-story window. Falco gunned his engine, then flipped Chris his middle finger. The motorcycle bolted out of town in a shower of grit and exhaust. Brick, Ex, and the others fell in sync behind Falco in a loose triangular formation. They reached the edge of town within seconds and tore off into the desert.
Chris watched the fan of their dust trails with a sick, hard knot in his gut. This wasn’t lust and it wasn’t some misplaced jealousy. As messed up as the last few days had been, he still trusted his instincts. As a scientist, that had been a hard lesson to learn. The change had beaten it into him.
In his mind he saw flickering images: dirty faces, a bike without a rider. It was the touch of another dream, but he had no idea what it meant. All he knew was that he needed to act—just as he had with the raiders on foot.
It was happening all over again.
FIFTEEN
Rosa put the crazy shit out of her mind for the time being. Right now, she couldn’t afford to think about Chris Welsh.
Cristián.
Not when they were about to hit an O’Malley delivery. Part of her suspected he might be right—that it wasn’t normal to see more supplies so quickly—but they needed the provisions. Being
la jefa
meant weighing the risks against the possible benefits and deciding which side of the scale weighed more. She’d done all right so far.
Still, it didn’t hurt to keep it tight.
“Let’s be careful,” she called to Falco as they crested the hill.
Thanks to the signal from the settlement, they had time to catch up with the trucks along the straightaway. That was her favorite place to strike. Oh, they didn’t hit every shipment that passed through her territory. Rosa always offered them the chance to ally with Valle and pay the toll first, but she didn’t give second chances. Once the olive branch was rejected, she considered their goods fair game. These trucks bore the stamp of the O’Malley organization, who ran the eastern seaboard. Rosa would be surprised if word of her small-potatoes operation had reached the big man’s, but she had taken cargo from him a time or two.