He smiled down at her, then bent down and lightly kissed first one of her nipples, then the other.
He had always loved her breasts, been fascinated by her cleavage, by the weight and the shape and the way she moved and moaned when he touched her.
But contrary to her expectations, he moved on, kissing the pale, soft skin on the insides of her elbows, then the sensitive skin on the insides of her thighs. He used a finger to lightly slide down to her ass, and when she whimpered, he used the flat of his thumb against her clit.
Then . . . then he kissed her ear and lightly bit her lobe.
She didn’t know what to expect. She didn’t know where he would be next. She knew he wanted her—that was obvious—but how and where? The questions occupied her mind, confused her, entranced her.
It seemed as if he were trying to keep her off balance.
It was working.
He sprawled onto the tile floor, leaned on his elbows, spread his legs, and indicated his erection. “What would you like now?” he asked.
She remained on the seat, looking down at him.
He wasn’t the young man he had been when she first loved him, nor the wounded warrior who had disrupted her plans for marriage. He was a man, tough, mature, uncompromising.
For all the good it did her, she loved him in all his incarnations.
She loved him now for his generosity.
Slipping off the seat and into the shower’s spray, she prowled up his body, stroking his feet, his calves, his thighs, his hips. The tiles were smooth beneath her knees. Wrapping her hands around his erection, she held him and kissed the silky head of his penis. In slow increments she took him into her mouth, and oh, God, he was delicious, decadent, like ice cream on a hot day. He groaned, deep and desperate, and the sound made her feel in control again. In control and at the same time wild and free, without a care except to feed the urges of her body.
He made her feel like the woman he claimed she was, earth mother and seductress all at once.
Releasing him, she used her tongue on his belly, his chest. She kissed the red scar that sliced up his arm and over his elbow.
The water rained down on them, dripping in her eyes, around her neck, dribbling down her breastbone, between her legs.
Strong, unyielding, all man, he trembled in her power.
Putting her knee between his legs, she massaged his balls with her thigh and kissed his lips with her mouth. She thought of nothing except herself and the warrior beneath her. Then, like an electric shock to her brain, her eyes sprang open and she expected to see . . . death staring her in the face.
But it was Rafe, alive and seething. At her? No, perhaps not. But at the memory that ripped her from the sensual cocoon he had so expertly spun around her. “You will not!” he said.
So swiftly she never saw him move, Rafe flipped her onto her back. “You’re here. Now. With me.” He wrapped his arm behind her head and kissed her, hard. He moved his chest against her breasts, chafing her nipples with his rough, curling hair. He pushed her legs apart with his thighs, pressed his dick the first inch inside her.
He intruded on her body. He intruded on her mind. He dominated her.
And she welcomed him, wrapping her legs around his hips, hooking her feet around the small of his back.
This was living. This was being. This was celebration.
He rocked inside her, barely inside her, the breadth of him pulling at her clit, making her swell, turning her wanton.
She clawed at his shoulders.
His carefully proscribed rocking motion became a fast jab of need that hurt and exalted.
Her cry of surprise must have yanked him out of his fervor, for suddenly he was out of her and on his feet, towering over her as he grabbed her massage oil from the shelf—when had he put it there?—and rubbed it on.
Still in a fury, he pulled her to her feet and shoved her spine against the wall. “Spread your legs,” he said, but he didn’t wait for her to comply. He pushed them apart, then bent until he could fit his body to hers. He pushed. He slipped inside her, the lubrication easing the way, then thrust, fast, hard . . . but again an inch. Or four. Not even halfway.
He was dividing her, but barely, and all the while, deep inside, her need was growing.
She grasped his hips and tried to force him to fill her.
He laughed and pulled out. “Not yet,” he said. “You’re not ready yet.”
Grabbing a handful of his hair, she pulled his face close to hers and glared. “I know when I am ready!”
He shook her off, spun her around, and bent her over the seat. With his hand on her neck, he held her down. Using two fingers of his other hand, he pressed inside her. “Does that satisfy you?”
“No!” She tried to fight him, and summarily discovered an unassailable truth.
He was bigger than her. He was stronger than her. He was a warrior, and he controlled her easily. “Come anyway,” he said, and all of a sudden he was on his knees behind her, shoving his tongue inside her, using his fingers to create friction against her clit.
At his command, she came, bucking against his grip, her whole body in spasm, and behind her closed eyes, she saw gold and yellow fireworks, felt the explosions slide up her nerves, her spinal column, and take over her brain.
When she calmed, when she was shuddering and sighing, he stood. Holding her hips, he eased inside her.
She’d forgotten how large he was, how bold. She came again, a long, brutal flow of unimaginable passion. Opening her legs wide, she pressed back toward him, trying to impale herself completely, to bring on the ultimate orgasm that would finish her.
He had other plans.
He pushed her thighs together, tightening her body’s hold on his cock. Then, at the deepest point of her, he pressed and flexed, so deep inside she writhed and whimpered—and came some more.
Would she even recognize the ultimate orgasm when it came? Or would this go on forever, an ever-increasing storm of sensation?
He flexed and flexed, and when she flexed back, he whispered, “That’s right. That’s good.” He rewarded her with another slow thrust of his cock, and another, and another, until she was sobbing with the release that took her and the release that was still building.
He pulled out too soon, and not soon enough.
Her legs were trembling. She was glad he was finished. Yet she was still reaching for that ultimate orgasm, and she wished . . . wished . . .
He gently pushed her onto the seat and looked into her wide, amazed eyes. “How much hot water do we have?” he asked.
“What?” What kind of question was that?
“How much hot water do we have?” he repeated.
“Um . . .” She shook her head in confusion, tried to think. “There’s no tank. It’s an on-demand water heater. It never empties.”
“That’s good. I’d hate to run out.” He pulled her off the seat, onto the tiled floor, and eased her onto her back. He kissed her breast, then took her nipple into his mouth and suckled.
She arched her back, and sensation streaked up every nerve on the surface of her body. “What are you doing?”
He pressed his erection between her legs and swiftly, smoothly filled her. “You didn’t imagine we were finished, did you?”
T
hat evening, by ten o’clock, Brooke was finally asleep, sprawled naked on her bed, exhausted by the traumatic events of the day and by the nonstop sex Rafe had used to put a halt to her thoughts. Tenderly he tucked her under the covers. Leaving the bedside light on, he went in search of his pants—his cell phone was in his pocket—and checked for messages.
Nothing from Kyrgyzstan.
Yet almost as good—a text from DuPey. The sheriff wanted to talk to Rafe. To fill him in, he said.
Thank God. Rafe was afraid he’d have to pry details out of DuPey—or direct Darren to hack into the sheriff’s department computer. But as soon as he called, DuPey said, “I’m on the grounds. I’ll be there in five minutes.” Rafe heard a man’s voice, and DuPey added, “
We’ll
be there in five minutes.”
Rafe made an educated guess. “Noah’s with you?”
“He seems to think he ought to know what’s going on,” DuPey answered.
Rafe heard Noah shout, “On my own property, damn it!”
Rafe laughed and hung up. He glanced into the bedroom at the still-sleeping Brooke, then slipped into the bathroom and dressed.
He hoped DuPey was keeping him in the loop not because he was going to ask Rafe where he’d been last night when the body had been dumped, but because he wanted advice. Sure, Rafe knew he was a suspect—they were all suspects—but DuPey was turning out to be a better sheriff than Rafe ever imagined. The son of a bitch had no experience with this type of crime, but he had either done some study or had a knack, because he was learning fast.
Rafe walked outside, carefully shut the screen door to keep out the insects, and stood waiting on Brooke’s tiny front porch. From here he could see the subtle lighting that illuminated the winding path, and the artfully placed plants and trees that created the illusion the cottage was located in the country. Yet downtown Bella Terra was close; faintly Rafe heard music from the bars on the main street, and lights from the lobby washed the light of the stars from the sky. Rafe recognized Bella Terra for what it was: a beautiful location, a clever fantasy, and one of the cornerstones of his family’s fortune. Noah held the reins, and he fiercely protected his property. Of course he wanted to know everything about DuPey’s investigation.
When DuPey and Noah drove up in one of the resort’s golf carts, Rafe walked out to the white picket fence.
“How’s Brooke doing?” Noah looked as if it had been a long, exhausting, far-too-revealing day.
Rafe turned his head and listened. He heard no sound from the cottage. “Asleep.”
“If she has nightmares, we can get a doctor in here to give her a sleeping pill. Or an antianxiety drug,” Noah said.
Did Noah consider Brooke his to protect?
Perhaps. But from the interaction Rafe had observed, Noah’s attitude originated in his protectiveness for the property he tended. Brooke was an important part of that property.
“All drugs do is postpone the inevitable.” Rafe knew what he was talking about here. “Don’t worry. I’ll help her get through this.”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.” Noah stepped through the gate into the yard. “Who’s going to help her get over you? Who’s going to be at her side when you get called to one of your save-the-world projects?”
Rafe wanted to say the rest of the world didn’t matter, but it wasn’t true. His firm had calls coming in every day, and every day he dispatched security assignments to movie stars, athletes, the wealthy, and those who had something to hide. He had individuals and teams trained to handle every crisis. Right now, he had a squad somewhere in Kyrgyzstan, dead or dying or holed up in a cave and freezing to death . . . and God only knew whether they’d completed their mission.
So he did want to save the world. And his grandmother. And he wanted to be here with Brooke.
He couldn’t have it all. He knew he couldn’t. But his gut burned, and when he glared at Noah, Noah nodded. “Yeah. You owe her more than the occasional drive-by fucking, don’t you?”
“I pay my debts,” Rafe said.
Like a laconic Old West sheriff, DuPey leaned against the fence and watched the interplay between the brothers.
His attitude royally annoyed Rafe—because after all, DuPey had admitted he’d let Brooke get away with murder. Or rather, he’d let someone get away with murder and let Brooke take the blame . . . or the credit. Rafe snapped, “Can we agree the attack on Nonna and the body in the Dumpster are somehow linked?”
“Why?” Noah asked. “How?”
Rafe filled them in. “According to Brooke, she was first on the scene when Nonna was attacked because she spoke to Luis Hernández. He gave off enough guilty vibes to send her flying up to the home ranch. When she went looking for him later, he was gone, and she figured he’d run away to avoid being questioned.”
DuPey’s eyes narrowed. “Whoever did attack her thought Hernández knew too much and eliminated him.”
“Yes, fine,” Noah said impatiently. “So now we know why Hernández was killed. But what’s the motive for the attack on Nonna?”
“I don’t have enough facts. I can’t as yet discern a pattern.” Rafe looked between DuPey and Noah. “The question is—was the killing Brooke committed also somehow connected?”
As if that were a new thought, DuPey jerked slightly.
“Two bodies and an attack, all in the space of a month and all somehow related to the Di Lucas,” Rafe reminded him.
“Might be coincidence,” DuPey said.
“If Brooke didn’t actually pull the trigger on that gun, who did?” Rafe asked.
“Do you really think Brooke Petersson would protect a ruthless murderer?” DuPey shot back.
Now Noah watched the interplay. “Wait. Brooke didn’t kill that guy?”
DuPey turned to him. “As far as I know, there is no reason to doubt Brooke’s account of the incident. Just because she reacted to the sight of a rotting body with horror and took the shooting in stride is no reason to believe she’s a conspirator.”
“I don’t think that.” As far as Rafe was concerned, Brooke had proved her innocence . . . and besides, he hadn’t really thought she’d done it in the first place. Suspecting everyone was part of his job, and suspecting her . . . Well, when he first arrived, keeping a wall between them had seemed like a good idea.
They’d effectively demolished that wall today. “I do want to know who actually shot Cruz Flores. It might matter.”
“Yeah.” DuPey sighed. “It might. Do you want to talk to her about it?”
“No. Right now, she’s feeling safe with me, and after today, that’s important. You give it a shot, see what you can get her to say.” Rafe had made his point. Now he asked, “What have you found out while I was otherwise occupied?”
DuPey gave his report with stoic unflappability. “The body has been tentatively identified as Luis Hernández.”
“Who IDed him?” Rafe looked at Noah. “Did you?”
“He was one of my gardeners. Brooke knew him, not me.” Noah shook his head. “Zachary gave an ID based on the clothes and jewelry.”