Two white candles sat in silver candleholders in the middle of a coffee table, their golden flames reflected in the dark, polished wood. The coffee table sat in the center of the room between two plush sofas and across from the fireplace, where a cozy fire crackled. Two places had been set with linen, silver, and crystal. Nearby on the floor sat a silver champagne chiller filled with crushed ice. The sultry sound of jazz drifted in the background.
Hunt poured out the champagne. “How’d it go?”
“Wow.” For a moment, that’s all she could say.
“Are you hungry?” He bent down, stuck the bottle in the chiller, then stood and walked toward her. He was still wearing his jeans, but he’d put on a sleek black shirt and had rolled up the sleeves. He looked casual, sexy…delicious.
“This is amazing.”
When was the last time a man had done something romantic like this for her?
Never. That’s when.
“I hope you like salmon.” He slid his arm around her waist, ducked down, and brushed a kiss over her lips.
“I love salmon. What are we celebrating?”
He pressed his forehead to hers, looked straight into her eyes. “Now, Sophie—we are celebrating now.”
She felt her breath catch, something bittersweet rushing through her, part hope, part despair. And suddenly she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Go make yourself comfortable.” He released her and strode down the hallway toward the kitchen.
She walked over to the coffee table, sat on the thickly carpeted floor, and stared into the fire, its warmth seeping into the cold places inside her.
There’s no “happily ever after” for us, sprite. There’s now. Only now.
Could it be that simple?
Could it be any more simple?
Neither of them had any idea what was going to happen tomorrow or even five minutes from now, but rather than worrying about it, Hunt was savoring every moment, trying to experience as many of the pleasures of life as he could before they were taken from him forever.
Tears pricked Sophie’s eyes, but she fought them back, determined not to spoil the mood Hunt had obviously worked so hard to create. She needed to put her fears aside and take hold of this little taste of heaven he was offering—if not for her own sake then most certainly for his. This was as close to a normal life as he was going to get.
There’s now. Only now.
Well, happy endings were overrated anyway.
Hunt walked back through the doorway and set two dinner plates on the coffee table. Sophie’s mouth watered. On each sat a grilled salmon filet covered with a relish of tomatoes and black olives next to buttery baby potatoes and steamed asparagus.
“I didn’t know you could cook.”
“I can’t—but I can read a recipe as well as the next guy.” He sat, a lopsided grin on his handsome face. Then he picked up his champagne glass and fixed her with his piercing gaze. “To now.”
She raised her glass, smiled. “To now.”
Champagne tickled its way down her throat straight into her empty stomach. She set her glass down and tucked her napkin in her lap.
He picked up his napkin. “So what did they say?”
It took her a moment to realize what he was asking. “Tom said he’ll follow up on the request for the report and do the background checks. My attorney said he’ll subpoena the halfway house’s surveillance records if they have any.”
“How long do you think it will take?”
“I can’t be sure, but I’m guessing we’ll have the information from the background checks by midday Monday. That usually takes only a couple of hours.”
“Perfect. That means we can spend the weekend searching this place for information about Megan’s life.” He picked up his fork. “Bon appétit.”
The food was delicious, the salmon soft and flaky, the relish adding tang and saltiness, the asparagus cooked to a perfect crispness. The champagne was cold and dry with a long mineral finish that went straight to Sophie’s head. The tension of the past week began to melt away, the shadows chased away by good food and drink, the warmth of the fire, and the heat of his gaze. She found herself telling him about her parents’ restaurant—how she’d all but grown up in the kitchen, being coddled, fed, and fussed over by a staff of finicky French chefs and a sommelier who took her wine education seriously, even when she was six.
“That sounds like a wonderful way to grow up.”
“I probably would have become the manager or maybe the wine buyer if…”
If her parents hadn’t been killed.
Marc saw the grief in Sophie’s eyes and knew where her thoughts had taken her.
She cleared her throat. “Sorry. I’m babbling.”
“No, you’re not.” He reached over, took her hand, gave it reassuring squeeze. “It must have been the most horrible thing in the world to lose your mom and dad.”
She nodded, took a deep breath—and then changed the subject. “So tell me about the army. Did you grow up wanting to be a soldier?”
He couldn’t help but laugh. “Hell, no! I grew up wanting my mother to stop drinking and using and start acting like other kids’ moms. I didn’t spend a single moment thinking about the future. By the time I was a senior, it was clear that the army was my only chance to avoid mowing lawns and changing oil for the rest of my life.”
As they finished the meal, he told her about boot camp and how the meanest master sergeant on the face of the earth—a bastard by the name of Stracher—had kicked his ass into gear. He told her how he’d discovered he had skill with target shooting. He told her how he’d been transferred into Special Forces after 9/11 and deployed to Afghanistan as a sniper, where he’d spent a winter high in the frigid mountains near Tora Bora.
“It must have been very hard.” Her cheeks were flushed, her body relaxed, her gaze focused on him, a dreamy look in her big blue eyes. She was obviously feeling the champagne. “I’m so glad you made it home in one piece.”
“You know what kept me warm at night?” He leaned in closer, brushed a strand of hair from the satin of her cheek. “I kept thinking about this beautiful girl from my hometown. I only spent one night with her—just one night—but it was the sweetest night of my life. She gave me her virginity and told me to shoot for the stars. I tried, Sophie. I tried to shoot for the stars.”
He must have been feeling the alcohol, too, or he never would have said anything like that. Or maybe it wasn’t the champagne. Maybe it was just being near her like this. He seemed to be running at the mouth a lot lately.
She turned her head, nuzzled her cheek against his palm, her skin unbelievably soft, her eyes drifting shut. “Did you really think of me these past six years?”
He ran the pad of his thumb over her lower lip. “Oh, yes. I thought about you. Dreamed about you. Fantasized—”
Her eyes flew open, her pupils wide and dark. “About me?”
“Yeah.” Slow down, Hunter. Do you really think a woman wants to know that sort of thing? “Does that bother you?”
She shook her head, the flush on her cheeks going deeper, her lips parting on a breathy whisper. “I was just thinking we could…you know…try out a few of those, um, fantasies. While we have the chance.”
And that right there blew away any fantasy.
He tried to say something, but all the blood in his body had rushed to his crotch.
“So, Marc Hunter, where do you want me?”
Geez-us!
Where did he want her? God, he wanted her everywhere. Against the wall. Spread-eagle on the bed. On her hands and knees. In the hot tub. On the dining room table. In the Jag. Hell, on the Jag.
But one fantasy stood out above the rest. “It’s not so much where I want you, Sophie, as it is how. Nothing tastes quite like a woman, and no woman tastes like you.”
She gave an almost inaudible gasp. “Then you want…”
“I want dessert.” He stood, reached for her, drew her onto the couch beneath
him.
He kissed her out of her blouse, suckling her through her bra until she was whimpering and writhing, her nipples straining against the wet lace. Then he moved on to her pants, drawing the fabric down her long legs, tasting his way down her silky skin, over her sensitive calves to the tips of her little toes. But as scrumptious as her skin was, this wasn’t the taste he hungered for most.
He worked his way back up her legs, nudging her thighs apart with his hands, inhaling the wild, musky scent of her arousal, filling his lungs with her. Yes, this was it, the scent he’d wanted inside his head for so, so long. But now he wanted a taste.
He licked her inner thighs along the edge of her panties, heard her gasp, her fingers sliding into his hair, rough lace and soft skin both sweet against his tongue. Then he drew back and licked his way up the lace where it covered her cleft, the soft folds of her labia beneath. When his tongue felt the tiny bud of her clit, he held himself still, flicking it through the thin cloth, feeling it swell.
She whimpered, lifted her hips eagerly toward his mouth. “Please, Hunt!”
He chuckled. “Sorry, but this is my fantasy, and I’m going to take my sweet time.”
She gave a pained moan. “Is this your ‘torture Sophie’ fantasy?”
“No, it’s my ‘Sophie lets me do whatever I want to do’ fantasy. I’m going lick you everywhere, until your scent is imprinted on my brain, until I can taste you in my dreams, until you saturate my skin. So settle in because this is probably going to take awhile.”
He saw her belly contract, felt her shiver, and knew what he’d said excited her.
“But…what about you?”
“Sweetheart, this is for me.”
Sophie couldn’t believe what she was feeling, the arousal so fierce as Hunt tormented her with his lips and teeth and tongue, licking, nipping, and sucking her most tender places, bringing her to the edge again and again, only to trail scorching kisses across her belly or the inside of her knees or her throat, letting the inferno inside her cool before finding his way back to the place she burned hottest. And she was burning, her skin now so sensitive that no matter where he touched her, his mouth felt like fire, a river of hot cream flowing between her legs. Her senses were overloaded, her lungs straining for breath, her nails cutting into his shoulders, into the fabric of the sofa, into her own palms as she tried to hold on.
And he hadn’t even taken off her panties yet.
When he did, slipping his hands beneath her to pull the soaking cloth down her legs, the anticipation was almost more than she could take. She opened her eyes, felt her heart trip as he settled his head between her thighs and parted her gently with his fingers, his gaze fixed on the most private part of her, an expression of blatant male hunger on his face.
“Hunt, I—oh!”
He cut her off with one long swipe of his tongue, whatever she’d wanted to say lost in a rush of pleasure. “Give yourself to me, Sophie.”
And then Sophie was lost, his tongue stroking her, flicking her, thrusting deeply into her, his lips tugging on her aching clitoris, suckling her, drawing her into the heat of his mouth, one of his arms thrown across her hips to keep her from bucking. Again and again he drove her to the brink, only to back off and leave her hanging in midair, desperate, panting, begging him to fill the throbbing emptiness inside her and finish this.
Then at last he slid up the length of her body and kissed her long and hard on the mouth, his skin drenched with her own wild taste and scent. She reached for his zipper, frantic to free the bone-hard ridge of his cock and feel it inside her. But he caught her hands.
“No! Not yet.” He stood, scooped her into his arms, and carried her across the room until he stood in front of the fireplace. Then he sank to the floor, laid down on his back, and drew her up his body, grasping her hips and guiding her until she straddled his face, her weight resting on her shins, her core hovering just above his mouth.
“Oh, God!” She was breathless, trembling, more aroused than she’d ever been.
“God, what a view!” He steadied her above him, then reached up to unclasp her bra, catching the weight of her breasts in his hands, his fingers teasing her nipples with strokes she felt deep in her belly. And then he unleashed his mouth on her again, and all she could do was surrender.
Marc was in heaven, surrounded by Sophie, his senses full of her. He palmed her breasts, teased the rosy velvet of her nipples, drinking in the flood of warm honey that was her body’s response. He could have kissed her like this forever. It didn’t matter to him that his cock felt like it had rigor mortis or that his balls had probably gone from blue to black or that the Glock he’d tucked into his jeans—and subsequently forgotten—was jabbing him in the small of the back. He wanted to give her every bit of pleasure she could take.
He’d gone slowly with her, searching out what she liked most, gauging her reactions, learning to read her body’s sexual rhythm, and now he was putting that knowledge to good use, drawing out her pleasure, making her wait, giving both of them time to savor it. Then he knew it was time to let her go. He closed his mouth over her clit and suckled her.
She whimpered, her back arching, her breasts pressing more deeply into his hands, her fingers fisting in his hair. “Hunt…oh, God…oh, Hunt!”
He wasn’t sure he’d ever known a woman as sensual and responsive as Sophie. Even when she’d been a virgin and sixteen, she’d been unafraid to give herself over to sexual pleasure. She’d blown him away that night. And she sure wasn’t holding back now, the sounds coming from her throat uninhibited, raw, blatantly sexual.
He drew a hand down, probed her slick entrance with one finger, then two, teasing her.
Her reaction was immediate. “Oh, yes…please…please!”
He thrust inside her, stroking her, feeling her inner muscles tighten around his fingers. He suckled her harder, keeping his rhythm steady both inside and out, her cries more frantic, every muscle in her body tense.
Her breath caught and held, her body going stiff as the first tremors washed through her. She exhaled in a shuddering cry, coming against his mouth in a gush of hot nectar, her body shaking with pleasure. He stayed with her, letting her ride it out, the moisture of her orgasm wet on his fingers and lips and tongue. God, he loved her.
Yes, he loved her. He loved everything about her.
Too damn bad for both of them, really, but that’s how it was.
“Hunt.” She looked down at him, breathless, the longing in her eyes seeming to mirror the hunger inside him. Then she stretched out next to him and lowered her mouth to his in a slow, deep kiss, her fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.
And suddenly he couldn’t get out of his clothes and into her fast enough. He helped her take off his shirt, then pulled a condom out of his pocket, working it onto his erection, while she pulled off his jeans and briefs. Then he eased her beneath him and settled himself between her thighs, his gaze colliding with hers as he slid into her with a single slow thrust.
“Oh, Sophie, honey, I…” Love you. I love you.
He bit back the words, forced himself to focus only on the physical act of loving her, grinding his pubic bone against her with each hard thrust, the slippery friction driving them both insane. God—Christ!—she felt so good. He was hanging on the edge…hanging…holding back, wanting it to be good for her, wanting her, wanting all of her, until with a cry, she gave herself to him, her eyes squeezed shut as the crest of another climax surged through her, carrying him over the edge, his orgasm hot and fast and strong.
And as the pleasure peaked, he saw it all—the man he might have been, the life he might have lived. It was there in her perfect eyes, looking up at him.
CHAPTER 22
SOPHIE OPENED A box labeled “Misc.” and found herself digging through a strange assortment of electronics junk—old computer power cords, cell phone chargers, circuit breakers, switch plates, and antenna wires. Did Mr. and Mrs. Rawlings keep everything?
She packed the
wires and cords back into the box, closed it, and carried it to the far basement wall where Hunt was stacking boxes that had already been checked. “More junk.”
He glanced down at her, nodded. “Go ahead and put it down there.”
She’d awoken to find him still asleep, all six feet four inches of him stretched out naked beside her, a sheet dragged over one hip. For a while, she’d watched him, her gaze drifting over him—the ridges and valleys of his muscles, the soft curls of his chest hair, that mouth.
That mouth had given her the single most explosive climax of her life. Never had she felt so deliciously out of control, so sexually needy, so completely at a man’s mercy. He’d taken her to the brink not once, but twice, the first with his lips and tongue, then with his body, driving into her hard and fast, his gaze seeming to pierce her soul. Then afterwards he’d held her, kissing her until the fire died down and she got chilly and it was time for bed. She’d felt blissfully exhausted, replete—and so deeply in love with him that it had hurt.
Despite all her dire warnings to herself, she’d fallen in love with Marc Hunter.
Or maybe she’d loved him all along.
As she’d watched him sleep, she’d felt a strange surge of protectiveness. Despite the muscles and tattoos, he’d seemed somehow vulnerable. Maybe it was his long eyelashes. Or the lines of fatigue on his face. Or the way he nudged toward her in his sleep, as if he needed to be closer to her. Or maybe it was knowing what he would face if he were caught—a life of isolation, loneliness, deprivation.
Just the thought of it had left her feeling sick.
She’d found herself needing to touch him and had explored his body, savoring the feel of him, watching his body’s response. He’d awoken with a moan, the surprise on his face turning to bliss when she’d taken him into her mouth. He’d watched her give him head, holding her hair back from her face, his breath hissing from between his clenched teeth.