Carla Neggers - Abandon

He shook off thoughts of ghosts and focused on the woman in the doorway. He hated to abandon her – but what the hell else could he do? When Harris Mayer had pointed her out at the hotel last week, Rook had expected backing off from her wouldn’t be difficult. But he was wrong, and in the days since he’d left her the voice mail canceling dinner, he’d only found himself more attracted to her.

And yet he knew better than to underestimate this woman – to take her bandaged side and her response to him as vulnerability.

“I think Judge Peacham looks at you and sees the eleven-year-old, traumatized and guilt-ridden about her father’s accident,” he said. “And maybe the academic she’d hoped you’d become.”

“I did become,” Mackenzie said.

“Did she approve of your career change?”

“No one did. Beanie’s not alone in that one.”

“Why…”

“Why did I become a marshal?” Mackenzie grinned so suddenly, so unexpectedly that Rook felt gut-punched. “Because I didn’t want to write my dissertation.”

“Did your students always laugh at your jokes?”

“Always. You law enforcement types – not so much.” But her eyes turned serious, and she said, “I wanted to catch bad guys and help keep people safe. That’s it. That’s why I filled out my application.”

“It’s as valid a reason as any I’ve ever heard.”

“Why did you become an FBI agent?”

He shrugged. “It never occurred to me to do anything else. Mac -”

“I can’t make love with these damn stitches,” she said quietly, quickly. “So, just say good-night.”

Rook didn’t move. He could see what she was thinking. “Mac, making love to you isn’t just unfinished business that I need to take care of and then move on. I’m not that big a cad.” He stepped closer to her. “We can go a little further, even with the stitches. I won’t hurt you.”

“What?”

But she took his hand and backed into the kitchen, and he brought his palm to her breast, her eyes on him, liquid, certain, stripping away his reserve. “How could I have thought I could just walk away?”

She smiled, moving against his palm. “Don’t think about that now.”

He raised her shirt and heard her breath catch as he unclasped her bra and skimmed his fingertips across her hardening nipples, the soft skin of her breast. His senses flooded with the smell of her, the feel of her. She reached a hand into his hair, moaning softly as he teased and tantalized, then, careful of her bandaged side, lifted her bra and shirt over her head and cast them onto the floor.

“Rook,” she whispered, tightening her fist in his hair, then letting go. “Andrew…”

He gazed at her, taking in the milky skin, the curve of her breasts, the flat stomach, the flare of hips, wanting her, aching for her, his need a jolt to his system.

“Mac.”

His voice was strangled, and he gave up, slipped his hands around her, high, avoiding her injury. Her skin was cool now, creamy under his touch. Everything about her aroused him, absorbed him. He kissed her neck, moving lower, lost in the scent of her, the taste of her, as tongue and teeth explored, lingered, pushed her to soft moans of pleasure. He felt her falter slightly, but they both stayed on their feet.

Her skin heated, and she dug her fingers into his shoulders, giving a small cry, a gasp of need and frustration. When he rose up, her lips were parted, and he plunged his tongue into her mouth, letting her know just how aroused he was. But she found out for herself, dropping a hand between them, skimming her fingers across him, locating his zipper, lowering it. She slipped her hand inside. He was hard, throbbing against her touch.

He growled into her mouth. “Mac – hell.”

She smiled boldly. “Do you want me to stop?”

But his body answered for him, and she gulped in a breath, her smile gone now, her mouth on his again as she reached deep and took the length of him. He fought for air, kissing her, teasing her nipples with his thumbs in the same rhythm she used on him. When she quickened her pace, he eased one hand down the smooth skin of her back and into her pants, along the curve of her buttocks.

His urgency mounted, but he forced a pause, looked into her eyes, which were a dusky blue now, brimming with need and desire. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not…oh.” She moved against his hand. “Trust me.”

His fingers reached her hot, moist center, and her grip on him faltered slightly. He didn’t stop. He flicked, pushed, circled his fingers around her, into her, probing, as she responded, moving against them, onto them. She worked her own magic and torture with her hand, capturing, stroking, faster, then faster yet.

“Mac, I can’t hold on.” He could hardly breathe, never mind talk.

“Then don’t, because neither can I.”

Her body shuddered and she cried out, her grip slackening. But she didn’t let go. She stiffened against him, and he could feel her willpower as she regained her hold. With her next brutal stroke, he used every ounce of self-control to keep himself from exploding.

Not now. At the moment, he thought, it was enough for him to pleasure her.

His time would come.

He thrust his fingers deep into her, as insistent and brutal as she’d been with him, watching her eyes close as she gave in to the sensations. She grasped his shoulders, bracing herself as her body rippled with release. Slick with perspiration, she collapsed against him, breathing hard into his neck.

Finally, she stood back, utterly spent and as unembarrassed as he was.

She scooped up her shirt and bra and grinned at him. “You really are a bastard, you know. Honestly. Making me be the only one who…” She didn’t finish.

“Regrets?”

She slapped him lightly with her shirt. “Not hardly.”

“Your stitches -”

“Intact. All intact. You didn’t hurt me, Andrew.” She slipped on her shirt, not bothering with the bra, and smiled at him. “I was never in pain.”

He believed her. “I’ve been thinking about this moment for a long time.”

She raised her eyebrows. “So when we were having coffee that night in the rain, you were thinking -”

“Not then.”

“You are such a bad liar.”

He pulled himself together, then kissed her – softly this time, romantically. “Now,” he said, smiling, “we have unfinished business.”

She let out a breath. “I think we just might.”

On his way home, Rook drove too fast and was so agitated he almost missed his own damn driveway.

His nephew was reading a gaming magazine and listening to his iPod at the kitchen table. Rook pulled out the chair across from him and sat down. “How can you read and listen to music at the same time?”

“What?”

“How…” He sighed. “Take the damn headphones off and you’ll be able to hear me.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Brian grinned, removing the earbuds and hitting the pause button on his iPod. “Bad day?”

“It had its moments. What about you?”

“Just hanging out here. I ran the dishwasher and picked up my room.” He nodded toward the microwave. “I’ve got leftovers heating up.”

Rook decided not to push him about his future plans. Brian’s father could tackle that problem. “What leftovers?”

“I don’t know. I dumped a bunch of stuff I found in the fridge into the microwave. There’s enough for two, if you want.”

In a brief flash, Rook saw his nephew’s loneliness and uncertainty. His friends from high school were off to college or had jobs, and Brian was in Arlington, eating leftovers with his uncle.

Rook suddenly didn’t feel that great about his own life, either. He’d let his emotions get away from him with Mac, and he didn’t know what the hell came next. He was worried about her – but he was worried about himself, too, because tonight proved he had no self-control at all, not with her. Spotting her with Bernadette Peacham last week and seeing a potential conflict between his professional and personal lives, he’d thought he’d put on the brakes in his usual efficient, objective manner.