Linda Howard: Death Angel

The intensity in his narrowed eyes shook her, burned her. She framed his face with her hands, just as she had imagined doing, and took the leap. “I love you, Simon.” She wanted to say it at least once, in case she didn’t have another chance to tell him. She wanted him to know that he was loved, that he was cherished, that he wasn’t alone.

He faltered then, his arms abruptly wobbling and refusing to support his weight. He sank down on her, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to hers. “You don’t have to say that,” he muttered, something in his tone so humble it broke her heart.

“It’s true. When you wouldn’t take me with you, I fell apart. I cried for hours.” She stroked his hair, her hands tender. “I could barely think, I hurt so much, and I had to convince Rafael I was upset because I’d realized he didn’t love me, and that you’d said I was too much trouble and didn’t touch me at all.”

His head jerked up a little and he stared at her, nose to nose. “You mean he bought it?” he asked incredulously.

“Of course. I have a talent for lying,” she said, her mouth twitching a little with amusement.

“Damn. I knew you were good, but that’s world-class.”

“Thank you.” She laughed, raising her head for a quick taste of those soft lips again. She felt them curve in a smile, and her heart squeezed.

Gently he nipped her chin, stroked his hand down to grip her thigh and pull it higher. “Let’s get out of some clothes. I really, really need to fuck you for a while.”

“How long is a while?” She began unbuttoning her blouse, but abandoned the effort to work at his buttons, because she’d much rather feel his skin than her own. “Want to go for a personal best?”

“You mean more than four hours?” He shook his head, smiling. “I can’t. Not this time. Let’s shoot for twenty minutes.”

“Slacker. I know you can do better than that.” She didn’t need twenty minutes, she thought, her hips lifting and rubbing against him, seeking the hard ridge of his erection. Five minutes would do it. All her internal muscles clenched as she suddenly remembered how it felt when he entered her, pushing deep. His penis was thick enough to make her feel stretched, even then; how would it feel now, when she had been celibate for months? It was as if her sex drive had dried up, because she hadn’t even thought about sex since the accident-until he showed up in her kitchen, and she realized it hadn’t dried up, it had just been dormant because she was preoccupied with other things.

She got his shirt unbuttoned and pulled it free of his pants. The broad span of his chest, the light sprinkling of hair, enticed her and she spread her hands over it so that the hair tickled her palms and her fingers found the small flat coins of his nipples, centered with tiny nubs that hardened as she stroked them. His cheekbones darkened with color as he braced himself over her, letting her play.

Enough of that. She really, really liked his chest, but what she wanted most was in his pants. Abandoning his nipples, she went for his belt buckle, all but ripping it open. “Watch out for the zipper-” he managed, then rescued his erection from her dangerous eagerness to set it free. She was suddenly frenzied, batting at his hands in an effort to get to him.

“Move,” she muttered. “Let me have it.”

“Slow down. You can have it-Shit. Wait a minute.”

“No. Hurry.”

“Get your clothes off, too.”

He rolled to the side and impatiently she surged to her knees, tugging and tearing at her clothes and tossing them aside. As soon as she had her jeans and underwear off she tossed them aside and straddled him, concentrating on something that was far more rewarding.

“I love you, Simon,” she said as she grasped his penis and guided it between her legs. She used his name deliberately, reinforcing that she loved him, the man, not just the sex. White-hot anticipation tightened her stomach muscles. She sank down, just enough for the swollen head to push against her opening. The heavy pressure burned as her flesh gave, opened, molded around him. It hurt, but she didn’t care. She pushed some more, hungry for more, then tantalized herself by lifting slightly.

A growl rumbled in his throat and he grasped her hips, pulling her downward with a quick jerk that pushed him all the way inside her. His head arched back, his eyes closing as he savored that moment of penetration, then he relaxed his grip and his body and a beautiful smile curved his mouth as he said, “There. Go for it, sweetheart. It’s all yours.”

“WHY DID YOU COME HERE?” HE ASKED.

“How did you find me?” she countered.

They were lying naked amid the tangle of sheets and pillows, drowsy and relaxed and finally able to concentrate on something other than getting as close as possible to each other. He was still holding her close against his side, her head cradled on his shoulder, as if he couldn’t yet bear not to touch her.

They were both new to this, to the sense of utter joy in someone else. Andie couldn’t stop touching him, either, astonished at how fast things had changed between them, that she was now free to touch him and kiss him, bury her face against his neck and inhale the wonderful heat and scent of his skin. She kept having little episodes of unreality: she was actually here with him ? Her body had joyously accepted his presence, but her mind hadn’t quite caught up yet to this sudden change. The man she had gone in terror of for so many months was now her lover. Not just her lover, but her love. However ill-advised it was, she loved him. They didn’t have the comfort of having known each other for years, dating, learning all the details and quirks of personality and tastes. Instead, every time they’d met, the contact had been intense and fraught with emotions neither one of them had any experience in handling. She was as much a novice as he in this business of loving, so all of this was difficult to take in.

To begin with, she felt giddy. Drunk. Drunk on him, on sex, on relief and joy and pain all rolled together. When he touched her, she felt cherished-she, Andie Butts/Drea Rousseau-who had never been cherished before in her life, who had never been loved, never been valued. The full realization that he valued her, that he was concerned with her pleasure, her comfort, her well-being, was almost more than she could take in.

Just as disconcerting was the depth and strength with which she cherished him. She would do anything to protect him, to care for him and smooth life’s bumps out of his path. If she felt this way about him, she could only imagine how this emotion would feel turned around toward her, in a man whose middle name was “intense” and whose every instinct was that of a predator. How would he react if he knew she intended to put her life in danger? Not very well, she was afraid. No man would, not even an average Joe, and he wasn’t average by any measure she could imagine.

She would have to tell him why she was here. She wouldn’t deceive him. This new, wonderful thing between them deserved better than that, but not right now. For right now, if he thought the time had come for questions and answers, then she wanted her own questions answered first, to prevent him from distracting her after he got his answers.

She tilted her head back on his shoulder, looking up at his face as she sifted through the possibilities. “Even if you have a tracer on my Explorer, that would track me only as far as the airport parking lot,” she said, thinking aloud. “You wouldn’t know what airline I used or what flight I took to where. I suppose if you’re a good enough hacker-”

“I am,” he interjected, without any hint of ego or bragging, simply stating a fact.