Linda Howard: Death Angel

She wasn’t wearing a lot, herself; the heat was too intense for layers and layers of clothes. Jeans, underwear, and a loose tank top was all she could tolerate. He pulled the top off over her head, then immediately palmed both her breasts. “These are so pretty,” he murmured, brushing his thumbs over her nipples and making them flush with color as they firmed beneath his touch.

He made her feel pretty all over, the way he looked at her as if he could lick her from head to foot. She had never felt pretty, even though the mirror told her differently. Sometimes she had looked like a million bucks, but inside she’d felt worthless. But when Simon touched her, when she felt the tenderness with which he handled her, as if she were something precious beyond reason, then- then -she felt pretty.

He spread her legs and moved over her, settling his heavy weight into the vee of her thighs. She sighed in contentment. She could have done with some foreplay, but she also enjoyed his urgency, and the sense of pressure, of being stretched, as he slowly pushed into her mostly unprepared body. Her legs quivered around him, then tightened as her body lifted to his and she took him deeper.

Magic. Making love with him had been like magic, right from the start. Her body soared in response, in delight, in sheer, bone-melting pleasure, because that was the difference-not having sex, not fucking, but making love, so caught up in being with him that her protective mechanisms had shut down and she had just let go.

She did so now, flying from unprepared to orgasm so fast she felt she would have spun apart if he hadn’t been holding her locked tightly to him. When her brain cleared and her body relaxed in utter contentment she returned the favor, holding him steady with arms and legs as he stiffened and shuddered and lost himself in pleasure.

They dozed, and when Andie woke it was to the uncomfortable reminder that they weren’t using condoms. Most men would simply be happy they weren’t having to suit up, but Simon wasn’t most men, and she wondered if he was hoping they might have children. Her heart constricted, because some pains never lessened, never went away.

“I can’t have children,” she said into the silence, and put her arm over her face so she wouldn’t have to see his if disappointment shadowed it.

“Neither can I,” he replied calmly.

Stunned, she lay frozen for a few seconds, wondering if she’d heard him correctly. When she could move, she peeked out from under her arm to find him lying there watching her with something like relief in his eyes. “What?”

“I had a vasectomy years ago. I didn’t think my genes were something that needed to be passed along.”

He was probably right, she thought, and burst into tears. Damn the man, he could make her cry when nothing else in the world could. But wasn’t that something he’d do, calmly analyze the situation and then take steps to protect the world from his progeny, which might carry the peculiar combination that made him so lethal, but without his coolness of thought, his restraint?

“I-I had to have a hysterectomy when I was fifteen,” she said, hiccuping and crying and talking all at once. She got up and went into the bathroom, got a tissue to blow her nose. While she was there, she took care of another area that needed attention, then wet another washcloth and took it to him.

“My own genes aren’t anything to brag about,” she said, still sniffling a little. “It took a miracle to get my attention, and you can’t count on miracles all that often.”

“One to a lifetime, probably.” He gave her a wry, crooked smile. “And I’ve already had mine…with you.”

She lay down beside him again, cradling her head on his shoulder and placing her hand on his chest. Feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart made her feel better, more secure. She would always feel better when he was near, their bond making her stronger; she hoped she had even half that effect on him, because it wouldn’t be fair if she got all the benefits and he gave and gave with nothing coming back to him.

“I don’t expect much,” he murmured, staring at the ceiling while he stroked her hair. “At the end. If remorse is a requirement for redemption, then I’m not there. I don’t imagine I ever will be. All I can offer is…revenge, maybe, and retribution. I can offer restraint-unless you’re threatened, and then all bets are off. But I don’t feel remorse. Some people need killing, and I did the job. So…this life with you is probably all I’ll have, but it’s enough, sweetheart. It’s enough.”

The damn tears started again, and Andie smiled at him through the blur as she leaned forward to kiss him. His heart beat strongly beneath her fingers and she flattened her palm over that vital, rhythmic surge. “Don’t count yourself out,” she advised. “I have inside information, and in the end, I think, you’ll be fine.”

It would be a long road for both of them, she thought, suddenly seeing a span of years stretching out in front of them. She got only a sense of time passing, no specific incidents, but years and years and years. They had time, and they had each other.

LINDA HOWARD is the award-winning author of many New York Times bestsellers, including Up Close and Dangerous, Drop Dead Gorgeous, Cover of Night, Killing Time, To Die For, Kiss Me While I Sleep, Cry No More, Dying to Please, Open Season, Mr. Perfect, All the Queen’s Men, Now You See Her, Kill and Tell, and Son of the Morning. She lives in Alabama with her husband and two golden retrievers.