Allison Brennan - The Prey

She came as soon as his tongue plunged into her. Her body rocked against him, her hands holding his head, his tongue circling her nub, prolonging her intense pleasure. She’d just begun to come down off the fabulous orgasm when he pulled up and put his hands on either side of her head.

“Oh, John,” she said, her voice breathy and not at all sounding like her.

His eyes were dark and heavy-lidded. His face was twisted with restraint. Then, in one swift motion, he plunged deep into her and she cried out. Not from pain, but the exquisite pleasure of taking John completely within her. He stopped, his face clearly showing he was trying to stay in control.

Here, with John, she could be out of control. Out of control in a good way, a way to purge and please, hope and yearn. She reached down and squeezed his firm ass, pushing him even deeper. His face strained and she felt his penis jump inside her, bringing her pleasure again. She felt another spiral begin within her, and he wasn’t even moving.

Then he withdrew and plunged again.

Holding back was driving him crazy, but John wanted to prolong the connection he’d made with Rowan. No rushing; he wanted to slowly make love to her, show her his feelings, feelings he struggled to voice, though every time he tried she stopped him.

She couldn’t stop this.

He pulled out and plunged again, relishing her tight core that accommodated him perfectly. He felt thicker than he had in a long time, harder than he’d ever remembered being. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold back and keep this union.

But her hands squeezed and touched, pushing him closer, caressing the sensitive skin behind his penis, touching him. He moaned and pushed deeper, felt her writhe beneath him.

He couldn’t hold back, didn’t want to hold back. He wanted to claim her, bring her to orgasm, share her heat with his own. He pumped into her hard and fast and she panted beneath him, letting herself go, losing control.

With each thrust he ground into her clit and she gasped and pushed into him. She arched up and clutched him with her muscles and came around him. With a final thrust he poured himself into her. He loved the way her body met his, loved the way she kept up with him.

Loved her.

He moaned and collapsed onto her, sweating and completely satiated. He kissed her neck, her shoulders, her ears. Her lips. She held on to him tightly, as if trying to get closer, and he relished their connection. Even though she wouldn’t say it, wouldn’t let him talk about it, they had bonded so deeply even death couldn’t separate them.

Where had that thought come from? He shivered.

Rowan felt John tense after the most incredible sex she’d ever had. Incredible because she felt something other than the physical act between them, which was glorious. There was something more, something deeper, as if they’d committed to something without speaking.

Then he’d tensed.

“Is something wrong?” Her voice was low, barely a whisper.

He rolled over, pulling her on top of him, and kissed her lightly on the lips. “No,” he said and kissed her again. “We fit well together.”

She smiled slightly. “Yes, I suppose we do.”

“I’ve never found anyone I, um, fit so well with.” John looked at Rowan with questioning eyes and she sucked in her breath. She couldn’t miss the double meaning.

“Nor have I,” she said quietly, turning her eyes from his.

He forced her to look at him. “Rowan, after-after everything is over, I want to-”

“John, please, let’s not-”

He cut her off with a kiss. “Rowan, this isn’t going to end. We are not going to end. I don’t know exactly what’s happened, but you are a part of me in a way I can’t explain, and I’m not going to let you walk away.”

The pain she felt in her heart told her she loved him. She knew because the thought of him dying was the foremost thing on her mind.

Everyone she loved died.

“John, let’s talk about this later. After-everything is over.”

He stared at her for a long time and she couldn’t read his expression. Was he angry? Upset? She didn’t want to hurt him, but it would hurt more if she lost him. Yes, she was being selfish. But the great strides she’d made at putting the past behind her would be shattered if she cared too much and the worst happened. No plans for the future, nothing to wrap her heart around, not now. Maybe not ever.

In the back of her mind, a whispered thought murmured It’s too late. You care. You love him . But she didn’t-couldn’t-acknowledge it.

“I understand,” he said, then kissed her.

She believed he did.

The whore should be dead, but she’d beaten him.

The fucking slut fought like a cat, and Bobby sported two black eyes to prove it. They hurt like hell, and his vision was blurred in his left eye. If he had time-if he hadn’t been identified-he would go back and finish the job. He’d beat her to a pulp before slicing her throat and watching her bleed like a stuck pig.

But he couldn’t go back to Dallas. He was holed up in some fucking motel in the Arizona desert waiting for dark so he could steal some bitch’s car and get back to Los Angeles.

Lily was there. She was waiting for him.

And this time, the little cunt wouldn’t survive.

Bobby trained his binoculars on the beach to watch Rowan run with Agent Peterson.

It didn’t take long for him to realize they thought he was stupid. The blonde was a fake.

Fools, all of them. They thought they could trick him. Find a Lily lookalike, make him think she was just living her life the same as always. But she’d run, hidden from him, just like when she was a punk kid who irritated him with her narrow-eyed glances and perpetual frown. As if she could scare him .

Right.

The woman who looked like Lily didn’t run like the bitch. When Lily ran, her arms were bent at perfect ninety-degree angles. Her strides were long, straight, and steady. No hesitation. And she watched directly in front of her.

Even though the fake blonde ran differently, it wasn’t until he saw her pause at the end of the beach before turning back toward the house that he realized the woman wasn’t his sister.

Lily never stopped. When she reached the end, she turned immediately and ran back, barely slowing her stride.

So he watched closely as she came back up the beach, stared at her face as she walked up the stairs.

She looked like Lily. Same hair. Same height. Same basic facial structure. But she wasn’t his stupid sister.

It was in the eyes.

He grabbed his rifle and snapped on the scope. He almost took her out right there, but it would blow his hiding place. While he’d kill the decoy, he’d lose the chance to find Lily.

Lily was too important. She would be begging him to kill her by the time he was through.

He put down the rifle and winced as his fingers brushed against his bruised eye. It had been three days since the stupid whore hurt him, but his left eye still hurt something awful. As soon as he’d served retribution on Lily he’d go back and take care of the whore in Dallas. Wake her up in the middle of the night so she knew he was going to kill her, then slash her throat and watch her bleed to death.

Then he’d take care of his father.

He should have eradicated him all those years ago, cut him up like his mother. And he’d missed the opportunity six months ago when he saw the weak bastard comatose and hollow. Security had been tight, and he didn’t want to draw attention to himself.

But he would go back. He’d get rid of the last remnant of his past. Then he would finally be free.

First things first. Lily Pad would die.