Midnight Man by Lisa Marie Rice
His heart pounded and his hand worked as he remembered every inch of her, the taste of her nipples, her tongue against his, the soft ash-brown pubic hair covering her mound. He’d done her so hard that if she shaved there as some women did, his trousers would have abraded the skin.
His fist was working hard and fast now, pumping, as he remembered her tightness, how her breath had exploded in a little puff with each thrust, how somehow halfway through she’d managed to open her legs even wider for him, how he’d clutched her perfect ass, trying to pull her closer to him, even as he was pounding into her so hard it was a miracle the wall held.
She’d screamed, her voice muffled by his coat, as she came. As John remembered in exquisite detail how he’d fucked her through her climax before exploding himself, he could feel the prickles in the backs of his legs, rising up through his spine. His cock swelled and he leaned one-handedly against the wall, weak-kneed and breathless, as he came in one long endless spurt.
He stayed under the shower for a long time, leaning against his hand, head bowed under the now-cold water thinking—I’m in deep shit.
He was in trouble—real bad trouble—if jerking off to the thought of Suzanne Barron was ten times more exciting than actually having sex with any other woman.
* * * * *
“Okay, Bud, talk to me.” John leaned back in the rolling leather chair holding an untraceable cell phone to his ear.
When he’d felt his legs would hold him up—and that had taken more time than he was comfortable thinking about—he’d pulled on a black tee shirt and faded gray sweatpants and padded barefoot into the living room. Nudging aside the cheap supermarket rug, he’d reached down and put his thumb to a scanner. A blue steel panel opened up seamlessly, while a stainless steel ladder stretched down to the floor of the cellar.
As always, John felt a glow of satisfaction entering his little high-tech lair. Upstairs he sort of realized that the shack was bleak though he had no frigging clue what to do about it, but downstairs in the cellar—well, there everything was top of the line, as perfect as it could be. He’d had access to the best in the world in the Teams and damned if he was going to settle for less in civilian life.
Downstairs was his little playground, row after row of gleaming electronics, monitors, keyboards, gizmos and widgets up the ying-yang. You name it, he had it.
He’d waited until Suzanne had fallen asleep before heading down here to his spy kingdom. She was spooked enough as it was, without seeing that he had what looked like Houston Mission Control down here.
He was perfectly aware that most civilians were absolutely clueless about the dangers of the world, the big scary things out there. He’d trained for vigilance his entire life and it was now as much a part of him as breathing.
But if you weren’t a soldier, if your life didn’t depend on fanatic attention to detail and an underlying awareness that enemies were out there and could strike at any time, if nothing bad had ever happened to you, why then he came off as a totally paranoid freak. A number of women had been completely turned off by his constant awareness of danger, the precautions he took.
The way he wouldn’t let a woman walk on the side closest to the road. Not out of chivalry but because women stupidly carried purses dangling right there off their shoulders, hanging by a thin leather strap. Big brightly colored purses screaming, “Hey! I’ve got money and credit cards right here!”
Why the hell did they do that? He could never figure it out. It was such a dumbass thing to do, like walking around with a bull’s eye on your back. Any passing scumbag on a bike or motorcycle with a flick knife could slash and grab and that was why he walked on the outside. They’d think twice about slashing and grabbing him.
He never even paid lip service to the ridiculous notion that a woman could defend herself against a mugger. He didn’t care how many self-defense courses she took and no matter what her shrink said. If she was his date for the night—even if they would never see each other again after the sex—then she was under his protection and he acted accordingly. It made a lot of women angry that he couldn’t pretend the world wasn’t full of predators and that nature had made women prey. So he was used to making most of his precautions as invisible as possible.
He’d been called a dinosaur often enough, not that he cared, except that it was inaccurate. Dinosaurs didn’t know how to keep up with the times and he did. He knew exactly what to do and how to do it and he’d stayed alive so far under the most dangerous conditions life had been able to throw at him because of it.
Like now.
No one but Bud and the police could know Suzanne was with him. No one had followed them. Even if someone was looking for him, it would take a long time to connect this shack with him, and that included Bud and the police and all the resources they could muster.
John was good at what he did, good at arranging security. He knew the security here was about as tight as that of a nuclear power plant. Maybe tighter. They were safe as safe can be. But a good soldier always double-checks and he was still alive because he never ever took anything for granted. Ever.
So he sat down and checked his equipment.
He had the sweetest new toy and he loved it. A series of sensors with a special microchip programmed with an algorithm to detect heartbeats. And not just any heartbeat, oh no. That was the beauty of the little gizmo invented by Crazy Mac Rowan, the Team computer geek. The chip could distinguish human heartbeats from the heartbeat of 10 mammalian species by the frequency, so the alarm wasn’t tripped by a deer or a bear. The system had been bought for a cool ten million dollars by the INS for use by the Border Patrol but Crazy Mac had given him the prototype. John ran his special program and found exactly what he was hoping to find.
Nada. Zip.
Next step, the motion sensors. Then the bank of monitors connected to weatherproofed cameras all around the perimeter of his land. Then the sensors along the dirt road leading up to the shack. Nothing, nothing and nothing.
No one here, no one coming. Great.
Okay. Now he could call Bud.
Bud sounded tired. “We’re in trouble, John,” he said. “Big time. Both guys’ prints came up immediately on NCIS. First shooter’s a street punk, been in and out of the cooler all his life starting from juvie when he was fourteen. Assault, rape—“
John’s blood ran cold. Rape. Once a rapist always a rapist. Jesus Christ, the guy would have had Suzanne at his mercy. He would have raped her before killing her.
He was surprised his hands didn’t leave prints on the phone, he was clutching it so hard.
“Armed robbery, drugs…you name it. And he was a hophead to boot, had tracks on his arms, so give him some spare cash to shoot up with and he’d have taken out a school of kids for you. We’re talking walking loaded gun here, man. Pay, aim and fire. Though looks like he was the kind of weapon that can blow up in your face, flip on a dime. That’s the good news. The bad news is that the second shooter was a real pro. FBI’s been all over me this past hour, the Portland Special Agent in Charge is here with me right now. They had a red flag for anyone asking for his prints. They’ve been tracking him for ten years. He’s the prime suspect behind the assassination of Senator Lesley eight years ago. He’s wanted for a couple of other big-name take-outs, too.
“Someone seriously wants Suzanne dead, big guy, and this someone’s prepared to pay major bucks for it. I don’t know who it is, but whoever he is, he’s hired a pro, a real expensive one from what the Feebs are saying. We need to talk to Suzanne, Midnight. We need you to bring her in. Now.”
Bud was crazy. The police weren’t going anywhere near her. No one was.
“No way, Bud,” John said coldly. “You’ll see her if and when you figure out what’s going on and then convince me you’ve figured out a way to stop it. Not before. You’ll hear from me tomorrow and you’d better have some hard facts and a pretty good plan for dealing with this. And you post two men outside Suzanne’s house, front and back. No one gets i
“Hey wait, where the hell are you—“ Bud said as John pressed the ‘off’ button. He waited grimly to get himself under control, until his breathing slowed and the red mist of rage in front of his eyes cleared.
Someone seriously wanted Suzanne dead?
They’d have to go through him first.
He headed upstairs. From now on, Suzanne wasn’t going to be more than a hand-span’s length from him.
* * * * *
It was late afternoon when she woke up. The sky outside the large wood-framed window was the deep blue of the evening sky at high altitude. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen. The pine trees cast long blue-black shadows that told her the day was coming to an end. She’d slept the day away.
Something warm and hard gripped her hand and she slowly turned her head on the pillow, knowing what she’d see, her heart tripping a beat anyway as her eyes met John’s.
Her breathing slowed and she felt calm, certain. They’d been moving toward this from the instant they’d met.
It’s time, she thought.
He was sitting in the rocking chair by the head of the bed, holding her hand, watching her. Had he slept? There was no way to tell. He looked as he always looked—strong and indestructible.
He’d changed into a black tee shirt, which hugged his deep, powerful chest, stretched tightly over the huge biceps, and a pair of thin gray sweatpants grown soft with washing. She could clearly discern the massive thigh muscles.
He was hugely erect and that could be clearly seen, too. Her gaze was riveted on his groin. His penis came away from his stomach to lengthen, pulsing, and then flatten against his abdomen again.
Amazing, that she could do this to him, that she held such power. The ancient power of womanhood. The crying and the deep sleep and perhaps even the whiskey had done her good, had cleared her mind, filling it with a deep sense of certainty. She was now in another world, an ancient one, as old as man, where ties are forged in blood and iron. A world where the laws were lost in the mist of time, but no less strong for that.
They were bound by the most ancient law of all.
He had fought and killed for her. She was his.
Chapter Ten
It’s time, John thought.
He had watched over Suzanne while she slept, holding her hand.
To give her comfort, because the animal part of a human knows when it’s safe to let go and when it’s not. It was why soldiers always post guards at night, even when there is no imminent danger. So the other soldiers can sleep at ease.
Suzanne slept deeply, giving herself over completely to unconsciousness, because at some level she knew he was there to watch over her.
But he held her hand for his own sake, too. To comfort himself. To know completely and totally that she was safe. Bud’s news had shaken him to the core. The danger stalking her was real and he could lose her almost as soon as he’d found her. So he held her hand to reassure her and to reassure himself.
He wanted her more than ever.
He had to be real careful here, the desire was all tangled with a powerful drive to make her his. He couldn’t let his feelings spill over into violence. Guarding her sleep was reassuring but it wasn’t doing anything to slake his hunger.
His entire body was tense with lust; he was walking a thin line of control here. The powerful feelings coursing through him must have slipped his leash, edged over to her. Suzanne’s breathing changed and she stirred in the bed. He watched.
Waiting. Wanting.
Suzanne eased smoothly from deep sleep to consciousness, eyes fluttering open slowly. She looked out the window at the gathering night, and then turned her head on the pillow. When her eyes met his, light to dark, it was like a punch to the stomach. He exhaled sharply, the sound loud in the silent room.
They could have been the last human beings on the planet. Just the two of them, man and woman, the oldest tie there was. She was his and she was in his cave.
His.
He reached out with his free hand to trace her mouth, the outline, where the skin turned from pink to ivory. She didn't move in any way, large gray eyes watching him, but he could feel the stir of air against his finger as she breathed.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered. “I was too rough the other night. I don’t want to be rough.”
Her eyes searched his. She didn’t speak. He listened to the sound of her breathing in the quiet room. “You won’t be,” she murmured finally and his heart kicked its rate up.
It’s time.
She knew, too. She felt it too, this rightness, this inevitability.
Don’t let me mess this up. John sent up a silent prayer to whoever it was who watched over soldiers. Take it easy. Go slow.
His finger moved from her mouth to her cheekbone, tracing the fine line of it, skimming over the barely-visible scab where a shard of brick had grazed her cheek. By a miracle, the bullet had smashed into the wall, not into her.
So close. So damned close.
The skin of his hand was dark and rough against the pale smoothness of hers. He moved his hand gently over her cheekbone, letting his fingers roam. The outline of her face, a shapely oval, down over the delicate jawbone, up over her mouth again, then back down to the smooth expanse of her neck. His finger dwelled on her pulse point, feeling the slow steady beat of her heart and as his eyes rose to meet hers, he could feel the exact moment her pulse speeded up. Moving his hand down, his finger caught on the high-necked flannel nightgown and he waited, every muscle in his body clenched, his cock pulsing with anticipation.
They watched each other; John totally unsure of what he should do—what he could do—next.
Suzanne reached up with her hand and touched his, moving it aside. He wanted to howl with frustration. If she didn’t want this now, he’d… but no. That wasn’t it.
She’d moved his hand aside so she could unbutton the neckline herself, slowly. He watched, fascinated, as one by one she slipped the little pink and white buttons through the buttonholes, unbuttoning them all, stopping when the buttons stopped, below her breasts. She lay her hand on her stomach, watching him. Waiting.
His call.
He knew exactly what to do now. Trying not to be too eager, trying not to shake, trying hard not to—shit!—rip the cloth…
“Sorry,” he muttered.
She laughed. Yes, thank you, God. That soft sound was actually a laugh. She was laughing at his clumsiness and she was right to. He chanced a smile himself. Her lips turned up in a wide smile in return.
She shook her head. “You’re going to have to start buying me underwear and nightgowns if you keep this up.”
Oh, yeah. “Yes,” he said fervently. “Panties by the dozen, a gross of nightgowns. Yes.” He opened the nightgown and went still.
“Oh, John.” Her voice was a mere whisper and the smile was gone. She saw what was in his eyes as he spread the wings of the nightgown. She was laid out for him like a feast…
Pretty didn’t even begin to describe it. She wasn’t lushly built, like some women he’d had, who now seemed grossly overblown because this—this—was exactly what he wanted. This was what turned him on so badly he was trembling.
He just sat and stared, hoping some blood would eventually make a return journey from his cock to his brain. Opening the nightgown had been like opening an exquisite present to himself. Her smooth skin was so pale she probably never took the sun. She glowed like a pearl in the evening light, something so rare and delicate he was almost afraid to touch it.
Her breasts were round and firm, smaller than his cupped hand. He reached out and ran his finger—just the tip, so gently he was barely grazing her skin—over her right breast, following the line of a blue vein as visible as a river from a helicopter. He circled the aureole, excited as hell to see that she got goose-bumps and that the nipple turned deep rose and hard.
Take it easy, take it easy.
He just sat there for a long moment, getting his breathing under control,
“We’ve got to get this thing off you.” He removed his hand because otherwise he’d tear the thing off and he knew for a fact that Fork in the Road didn’t run to delicate pink nightgowns. “Can you do it?”
“Okay.” Watching him closely, Suzanne sat up, bunched the pink material in her hands and pulled. She wasn’t wearing panties. John watched, fascinated, as the gown uncovered long, lovely legs, round hips, a tiny waist, then was pulled up over her head, tossed to the side and then yes! There she was. Naked.
Just for him.
The other night he hadn’t had a chance to see all of her. He’d stripped her and entered her before her clothes had fluttered to the ground. He’d been way too far-gone to notice anything at all other than the tight, wet heat of her. But now, ah, God, now here she was. If he hadn’t been hard as steel, ready to explode, he’d have spent the next couple of hours just looking and touching that soft soft skin, noticing the sharp indentation under the rib cage where her waistline narrowed, then curved out again, marveling at how delicately she was built. How did all of her organs fit inside?