Deep Breath (20 page)

3:00
A.M.

When Harry finally made it into the trailer, it was to find Georgia huddled cross-legged in the middle of the bed. He’d expected to find her asleep, curled up in the oversized twin bed.

Instead, she sat with the red, green, and yellow checkerboard comforter pulled to her chin while staring at the kitchen nook’s tabletop TV. The sound was off. The picture was nothing but snow.

“Georgia?” he asked softly, not sure if she was dozing or awake.

He’d been known to nap with his eyes open. He also knew it wasn’t something everyone could do, though it was a shared skill among the men with whom he had the pleasure to work.

She wasn’t asleep. She turned her head slowly and, exhausted, watched him approach. Her eyes were bloodshot, her lids droopy, the half-moon bags beneath her lower lashes the color of a bruise.

“Hey,” she said, and she managed a weak smile.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” He crossed to where she sat, scrubbed both hands over his face and turned to sit beside her with his own exhausted sigh. “You’re going on twenty-four hours without. And you didn’t get much the night before.”

“And whose fault is that?” she asked, her bleary gaze cutting up to meet his, a weak attempt at flirtation.

Nope. He wasn’t having any of it. Not of the blame, or of his body’s response to the plea in her eyes. His heart, however, was having the fight of its life. “I’d have to say yours since you followed me to the shower.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Her smile was dreamy, and only then did he begin to understand how much trouble he was in.

He wanted to ask if it had been worth it, a question that was nothing but an ego-stroking waste of time. They had more important things here to deal with than whether or not he was good in bed.

Things that reached beyond the way he wanted to cradle her tenderly and keep the ugliness away. He took the first step. “Simon showed me the preliminary report that came in on the dossier.”

He didn’t explain. Neither did he ask if she wanted him to tell her what he had learned. He just waited. He wanted her to be the one to put the discussion into play. He didn’t want to blurt out the news and cause her more distress.

But she didn’t ask anything about it at all. She shook her head, thinking. “Do you think if Simon hears Finn again, I can listen? I know three days isn’t a very long time. It’s just that we talk constantly. I miss him. And I’m worried.”

Harry felt as if he’d swallowed a big rubber ball. He scooted back, rested against the faux brick wall, wrapped his arm around her shoulders and brought her with him. “The diner’s quiet now, but yeah. I don’t see why not.”

“Thanks,” she said, snuggling close. “It would mean a lot.”

It would mean a lot to him if she would get some goddamned rest. “Thing is, sun’s up in less than three hours, and you’ll be seeing your brother not long after that.”

“God, I hope so.”

“Consider it guaranteed.”

“Promises, promises,” she teased, but there was a joyful hope in her voice.

He teased right back. “Have I broken one yet?”

She pulled her knees to her chest, rubbed the comforter against her cheek. “If I had a working brain cell, I might could come up with one.”

“If you would get some sleep, you might have a better shot at a working brain cell.”

“You haven’t slept either. And you’re not poured out like soup on the ground.”

Soup? Where did she come up with this stuff? “Part of the training. Besides, your exhaustion’s not the result of keeping a long and boring twelve-hour watch. It has a large emotional component.”

“One named Finneas Scott.”

He reached for the remote, clicked off the television. “That’s only a part of it, Georgia. What you’re feeling is bigger than Finn.”

She waved off his concern with one hand. “I’m not going to turn all weepy and clingy just because we had sex.”

He’d never expected her to. But that wasn’t what he was talking about. And she knew it. She was just avoiding the subject like a seasoned pro. “I’m talking about your father. Not about your brother. Not about us.”

She was silent for several moments, then curled her whole body into his, her knees resting against his thigh, her cheek on his bicep where his arm was still draped over her back.

She pulled the comforter around to cover his lap, too. And her fingers, which clutched it at her chest, began to wander and play with his.

He didn’t stop her. If this was what she needed, how could he deny her? It wasn’t like it was costing him anything. At least nothing he had the least idea of how to measure.

A cup of heart, a spoon of soul, was that about right?

Georgia flexed her fingers against the muscles of his chest, and all he wanted to do was take off his shirt, feel her against his skin. But he didn’t even move since he could tell by the shift in her breathing she was finally ready to talk.

“You’ve got to know that my father’s been on my mind since I read the general’s letter,” she said, her voice soft but steady.

He took that as a good sign. “I was pretty sure that he had been.”

She scoffed. “That’s not even half of what’s true. There’s not a day that goes by that he’s out of my mind. But right now?” She shuddered, snuggled closer. “I don’t have the strength or the energy to process anything. So if you tell me what you found out? It’ll be all over for me. If I don’t focus on my brother, I’m afraid I’ll go ’round the bend.”

He kissed her forehead. She smiled, looked up with imploring eyes. “You’re welcome to join me, of course, though I doubt anything leaves you flustered. You’ve got that perpetual James Bond cool about you.”

“I’ve got that duck’s back thing going on. Most of the time stuff rolls right off.”

“So tell me something that hasn’t.”

“If I tell you anything, I’d rather it be a bedtime story than some tale of horror to keep you awake.”

She waited for several seconds, her fingertips circling his nipple, the burn at the base of his spine getting way damn close to making itself known in his lap. But he kept it at bay, wondering what she was thinking, waiting to hear.

“Is that how you view the work that you do? As a horror story?”

Well, if he told her everything he’d seen, everything he’d done…“Not the Stephen King brand, but yeah. The job does have its gory moments.”

“Can you talk about it?”

Did he want to talk about it was the better question. “The specifics? No. The fact that I went undercover for months with a group running a child prostitution ring? That much I can gloss over.”

“You glossed well. I don’t need to hear more.”

“Good,” he said, with a harsh laugh. “Because I don’t want to talk more.”

Her fingers had stilled, but now they started to move, rubbing, stroking, soothing. He growled and sat forward, whipping off his shirt. “There. That’s better. If you’re going to torture me, at least do a full-fledged job.”

“As opposed to half-assed?” she asked with a laugh.

He doubted there was anything about her approach to life that qualified as half-assed. “I’m definitely more the all or nothing type.”

“And I’m definitely appreciative for the way you throw yourself into your work.” She tugged at the hair in the center of his chest. “At least most of it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, certain he could figure it out on his own if it was only his mind involved in the moment. But his body was proving rapidly that it was in charge.

“You took my dossier.”

“I recovered a stolen government file.” He grabbed hold of her hand before she could move. “And don’t give me that semantics crap because I’m not talking about your theft.”

“You’re talking about General Duggin’s.”

He was, but since she didn’t want to talk about her father, he doubted she wanted to have this conversation either. “Yeah. I am.”

“A pretty drastic, not to mention criminal, example of covering one’s ass.” She tossed back the comforter and stretched out her legs, reaching down to unlace her boots.

“From the sound of his letter, I’d say it wasn’t just his own he was covering.”

Her first boot hit the floor. She went to work on the second. “Yeah. Try everyone’s in this little consortium of his except for my father’s. Ugh, my feet are killing me.”

Before she’d finished tugging off boot number two, he offered her a third. “Take mine off while you’re down there, and I’ll rub your feet.”

She gave him an eye-rolling glare, but started in on his laces. “I can’t believe you just ruined a pair of designer suit pants.”

“Expense account, sweetheart. Expense account.”

“Did you keep the receipts for my outfits? Since I suppose you’ll be writing off those, too.”

He wiggled his freed toes, calling himself all kinds of stupid for not switching out his dress socks for a pair better suited for their hike. “Got ’em tucked safely away.”

“I’m about ready to apply for your job,” she said, lying down and propping her feet in his lap.

He ditched her socks to get to her skin, and started in on her toes. “It’s not all time off and shopping. I do work.”

“And you do good work,” she said, eyes closed, moaning. “Do some more.”

He moved to her other foot, hoping the massage would put her to sleep. That it wouldn’t have a similar effect on her that it was having on him. Because being in bed was on his mind, but sleep wasn’t.

He moved up to her ankles beneath the hem of her jeans, pressing his thumbs behind the bones, squeezing there, doing the same with her heels, closing his eyes and trying to pretend he wasn’t about to burst his own seam.

“That feels so good,” she said, and moaned. “You have no idea.”

No, but he could imagine. “Good. Relax.”

“Want me to do you?”

And because he had seriously reached the end of his rope, a rope ragged from his clawing efforts to hang on, he gave her the only response that came to mind. “Yeah. But it’s not my feet I want you to do.”

He thought his heart and his head and his swollen body parts would explode before she answered. When she did, it was to toss off the comforter and get to her feet.

She stood in front of him, her eyes still wickedly weary, her smile just plain wicked, and took off her pink camo T-shirt. Her jeans followed. She shoved them to her ankles and kicked them away.

That left her wearing only her bra and her panties, both simple athletic gray. They couldn’t have done more for his imagination had they been see-through lace. It was the woman he was interested in, her body, yes, but even more so her mind.

She climbed back onto the bed but this time it was more a case of climbing onto him. She straddled his lap, planted her palms on his pectorals, her mouth on his mouth.

He kissed her with his tongue, slid his hands from her knees up her thighs to her hips, wanting to take off her panties, waiting instead.

Her fingers took a long, slow, meandering trip south, toying with his nipples and his navel, playing with his hair, finally getting busy with his belt buckle and the goods. He slouched onto his spine to help her, pulling away from all the things her mouth was doing to his.

Once she had his zipper down, she reached into his shorts and leaned in, sprinkling tiny kisses over his collarbone while rubbing her thumb in circles over the head of his cock.

She used his first ooze of clear fluid for lube, smearing around and around, and going back for more. He thrust into her hand. She ringed her fingers around his shaft and stroked.

“Is that what you want?” she asked, whispering the question against the corner of his mouth, her tongue wetting, her teeth catching and nibbling.

He wanted more than her hand. He wanted to slide into her mouth, between her breasts. He wanted her on her hands and knees. He wanted her pussy on his face.

“I want you naked.” He ground out the words, loosened his grip on her hips, and pulled aside her panties, cupping her, thumbing her, pushing inside.

She was wet and open. She was warm. She gripped his fingers, squeezed, panted against his mouth. “I love to hear you talk dirty.”

“I love it when you come in my mouth.”

“I love it when you come in mine.”

“So get naked. Let’s do it. I’m about to pop.”

“I know the feeling.” Her mouth open at the corner of his, her breath hot on his skin, she squeezed him, stroked him.

He fingered her right back, pulled free and spread her moisture over her ass. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but would you please get the hell outta my lap.”

She scrambled away and was out of her underwear before he’d even managed to get to his feet. And then, as if watching him strip was the greatest pleasure ever known, she stretched out on the bed while he did.

Seeing her like that, naked, waiting…he didn’t know whether to take it fast or go slow.

His head and his heart were telling him to enjoy, to cherish her, to indulge. His snake, when he finally got it out of his trousers, was ready for action. And since action was a rabbit’s middle name, his decision was made.

He kicked his pants across the floor. Georgia sat up, scooted to the foot of the bed, waited for him to join her, and pushed him down on his back.

Since he took up most of the mattress, he let her do all the work. All he did was watch the sway of her breasts as she moved, crawling around on her hands and knees to straddle him in reverse.

He hadn’t even begun to look his fill when her mouth came down on his cock. He slid his hands up the backs of her thighs and held on, squeezing, closing his eyes to get a grip.

It wasn’t happening. She’d cupped his balls in one palm and ringed the base of his cock with a finger and thumb. Her other thumb slicked and circled and teased the head, the seam, the ridge. And her tongue followed, even dipping into his slit when he opened and leaked.

All he wanted to do was lie back like a big fat hairy pig and let her suck him into oblivion. But he could smell her. He could feel her heat. She was so close, he had to taste.

He dug his thumbs into her cheeks and pulled her open, then lifted his head and licked her juice. She groaned. He felt the vibrations in her tongue where she’d cupped it over the head of his cock.