Midnight Man (23 page)

“The prize,” she breathed and pulled his cock away from his belly. She ran her fisted hand down it, then back up. Slowly. Again. And again.

He was dying.

Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. “All sorts of colors,” she murmured. “A rainbow of them. Tea, fudge, cognac.” She cupped his balls then ran her finger up his cock to the tip. He was wet, a second from coming.

Slowly, as if she had all the time in the world, Suzanne circled the tip, around and around. “And here…” her voice was a seductive whisper as she looked up at him, eyes flashing pure silver, “plum.”

She bent, took him in her mouth and sucked.

John exploded out of his chair, pulling her up and carrying her, with every intention of going to the bedroom. He didn’t make it.

He only got as far as the kitchen wall, where he shoved his sweatpants down, pulled her nightgown up and plunged into her. She was wet and soft, as if she’d come. Maybe she had, while she’d been sucking his cock. It didn’t make any difference because he had no self-control at all. He didn’t even try to moderate his strokes, just pounded into her. It was so hard and fast and furious it couldn’t last long. She moaned, and then cried. When her cunt began gripping him in long liquid pulls, he slammed into her one last time and held himself deep inside her, grinding into her as he came.

They stood there, their breathing loud in the room. John hitched her legs higher around his waist, waiting for some strength to return to his legs and some blood to return to his head.

Her hair shifted on his shoulder as she turned her head into his neck, biting him lightly and sighing.

She kissed his shoulder and whispered, “You know, John, maybe you should see someone about this wall fetish you have.”

Chapter Twelve

“John, I want a tree.”

It was dusk and John was putting the shopping away, his kitchen organization appalling. He kept flour next to washing detergent and sugar next to Ajax, but Suzanne held her tongue.

They’d taken a run down to Fork in the Road, which had proved just as cosmopolitan as its name would suggest. A gas station with annexed diner, four houses, a post office and—oddly enough—a well-equipped little supermarket, probably the only one in a hundred square miles. She’d found everything she needed, and now she had to send John out. There were things she wanted to do and he’d just be in the way. Besides, she wanted to surprise him a little.

The trip to Fork in the Road had been quite an experience.

He’d morphed immediately into Midnight Man the instant they’d set foot outside the shack. The man who’d groaned and shook as he made love to her disappeared, as if he had never existed. The man who took his place was as cold and controlled as a cyborg. Each movement measured, economical, physical grace in action. He had a knack of being aware of everything that was going on. “Situation awareness” she’d once heard it called and it applied to fighter pilots. To SEALs, too, it appeared.

He’d been silent on the drive down, concentrated on the driving, constantly checking the rear view mirrors. In the small town, he’d gone into an elaborate ballet every time they moved. It had taken her an hour to realize that he was making sure she was never exposed to gunfire. That, in any attempt on her life, the bullet would go through him first.

It had brought tears to her eyes, which she’d instantly tried to hide. But the Midnight Man was nothing if not observant, damn him. He’d immediately asked what was wrong and she’d had to make some nonsense up about catching a cold. After which, notwithstanding her protestations, she’d had to walk around all afternoon with his heavy sheepskin jacket around her shoulders, covering her hands and falling to her knees.

She’d taken her time at the store, filling five shopping bags full of the things she wanted. He’d looked curiously at the bags, then reached for his wallet.

“Oh no,” Suzanne had protested. This was stuff she wanted to buy, after all. “Let me—“

He’d shot her a look so appalled at the idea that she should pay, she’d burst out with laughter in the supermarket, a bored checkout clerk looking on.

So they’d done their shopping, had a late afternoon sandwich and coffee at the diner—with John sitting with his back to the wall, coldly observing everyone who came into the place—and driven back without incident as light drained from the sky.

Now her bags were waiting in the small kitchen and she needed him to go out for a while. She also needed a tree.

John stopped his movements and looked at her. “You want a what?”

“Tree, John. It’s Christmas Eve. We need a tree.”

He looked so dumbfounded; it was as if he’d never heard the words Christmas and tree together.

She sighed. “Look, it’s Christmas Eve. We’re tired and stressed and need a little lightness and joy in our lives. I’ve never spent a Christmas Eve in my life without a tree, and I have no intention of starting now. Whatever is going on, I’ve been deprived of my home and my job, and so have you. But I won’t be deprived of Christmas. Or a Christmas tree. I really need one. Don’t you celebrate Christmas?”

He just stared at her as if he couldn’t understand the words. And maybe he couldn’t. Sad as it sounded, maybe there hadn’t been that many Christmas trees in his life.

It was a remarkable insight into his character. He seemed so strong and self-sufficient, so beyond the ordinary human being’s fears and desires. So tough, so controlled. Suzanne suspected there hadn’t been much softness in his life. “Where were you last Christmas?” she asked, gently.

He shrugged indifferently. “OUTCONUS. That’s Outside the Continental US. In Afghanistan, actually. It’s a remarkably treeless country. Christmas is just another day in the military.”

Something tugged at her heart, hard. John was a man who hadn’t allowed himself much in life. He’d had a hard life of duty and sacrifice. He needed a Christmas celebration perhaps more than she did.

“Well, this place certainly isn’t treeless,” Suzanne said, with a nod outside the cabin window, where stands of trees stood thick and green in the waning light. “So I’d like you to please dig one up for me—not chop it down. Dig around the roots and put them in a burlap bag if you have one.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” he growled.

She laid a hand on his powerful forearm. It was like touching pure coiled energy. The feel of him beneath her hand excited her so much she almost forgot what she was saying. She looked up into his eyes. “I’ll stay right here,” she said. “And you could get me one of those trees growing right near to the house. You can keep an eye on the cabin all the time.”

She could not only see him struggle with the idea of leaving her alone, she could feel it in his muscles. His forearm felt like tensed steel under her hand. Maybe it was the intense sex, maybe it was the intense situation, which had thrown them together under pressure, but she felt she knew him so well she could almost read his mind. He didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to leave her alone for a minute—it suddenly occurred to her that he hadn’t left her, not even for a second, since the night of the intruder—but also realized it was a perfectly reasonable request.

His jaw, bristly now at the end of the day, worked as he struggled with the desire to please her, which required leaving her alone and defenseless. Two mutually incompatible concepts.

She shouldn’t be putting him through this strain, but she needed the relief of a Christmas celebration and perhaps so did he.

“Please,” she whispered.

She needed so desperately to create a little oasis of peace and pleasure, to feel something other than hunted prey. Even if only for a few hours. It was Christmas, her favorite time of year. She’d celebrated Christmas all her life. It was a big event in the Barron family. If she couldn’t celebrate Christmas, her unknown and unseen enemy had already won. He’d stripped her of her humanity and turned her into a cowering animal. She gently squeezed his arm.

“Please,” she said again, watching him. There was nothing else to say. She didn’t wheedle or try to explain why it was so important to her. Either he understood or didn’t. She knew instinctively that John couldn’t be forced to do something he didn’t want to. Giving in to her entirely reasonable request was something he had to want to do all on his own.

His muscles bunched and quivered. His jaw clenched hard. She could feel his reluctance in his muscles, see it on his face. She smiled up at him, and then stretched to kiss the corner of his mouth. It was like kissing a wooden statue. She kissed him again. “Come on. You know you don’t have to be out of sight of the cabin. I’ll be perfectly safe. You told me I was safe here, right?”

“Yeah.” It was as if the word had been wrenched out of his chest with huge red-hot pincers.

“Well, then. You see? What can happen?”

His mouth opened to argue and she decided to whip out the big guns. Pulling his head down, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him. Open-mouthed, her tongue deep in his mouth, full body frontal. He wasn’t wooden any more, he was male heat and sinew, darkness and power and desire. She ate at his mouth, moving hotly against him as he swelled erect.

He was so amazingly large. She rubbed her belly against him, feeling him lengthen even further and was surprised that she’d been able to take him. The memory of his heavy penis inside her, thrusting hard, melted her bones. A hot liquid pull of her vaginal muscles made her shudder.

She was tempted. Very tempted. But there were things to do.

She pulled her mouth away, a fraction of an inch. Just enough so she could form the word, but close enough for him to feel her breath. “Tree.”

He looked down at her, face strained. His lips were suffused with blood and wet from her mouth. One big hand on her backside pulled her toward him as he ground against her. She fluttered inside, and looked helplessly up at him. “John.” There wasn’t any air in her lungs. The word came out more as a stirring of the air than a sound.

He arched his head away from her, neck tendons corded, jaws clenching. He looked at the ceiling for a long moment, and brought his head back down as he stepped back reluctantly, frowning. “You’re going to use sex to get everything you want from me, aren’t you?”

She didn’t even have to think about it. “Yes.”

“It works, damn it,” he grumbled. He reached for his sheepskin jacket and stopped, pointing a finger at her. “I don’t want you going anywhere,” he growled.

“Of course not.” She smiled innocently. “Where would I go, anyway? Look, I’m staying right here, you will be in sight of the cabin at all times, nothing will happen except that we get ourselves a Christmas tree and feel better.”

He stared at her, as if she were going to pull a rabbit out of a hat. Or run away into the forest. He gave a sudden nod, pulled on thick leather gloves and walked out the door.

She needed this, but she knew what it cost him. He had an overly protective nature. This went completely against the grain of every instinct he had. It was a promising sign that he’d gone out to look for a tree for her. It showed that there was room for compromise in his hard nature.

Suzanne sprang into action. She didn’t have much time. It would take her hours to dig up a tree with the roots, place it in a bag and haul it into the cabin. But John was stronger than most and was frighteningly efficient. So she had to hurry.

In half an hour, a turkey leg was basting in the oven together with baked potatoes. Frozen biscuits were waiting to be put in, corn on the cob was boiling on the stove and an apple pie was waiting to be baked. It was frozen, but a good brand. Vanilla ice cream was in the small freezer.

A bowl of unbuttered popcorn awaited threading. Apples studded with cloves were in a bowl, adding their spice to the air.

The Fork in the Road supermarket had even had a surprisingly decent selection of wines. One bottle was boiling gently on the stove, steeped in sugar, cloves and cinnamon. She breathed in the heady air of vin brulè and smiled. The other bottle was airing.

It wasn’t Comme Chez Soi, but it would do. Now the shack.

This place was so bleak, so spare. So unloving and unloved, it hurt her heart.

Opening the bags, she spread out the supplies. Three cheap single-bed red sheets billowed out. She tied them with decorative knots over the sorry, dull brown sofa and two armchairs, placed red and white striped pillows on them and arranged them together in the middle of the room, creating a pleasing little grouping. John had simply shoved them against the walls. An upended wooden crate she’d found outside the kitchen door covered with two pretty oversized linen tea towels made a makeshift coffee table.