Shoot to Thrill (25 page)

His hand covered her breast and squeezed. She whimpered, unable to move. Unable to pull away. What was he doing? What was
she
doing letting him?

His other fingers moved up and tightened in her hair, grasping the strands and winding them around his palm so she was forced to look up at his face. His eyes were on fire, like blue opals, burning with a million colors and the heat of hell.

“Gregg—”

“
Shhh
. It’s okay. Let it happen.”

His thumb and fingers raked over her breast and found her nipple. He pinched it, and she cried out. Then he rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, hard, and she cried out again in a storm of pleasure-pain. The fire in his eyes jumped and burned hotter still.

Then his mouth covered hers and she forgot completely why this was such a terrible idea.

His tongue was supple, ruthless, demanding. He tasted of coffee and barely leashed desire, and she could no more stop him than she could a ravaging virus that had infected her, making her weak and pliable in his hands.

She didn’t
want
to stop him.

God, no.

She felt her boxers slide off her hips and hit the floor. He lifted her as though she weighed nothing, and kicked the boxers away, then slid her erotically back down the front of his body with a guttural moan.

“Undo my pants,” he ordered, seeking her mouth again. “I want to be inside you.”

Excitement zinged through her like an electric shock. She reached for his web belt, her fingers shaking so hard the buckle jingled crazily as she unfastened it. Finally she got it loose and went for the zipper, and found . . . buttons.

“Hurry,” he urged roughly.

She fumbled while he kissed her senseless. She popped one, then the next. He pushed her hand aside, impatient. Whipped open his fly. And he sprang free.

Huge. Thick.
Hungry.

He lifted her onto the edge of the table, caught her knees, and wrenched them apart.

Pinioning her with his gaze, he fisted his cock and fit it to her center. She was trembling, slick and hot with need.
God, she wanted him.
The tip breached her.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say what you want.”

“You know what I want,” she moaned, arching toward him. Wanting him so bad she couldn’t wait one second more.

“Say it.”

“Fuck me,” she pleaded. “Fuck me hard and fast.”

With a grunt, he grabbed her hair and held her immobile. Then rammed into her. Deep and sure, filling her like nothing ever had before.
So damn good.

She cried out. And he groaned.

Then he stopped dead. He stared at her with those fiery devil’s eyes. And kept staring, and staring. Until she realized why.

She was a doctor. A medical researcher who dealt with deadly diseases every day.

And she’d forgotten all about protection.

She sucked down a breath. “Oh, sweet God.”

He didn’t look particularly concerned. In fact, he looked . . . smug, his unsheathed member buried deep within her. She blinked. Had he done it on purpose?

He moved slowly, grinding deeper still. In total control.

She, on the other hand, was near panic.

“Please,” she whispered with a shiver. “Don’t do this.”

He chose that moment to smile. Just a slight curve of his sculpted lips. “Trust me,” he said, his voice gravelly low.

She begged with her eyes. “I can’t. I’m too vulnerable.”

The curve deepened. “Yes,” he agreed. “That’s what makes it so exciting.” He leaned in and kissed her, slow and deep, languid and thorough, until the panic subsided, until she was trembling and boneless and completely empty of her own will. Then he whispered again, “Trust me.”

She tried to shake her head as he slowly drew his cock out, almost all the way, then thrust back in to the hilt. Her body clenched in impossible pleasure. She moaned, electric with need, torn between sense and sensation.

A noise of satisfaction rumbled in his chest. “Lie back,” he ordered, pulling her hair so she had no choice but to follow his command and lower her bare back onto the cool wood of the table. “Grab the edge,” he told her, and she did that, raising her arms above her head to reach.

His large hands wrapped around her thighs and splayed her even wider. He ground into her, making her cry out at the sharp spurt of pleasure.

He seemed to know exactly what to do to light her body on fire. To empty her mind of everything but him, and what he was doing to her. He drew out, thrust in, drew himself out again. Thrust. Over and over until she was groaning and panting, shaking like an autumn leaf with want for him.

Then he pulled out all the way.

She gave a cry of protest. But he dropped to his knees and his mouth was on her. She moaned and thrashed, helpless, as his tongue and teeth played over her, circling, probing, teasing. Making her frantic, reaching, reaching . . .

Climax ripped through her, bowing her back and tearing a scream from her throat. She came harder than she ever had before, convulsing, shuddering, and gasping as he drew the incredible sensation out forever.

Oh, sweet heavenly God.

As she struggled to come back to earth she felt him slide her body farther back on the table. And suddenly he was on top of her. Driving into her. This time with a condom. His shirt was off and they were skin to skin. Crisp hair scraped against her breasts. Oh, sweet Lord, he felt so good.

“Jesus, woman,” he ground out, and held her hips in an iron grip.

He rode her hard—hard and rough, just as she liked it. She wrapped herself around him and clung. She’d be bruised and battered. She didn’t care. His back would be scored by her nails. He didn’t care, either. It was feral, out of control. She came twice more to the tune of his guttural whispered obscenities in her ear. And then he gave three final, feral thrusts, and roared out his orgasm, lifting her off the table with the crushing force of his grip.

She was utterly filled, and utterly drained. And so terrified of what had just happened between them that she started to shake and shake, and suddenly felt like bursting into tears.

Because it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not in these circumstances. Not with this man.

Definitely
not with this man.

And all she could think, all she could feel, was . . .

Dear God, what have I done?

KICK
would never get used to the abject poverty, the rank filth, and the complete hopelessness that pervaded refugee camps the world over. Even well-run ones like the Doctors for Peace camp, which, as the Jeep approached the Nile Valley, oozed across the eastern horizon like a pus-filled open sore.

Already he could smell it, even miles away, the stench of human refuse and garbage. His stomach roiled.

Mile upon mile of ragged olive drab tents littered the brown desert, flapping in the hot breeze, crowding the edge of the green cultivation zone. In the diffuse orange light of the setting sun, he could see thousands of homeless people milling about, from dozens of different tribes and cultures. All Sudanese. All victims of the thirty years of civil strife their country had suffered through, with no real end in sight.

Kick took a deep breath while it was still the relatively clean air of the open desert, and flexed his stiff fingers on the steering wheel. The drive had taken most of the afternoon and he’d been worried they wouldn’t make it before dark. But they’d squeaked it, and the tension rolled off him in waves now that they’d finally made it safely. Relief was in sight.

Next to him, Lafayette’s eyes fluttered open for a few seconds, then drooped closed again. The man was in crap shape, going in and out of consciousness for the past three hours. Kick’d had to choose, drive slowly and spare the man’s ribs the jarring punishment, or damn the ribs and drive quickly, maybe saving his arm. Gangrene was a bitch once it set in.

Throwing the STORM agent a worried glance, he slowed the Jeep to avoid hitting a scatter of skeletal refugees shuffling barefoot along the road carrying glassy-eyed children and ragged belongings on their backs.

“My God,” he heard Rainie breathe from the backseat.

“Depressing, isn’t it?” he said softly.

“Who are these people? Where did they all come from?”

He glanced at her in the rearview. Her eyes were already filled with heartbreak and they hadn’t even gotten to the camp yet.

“Refugees from the southern wars,” he said evenly, “refugees from the reign of rape and terror in Darfur, refugees from the escalating fundamentalist pogroms in towns all up and down the Nile. People starving from the drought, people dying of malaria, yellow fever, and AIDS. Name the reason for suffering, the Sudan has it.”

“Merciful God,” she whispered.

Kick wasn’t so sure.

He’d joined the military in order to escape the oppression of his own life. At seventeen, he’d been severely damaged goods, with few options. He’d wisely grabbed the one choice open to him where he could vent the most rage. The Marines. Channeling that rage had made him good at his job. Very good. Cold. Ruthless. Without pity. So good the CIA had recruited him for its nonofficial cover commando operation, Zero Unit, and sent him to countries like this, to silently and invisibly clean up the worst filth imaginable. Hell, he’d thought his own early years had been bad until he’d seen what the children in these camps had to live through. His life had been a fucking picnic by comparison.

And that had filled him with even more rage.

Why should
anyone
in the world have to live this way? What kind of a God would let that happen? Merciful?
Not.

The DFP hospital compound and staff quarters were separate from the rest of the camp, surrounded by a high chain-link fence with razor wire on top and two armed UN guards at the gate. The DFP didn’t believe in weapons, but after several violent robberies, the Red Cross had insisted medical supplies and personnel be guarded 24/7 or they would no longer send aid shipments. It was one of the few battles Nathan Daneby had lost.

As Kick pulled the Jeep up to the front gate, he thought again about Forsythe’s covert photos of Nate accepting something—money?—from abu Bakr’s right-hand man. And suddenly Nate’s vehement opposition to armed guards took on a new, ugly meaning.

Fuck.
Was he selling government secrets
and
the medicines sent to help these people? Kick let out the clutch so fast the Jeep stalled.

The engine backfired and the guards came running, guns drawn.

No time to think about Nathan Daneby now.

“Someone get a doctor!” he shouted at them, bringing his mind back to more immediate worries. “I’ve got a dying man here!”

FIFTEEN

EVERYTHING
happened at once. The guards started shouting, and at the commotion someone popped his head out of a prefab Quonset hut a bit farther inside the compound. The guy disappeared for a second, then came out running toward the Jeep along with two others and carrying a stretcher. All Westerners. One wore a long white lab coat.

Kick closed his eyes briefly and allowed himself a moment of profound relief. They’d made it.
Alive.
Marc would get medical help now; Rainie would be safe. Kick could finally grab some desperately needed sleep.

And then get on with his mission.

He leaned his head against the seat back and let the people do their jobs, getting Lafayette onto the stretcher and carting him off to a building Kick assumed was the hospital. Rainie took charge and ran with them, sounding like an episode of some TV hospital show as she gave them the rundown on Marc’s condition. She was in her element, that was clear.

“
Tutto bene
?” someone asked Kick. “You okay?”

He opened his eyes and saw one of the UN guards standing by the Jeep, peering worriedly at him. The blue uniform made the soldier look older, but the kid couldn’t have been much out of high school. Jesus, where did they get these guys? Didn’t they have anything better to do with their lives? Or maybe this kid’s childhood had been just as fucked-up as Kick’s.

“Sure. I’m fine. Just beat. Tired.” Kick smiled wearily at him. “Any chance of finding a bed and shower in this joint?”

The kid grinned. “
Sì, sì!
” He waved a hand at a small cluster of vehicles. “You park Jeep and give passports. Then we find you sleep.”

Passports. Yeah, that could be a problem.

How to explain their presence in the country, in dire straits and without proper travel documents?
Shit.
Kick drove the Jeep over to the parking area and slid out. This should be good.

He staggered on his cramped leg and the guard grabbed his arm. “You are hurt. You should go hospital, too.”

“Nah.” Kick stretched out his leg with a grimace and wiped the sweat with his sleeve. “Old football injury. I’m all right.”

The guard shrugged in that European way, clearly doubting him. “Okay. You come, we find bed. Will lady sleep, too? Or maybe she stay with husband in hospital?”

“Not her husband. Miss Martin is with me,” Kick clarified before thinking.

“Ah,
scusa
! She
your
woman. Very pretty.” The guard’s eyes danced as he led Kick toward the Quonset hut the others had emerged from. The dusty windows mirrored a light show of deep reds and yellows from the last vestiges of the setting sun. “I am Eduardo, by the way. From Italia.”

Kick shook his hand as they walked. “Kick Jackson.” He thought about where he might say he was from, but came up empty. The longest he’d ever stayed in one place after escaping home at age fourteen was being in the hospital last year, and the months hiding out afterward.
What the hell.
“Recently of New York City,” he said.

As he’d figured, the magical name triggered an immediate outpouring of exclamations and explanations of distant relatives and hopes to visit by the young Italian.

“Yes, it’s a great city,” Kick agreed. “Listen, about—”

But they’d reached the building and Eduardo flung open the metal door and said to him in a hushed voice, “Very lucky today. You meet important boss to take care of you.” He grinned and ushered Kick inside.