Bone Rider (31 page)

“What do you want from me?”

If he had it, he’d give it to Misha, whatever it was. Anything to get the bastard off his back. With everything that was currently going down in his life, Riley simply couldn’t afford to fight on yet another front. His cynical attitude toward people and relationships had been reaffirmed; no reason to prolong the experience.

“Is it your bag? Take it, it’s in my truck.”

“You kept it.” Misha sounded much too pleased about that, but waved it off before Riley could come up with a good explanation. “Forget it. It’s not about the damn bag. It never was about the damn bag or the damn—May I get up?”

Riley hesitated, knowing he had little chance of holding his own against Misha no matter what, but McClane just scoffed at his worries.

Doesn’t matter if he’s down there or standing upright. We’re way faster and stronger than he is. You say the word and we kick his ass
.

He must’ve picked up on Riley’s desire to be covered, because there was a sensation of warmth and Misha’s eyes dipped down again and widened. Riley glanced down too. Instant metal pants, loose and comfortable, no spikes or blades anywhere. Nice. Also, so much for deniability.

McClane made a sound not unlike someone clearing their throat, chagrined.
Yeah, about that? The deniability thing? Not an issue. I almost took off his head when I came to; he’s seen us in full battle gear
.

Awesome
, Riley thought. His mafia killer ex knew about the alien armor system. Just what they needed.

“What do you mean, it wasn’t about the bag?” he asked, in dire need of a distraction and thus latching on to the one piece of information that didn’t seem fraught with potential trauma. “Where
is
my bag? For that matter, where’s my truck? Did you drive my truck?” A horrible suspicion dawned. “Did you let
Andrej
drive my truck?” His poor truck didn’t deserve that. It had always served Riley well, not least because he made a point of keeping other people from touching any important parts, especially madmen like Andrej Naryshkin and his Demolition Derby approach to driving.

Misha got up slowly, fingering his nose and avoiding Riley’s gaze. He cleared his throat. Shifted a bit, clearly uncomfortable, and managed to move a little closer to Riley in the process.

“We had to blow up your truck.”

So much for no trauma. Riley’s voice rose. “You blew up my truck?”

Misha shrugged. “Couldn’t take it with us, the area was crawling with military. We got your stuff, though. And I saved your hat,” he added, and he sounded so proud about it Riley’s traitorous heart did a little stutter-jig.

Riley clenched his jaw and swallowed against the dryness in his throat again, angry at himself because he should’ve dealt with this, should’ve been immune to Misha’s attempts to please him. Damn it, he was usually better at this. He’d cut off his own family to the point where he could talk to his sister on the phone and feel nothing but a blunt sort of ache. Putting his feelings for Misha into perspective should’ve been a piece of cake. He shouldn’t still want the man so badly, body and soul.

Hit him again
, McClane suggested helpfully.
The last time felt good
.

“Jesus Christ,” Riley cursed, and he couldn’t have said whether it was aimed at McClane or Misha or himself. He rubbed a hand over his face, so disoriented and irked he wanted to crawl out of his own skin, and when he lowered his hand again he glared at Misha. “I should’ve broken your fucking jaw.”

Misha’s face fell a little, but he didn’t get angry, just squared his shoulders and met Riley’s angry gaze head on. That was Misha; never giving an inch.

“Do it.” Misha lifted his chin like a self-sacrificing moron, as though playing martyr would somehow make it all right, or maybe just make Riley feel more in control. As though they didn’t both know that if not for the armor, Misha could’ve killed Riley with one hand tied behind his back. “Guess I deserve it.”

Damn right, he did. He’d lied to Riley from the get-go… but then Riley wasn’t completely innocent, either. At the very least, he was guilty of looking the other way. He’d known something was off; he’d even had a pretty good idea what it might be, but he hadn’t wanted to see it. Goddamn it. This was why Riley preferred to run from relationships. Things inevitably went nuclear and then all the splinters and debris blasted right through his center and short-circuited his defenses, making it hard to breathe, even harder yet to open his mouth and talk. Physical fights he could do. Verbal? Not so much.

“Riley?”

So much worry in Misha’s tone, so much caring, and the hell of it was that Riley believed it, reacted to it like a dumb, beaten dog that kept crawling back to its owner no matter what. He struggled for words, but as usual, when it counted they failed him, got stuck somewhere between his heart and his brain. It took McClane nudging him to get past the sudden constriction in his throat.

“You fucking
bastard
,” he rasped, almost shaking with the need to touch, hating himself for it, hating Misha for making him feel this way, for not being who he was supposed to be, not a good guy yet still the man Riley had fallen in love with. Riley backed up a step, realized what he was doing, and promptly moved in again, because damned if he was going to run this time. “What the fuck do you want from me? Why are you here?”

Misha swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on Riley. “I’ve been searching for you.”

Riley thought of the man he’d spotted in San Antonio, that familiar face in the crowd, cold eyes over a charming smile as Short-Bald-and-Dangerous coaxed information out of Riley’s coworkers, and his anger flared up higher. His fists clenched tightly, spiked with metal. He couldn’t have said if that had been McClane’s doing or his own, and right then he didn’t care.

“Yeah,” he breathed, fury pressing his voice down into a low growl. “I spotted your goon at the bar.” A pained bark of a laugh cracked out. “You know, when you introduced me to Kolya, I actually did wonder why an ‘associate consultant’ was packing.”

He hadn’t asked, though. It had been just one more thing to carefully overlook, because questioning it would’ve meant facing the truth and giving up Misha. He hadn’t been able to make himself do the right thing then. He’d had to walk in on Misha with that damn sniper rifle in his hands and casually planning a murder to take that step. And that right there said a lot more about his own character than Misha’s, something that nearly made him choke on self-loathing and a hefty dose of bitterness.

“Who is he?” he asked, too late in the game, but he figured he might as well clear up a few issues that had been nagging at him since New Orleans before one of them did something stupid and they both crashed and burned officially. “Your enforcer? Didn’t want to kill me yourself?”

Misha flinched at the accusation and McClane tried to push out and wrap Riley completely in armor, but Riley shook his head and stopped the attempt without conscious effort.

“Nah,” he muttered, eyes narrowing as he took in Misha’s tense form, the trepidation in the man’s eyes, the apparent lack of weapons. “You wanted to kill me, you’d’ve tried already. So why go to all this trouble?” He hadn’t thought Misha to be cruel, but then he’d been wrong about a lot of things and willfully blind about too many others. So what had Misha gotten out of their relationship? What were the most common reasons for hunting someone down (and also, incidentally, the most common motives for murder)? Money, revenge, and sex. Well, there was his answer, he guessed, because—compared to Misha—he had no money and he’d never done anything to warrant revenge. “Oh, I’m sorry. Weren’t you done playing with me?”

McClane twitched, agitated by Riley’s viciousness, blessedly silent as he waited for the barest signal to engage.

“I wasn’t playing you.”

Misha looked ill at the very idea, but Riley was too hurt and too angry to give a damn. He didn’t often get mad, was much more likely to suppress, deny, and walk away when somebody got to him, but Misha had always been good at pushing Riley’s buttons, both good and bad. He let it happen, then, let the shame and rage roar through his veins, tear through him and out through his pores until he was coated in rippling, shifting armor. McClane hissed wordlessly in his ears, whipped along in the flood of Riley’s furious anguish until he thought only in serrated blades and smooth armor plates. He had been played, no matter what Misha claimed now, and it hurt so much worse because Riley should’ve known better.

“You sure?” he growled, and there was metal in his voice, a blunt, angry edge. “’Cause from where I’m standing, it looks like you got me good.” Gentled like a skittish horse, roped in like a bimbo, lured out with the patience of a sniper, and it made Riley’s gorge rise how desperate he must’ve been for affection to let it happen. “Hell, you had me spreadin’ my legs and taking it like a good little slu—”

Misha was in his space so fast not even McClane saw him coming, wounded hands cradling Riley’s face, mouth slanted against Riley’s before McClane thought to hide it, shutting him up mid-word. He crowded in close enough that the armor should’ve cut him to shreds, but the razor-sharp edges didn’t touch him, wouldn’t even scratch him, and it took a change of angle and a slip of tongue wetting his painfully dry mouth to make Riley realize it wasn’t McClane holding back but Riley. He wanted to twist away, shake Misha off, strike him again, but the taste of Misha’s blood made him flinch and reach out against better judgment to pull Misha in where he was safe.

Misha came instantly, willingly, wrapped his arms around Riley and held on like the world was ending. Kept kissing Riley until he stopped fighting it and opened up, pushed McClane down under his skin again so he was pressed bare and vulnerable against Misha, because apparently he hadn’t learned a goddamn thing.

M
C
C
LANE
was everywhere, monitored Riley’s wildly beating heart, kept his fingers from shaking, and took meticulous note of exactly where Misha’s hands were at any given time. When Riley’s eyes slid shut and he returned the kiss almost against his will, helpless in the face of Misha’s hunger and his own, McClane cradled him every bit as gently as Misha, shielded him inside and out. He was almost vibrating with protectiveness.

If he’s lying again, I’ll kill him
, McClane promised fiercely, even as he crept out through Riley’s pores in the wake of Misha’s fingers like an animal sniffing after the tender touches, suspicious but fascinated all the same.

If Misha was lying, Riley thought dazedly, he was doing a bang-up job this time. Being with Misha had always been intense, but he’d never been this overwhelmed before. Misha was holding on to him almost desperately, kissing him deeply, passion tinged with blood and promises. When Riley’s hands came to rest hesitantly on Misha’s hips, Misha groaned into his mouth and nudged closer until he was plastered against Riley as tightly as he could with the soft material of his clothes between them. It seemed that if he could have, he would’ve melted into Riley’s skin and wrapped around his bones much like McClane.

Want
, his tongue said.
Want want need need
please.

Yes
, Riley’s body replied.
Yes okay yes now
.

Misha pushed, and Riley, like an idiot, let him do it, let Misha guide him back until they reached the bed, and then he let himself fall and took Misha down with him. They landed off-center in a tangle of limbs, still kissing, both of them hard and panting, completely drunk on each other. The adrenaline that had fueled Riley’s anger now fed his passion and he groaned deeply and fucked his tongue into Misha’s mouth, grabbed Misha by the shoulders and held him tight. Misha was all for it; he straddled Riley and kissed him back every bit as fiercely, lifting up just long enough to shove them both farther up on the mattress so they couldn’t slip over the edge. He didn’t take his hands off Riley once; touched him everywhere he could reach, anxiously, possessively, and the rasp of gun calluses and barely scabbed-over scrapes and cuts against Riley’s bare skin made him break out in goose bumps and instinctively arch up for more.

They’d never done it like this, one of them naked and the other fully dressed, and it drove Riley crazy, the feel of Misha’s belt buckle brushing cool and hard against his belly, the expensive cloth of his pants whispering against the sensitive insides of Riley’s thighs when he spread his legs to cradle Misha closer. McClane whimpered incoherently somewhere deep in Riley’s mind, overwhelmed by the stereo effect of the two men rutting against each other. He reached out for Misha, pressed up against Riley’s skin from the inside, everywhere at once, and Riley tore his mouth away from Misha’s to cry out brokenly. He was damn near seeing stars.

“Riley,” Misha moaned, staring at him as though he was trying to tattoo the image of Riley like this into his memory. His hips pushed down mercilessly, ground his cloth-covered crotch against Riley’s stiff cock, and ratcheted up the friction until Riley was fast approaching sensory overload. Riley would’ve told him to stop, but it felt so good he couldn’t muster the brainpower to get the word out.

Riley
, McClane mewled. He was expanding and pulling back rhythmically, a feverish pulsing deep in Riley’s core, echoed almost perfectly by the steady undulations of Misha’s hips.

Riley’s legs opened wider, wrapped around Misha’s waist to bring them into full contact even though the stimulation was almost driving him insane. He couldn’t have said whether it was his decision or McClane’s, and he honestly didn’t care. He was clinging to Misha and Misha was clinging to him and McClane enhanced every single sensation until Riley was keening and shaking, unable to do anything but ride it out, gaze fixed on Misha’s hazy, wild eyes. He dug his fingers into Misha’s shoulders and back in a hopeless attempt to anchor himself, panting at the dual assault, half out of his mind already.

He felt Misha’s hand between them, fumbling at his fly, and it almost set him off, but McClane stopped it, squeezed down hard to keep Riley from coming. Riley sobbed out a frustrated breath and buried his face against Misha’s shoulder while Misha fought with his zipper. Riley couldn’t help him, couldn’t do anything but hold on and keep breathing, because sex with McClane had been mind-blowing and sex with Misha had always been intense, but sex with McClane
and
Misha was damn near more than he could handle. He was so decidedly not in control anymore it would’ve scared him had it not felt better than anything. He was too turned on to think, trembling with it, whining softly with every shift of Misha’s long, hard body against his and with every pulse of pleasure McClane sent through him… through
them
, because McClane was with him every step of the way, only marginally more coherent.