Cloak and Dagger (The IMA Book 1) (28 page)

I made a face. “Cut it out.” Ignoring me, he continued guiding my hand upwards, placing it over a hard bulge in the denim of his jeans. “What are you doing?”

“
That,” he said, curling my hand around it, “Is your fault.” Keeping his hand over mine, he leaned forward to kiss me again.

“
No, it's not,” I whispered.

“
Oh no?” That made him grin, a slow, sinful smile. “I'm flattered.”

“
And I didn't know…it would be like this.”
Why can't I breathe?

His eyes widened a little, in surprise. “What are you talking about?”

“
You” — all the words evaporated from my mouth — “and me.”

“
Like what? This?” he repeated, giving my hand another squeeze and barking out a laugh when I winced. “You really did go to a fucking parochial school, didn't you.
Pauve ti bete
. What did you think you'd agreed to? A kiss and a walk on the beach?”

I said nothing.

“
I'm a man, darlin.”

“
You're a bastard, is what you are.”

“
That may be. But tell me something. What is it about this that's bothering you? Are you afraid that you might actually…enjoy it?”

I pulled away from him then, landing on the floor. Pain licked at my elbows. I ignored it, scrambling away before he could reach me. “As if I would. You stink, anyway.”

“
So do you.” The setting sun threw his face into shadow. “Get out of here, then. Get. Take a shower. We'll settle this later.”

Michael:

I couldn't sleep.

At first I chalked up my insomnia to the cold and tugged on the jacket I'd purchased in the store. Then I'd gotten too hot and stripped off both coat and t-shirt. The ocean wind was mercilessly cold against my damp, bare skin and still I sweated. As I stared at the black water, lit only by the full moon overhead, keyed up far more than any man should be at four o' clock in the morning, I had to admit to myself that I had a problem. A problem currently asleep below deck, completely oblivious to my torment.

No. Not completely oblivious. She knew what I wanted from her; I had made myself explicitly clear. She hoped that if she didn't acknowledge it, I'd forget. It was the mentality of a child hiding from monsters under the bedsheets: If I can't see it, it doesn't exist.

Well, I hadn't forgotten.

I paced around the small deck restlessly, trying to walk off the energy buzzing around in my bloodstream. Exercise wasn't what I needed. I needed something else.

Someone else.

I found her lying on the cot, wrapped up in the blanket. Fast asleep. Or pretending to be. She shivered as I climbed down the steps, as if picking up on my dark mood, and pulled the blanket more tightly around herself. Her black hair fanned out around her face in a dark nimbus, tangled and unbrushed. She was sleeping on her side, curled up to make herself as small as possible so the blanket would cover more of her body. I was pleased that it didn't. I wanted that pleasure for myself.

I reclined beside her, careful not to disturb her, and pulled her against me. She was soft and warm. When she squirmed, I felt the shuddering movement in a thousand places. For several moments, my healing wounds throbbed from tension as I fought to remain still.

Being a contract killer ate into my personal life. Though I tried to keep the two separate, and succeeded within reason, such black-and-white distinction was impossible when I was on-call twenty-four/seven. I never had much time for sex; on the odd occasions I
did
, it was usually quick and impersonal. Personal relationships were a liability.

I slid my hand into the folds of the blanket, cupping the curve of her breast through the thin fabric of her shirt. Her heart fluttered against my palm.
Thank you, God
. I stroked her through the thin fabric, stirring the peach-fuzz on her neck with my breathing. There was a hot, liquid weight pressing down hard on my lower belly, shooting fire into my groin. I was like a dam about to burst. I wanted to stop the dreams. Stop
thinking
about her. I suspected sex wouldn't do that. I suspected I was attempting to rationalize something that would just make it worse: that it would fuck me up even more than I already was, and her, too — but I wanted it anyway.

I wanted
her
anyway.

“
Christina.”

No response.

I leaned closer, shaking her bare shoulders. She bumped her head and hugged the sheet to her chest. “What are you doing in here?” she demanded, in a gasping voice I would have called seductive from any other woman. The fact that it wasn't intentional made it doubly provocative.

What would my name sound like, breathed like that?

And then I knew I was in trouble.

Christina:

Michael was leaning over me, inches away from my face. Shirtless, leonine, cast in shadow: he bore sinister resemblance to a panther. I stared at him, but when I blinked, he didn't go away. “What are you doing here?” I repeated groggily. “What do you want?”

He laughed. Slow, breathy laughter that made the hair on my arms stand up. “You.”

“
What?”

“
You heard me.”

“
W-were you watching me sleep?”

“
Sleep?” The smile on his face disappeared. He looked at me unblinkingly, his hands sliding down my arms. And I found myself remembering his erratic behavior on deck. He no longer smelled like prison; he had washed his body and his hair and I thought I caught a dash of cologne. “How could you possibly sleep?”

“
I was tired…” I swallowed again. “Aren't you?”

“
No.” He moved closer. “And it's all your fault.”

If he moved any closer, our lips would touch. His words from earlier —
all your fault —
echoed in my ears. I pressed myself against the pillows. “What did I do this time?”

“
It's what you didn't do that's the problem.” His mouth brushed my ear, the words buzzing straight into my brain. “I want you.”

“
But — ”

Michael leaned in and caught my lower lip between his teeth. “Now,” he added. As if that was all the explanation he needed, he slid his hand under my shirt.

I grabbed his wrist, feeling heat race up my throat as his fingers splayed defiantly over my stomach. “I'm
tired
,” I said piteously.

He managed to bring his hand up a little higher. “You slept all day long.” He nipped at my lip again, flicking his tongue against the corner of my mouth. “
Ça va
. Nap time is over.”

His voice was deep, his accent more pronounced than I'd ever heard it. My grip faltered, and he started tracing slow concentric circles against my prickling skin. A spark of something that wasn't quite pain arced through my body as he began sucking at my throat. “Don't,” I pleaded.

“
Your skin is so soft.”

“
Michael
.
”

He glanced at me, a challenge inscribed upon his face, before lowering his head and kissing everywhere he exposed as he tugged my shirt off. The stubble around his mouth chafed, but in a way that made heat pool in my stomach. In a way that made me forget how to breathe.

I twisted my fingers in his hair, trying to pull his head back. He grunted and flicked his tongue against a very sensitive spot. I squeaked and his eyes lifted to regard me, pale even in the moonlight.

His lips curved, and his tongue traveled over my skin a second time, then a third, longer each venture, but always halting just before — before…something. He laughed when I jerked beneath him. “You want me to stop?” When I didn't respond, he blew on my still-damp skin, watching my face. I choked on the dryness of my own mouth.

I began to struggle in earnest. I raised my knee, hoping to hit him in the stomach or groin. He rotated his hips to avoid the blow and pinned me against the thin mattress, settling between my legs. The directness of his gaze made color crawl up my neck. I didn't understand how he could be so unselfconscious when I was so painfully aware of how vulnerable I was.

“
You promised,” he said, speaking in a normal voice now, though he sounded a little out of breath. “The only rule you set was that it couldn't be on Target Island.”

I was breathing just as hard, to my shame. “All this for something that won't mean anything to you?”

He tugged at my pants. “I never said this meant nothing to me.”

“
Of course it does.” I was sobbing now. “You just want to sleep with me. You think I'm trash — nothing.”

“
If all I wanted was a quick fuck with some cheap whore, I would have gone home with the blonde,” he snarled, angry again. Blonde? What blonde? What nonsense was he talking about?

I stared at him. He glowered at me and tried to kiss me again. Then he said, “Stop that.”

“
Stop what?” I steeled myself for the inevitable.

“
That
look
. I know what you're doing, what you're thinking. The prayers. The crying. The goddamn” — he made a harsh, grating sound in the back of his throat and his hands hit the mattress on either side of me — “
you
. Why do you do this to me?”

I shook my head wordlessly, pulling the blanket up to my chin.

“
Do you think I enjoy watching you cringe? You think I couldn't get other girls, prettier than you, who wouldn't fight me? Who wouldn't act like I'm fucking torturing them? Who wouldn't pray to their fucking gods for deliverance like I'm some kind of devil?”

I blinked back fresh tears and said viciously, “Then why
don't
you?”

“
Because I don't
want
them. For reasons I can't quite comprehend, I want
you
.” He expelled a breath and said, in a quieter voice. “I want you. Only you — here and now.” His lips brushed against my ear, my racing pulse. “Just kiss me, darlin.
C’est tout
. I'll do the rest. And I'll be…careful. Just don't fight me.”

“
Just kiss you,” I repeated shakily. He nodded.

I closed my eyes, drew in a deep breath, and closed what little distance remained between us. He was as still as a statue, even as my trembling lips found his. He opened his mouth. I leaned in to seal our lips together. He made a low hum of approval in his throat that I felt all the way in his chest. Then he seized control with a deep kiss that had my head tipping back, until we were both lying flush against the cot, breathing as if we were about to drown.

“
Good girl,” he whispered.

I felt him slide off the blanket, which he tossed unceremoniously on the floor. Felt him tug off my pants. Felt his hips as he leaned back over me, solid and corded with muscle. A whimper escaped me. There was a crinkling sound. He closed his eyes and gasped. I felt him moving my legs.
What is he doing?
I opened my mouth to protest and something swiftly changed my mind.

“
Oh — ”

“
Shh.”

“
Ow
.”

“
Just relax, darlin.”

“
Aah
. Hurts,” I cried. “Hurting me.”

“
I know.” His hand was around my wrist, and he squeezed. Whether in warning or comfort, I wasn't sure. I tried to find the words to ask him to stop but was choked off by a hitched gasp. The first thrust brought tears to my eyes. The second made me scream.

             
“Oh,
fuck
you're ti — ah…I mean…” He darted a look at me, guilty and slightly surprised, as if he had forgotten I was there. Then he grunted, recapturing my mouth, and pushed harder. There was a slow, sharp tremor of pain that seemed to last a lifetime, like my skin was being forced to adjust to something unnatural.

“
Worst part's over,” he panted. “That's…as bad as it gets. I promise.”

I sobbed quietly.
It still hurts
. He settled into a slower rhythm and the pain lessened, just as he had promised. The burning died down to a dull, tolerable ache. This was interspersed with little nips and licks that made my body break into a fresh sweat. He was making me feel what he wanted me to feel…and it was not quite as unpleasant as I would have liked.

“
Enough. You got what you wanted.”

“
Not yet.” His breathing sounded labored. “Don't cry…
mon
…
cher
.”

I couldn't help it.

“
You feel…so…good.”

There was a final flash of pain, one thrust that felt deeper than all the others. He shuddered and collapsed on top of me with an explosive gasp. For a while, we just lay there. I stared at the ceiling, waiting for it all to be over as his chest heaved against mine. I was horribly embarrassed.