Crash Into Me (42 page)

She
moistened her lips. He wanted her mouth on him, too, but her gaze dropped to
his distended fly and she said, “Hurry,” ruining him for foreplay. He didn’t
know why the pressure had escalated to such an agonizing degree, but if he
didn’t get a condom on right now he was going to come, with or without her.

With
trembling hands, he took the package out of his wallet and unzipped his fly.
She was watching him intently, arching her spine in anticipation, and even the
process of stretching latex over taut skin, a sensation that was always more
awkward than pleasurable, threatened to send him off.

He
positioned himself behind her, slipping the tip of his cock between the plump
folds of her sex. She made a breathy little sound and backed into him, wanting
more, and he couldn’t help but push forward, all the way to the hilt, plunging
deep into her sleek heat.

“Oh!”
she gasped, digging her nails into his upper thigh.

He
closed his eyes, savoring the unparalleled ecstasy of being inside her. She was
so smooth and slick, he gritted his teeth against the urge to start pumping.

For
most of his adult life, Ben had been as selfish in the bedroom as he had been
everywhere else. He’d learned more about pleasing a woman during his brief
marriage than in too many years of indiscriminate sex.

He
regretted that he’d never taken his time with Sonny and probably never would.
Doing her hard against a wall and taking her from behind in the back of his
truck didn’t exactly showcase his level of maturity.

The
least he could do, this last time, was get her off first.

He
flattened his palm over her belly, his heart knocking hard against his ribs,
his breath rasping against the back of her neck. She jerked and moaned, trying
to move, but he held her in place, knowing he had only a few moments before he
exploded. Stomach muscles quivering under the effort of restraint, he reached
up with one hand and down with the other, brushing his fingertips over her
stiff nipples and parting the damp curls at the top of her sex.

A
few quick strokes and she was flying apart, crying out as her snug sheath
gripped him like a silky fist.

“Oh,
fuck,” he groaned, unable to stay still a second longer. Moving his hands to
her hips, he drew back and lunged forward, thrusting into her again and again.
He was locked in, driving hard and deep, riding the wave of her orgasm as his
own slammed into him. It hit like a white hot crusher, closing out on the back
of his skull and washing over his entire body, rushing from the base of his
balls to the tip of his cock.

When
it was over, he collapsed on her back, his legs quaking as if he’d just come in
from a marathon session.

She
didn’t complain about his weight, but he slid off her, vaguely aware that while
he was struggling to recover, she was setting her clothes to rights.
Embarrassed by how roughly he’d handled her, he got rid of the condom and
jerked up his pants, casting a guilty look toward the front windshield to make
sure no one had caught a glimpse of them.

He
considered apologizing, because he knew she’d been honest about her past.
Underneath her tough-girl exterior, she wasn’t that experienced with men.

“I
have to get home,” she said. “I’ve got a meeting with Grant.”

He
stared back at her for a moment, disliking her carefully composed expression.
“You’re lying.”

Her
brows rose. “Why would I bother?”

“Because
you’re going to do something dangerous, and you don’t want me to worry.”

“Why
would you worry?” she asked lightly. “You hate me.”

Anger
flared in his belly. Those words had been closer to a confession of love than
hate, and she damned well knew it. “If you think you know who murdered my
wife,” he said, gripping her upper arms, “I want you to tell me.”

Her
cool blue gaze met his. “Why would I do that?”

So I
can protect you,
he
wanted to shout.
So I can do for you what I couldn’t do for her.
“So I
can kill him,” he said, because he wanted to do that, too.

She
laughed in his face. Her gaiety was forced, but it still made him furious.
“Ben,” she said, cupping her hand over his cheek. “Catching bad guys is what
I’m good at. Why don’t you stick with what you’re good at?” Slowly, insolently,
she rubbed her thumb across his mouth, tracing the scar he’d had, compliments
of a surfboard fin, since he was seventeen.

By
implying that he was just another dumb surfer with a soft head and a hard dick,
she was trying to make him mad, and it worked. But what really got to him was
the feeling of helplessness. She would do whatever she wanted, no matter what
he said.

He
pulled away from her and climbed back behind the wheel, driving her home in
silence. After he dropped her off, he watched her ascend the stairs to her
apartment, wondering if he’d ever see her again. At that moment, he decided
karma was a real bitch.

Now
he knew exactly how Olivia must have felt every time he walked away.

James approached Carly’s front door, a
lump in his throat and a package under one arm. Taking a deep breath, he raised
his left hand, the one that wasn’t covered with angry red scabs and ugly black
sutures, to knock.

Ben
answered the door, his face set in criticism. “Yeah?”

James
cleared his throat. “Is Carly home?”

“Yes.”

They
stared each other down for a moment.

“Can
I see her?”

Ben
widened his stance and crossed his arms over his chest. The movement emphasized
the breadth of his shoulders and the size of his biceps. James felt puny in
comparison, as he was assuredly meant to. “What for?”

He
paused, searching for the right words. “To apologize for yesterday,” he said,
glancing back at his dad’s old blue junker. Stephen was slouched in the
passenger seat, offering nothing by way of encouragement. “And to, uh, give her
back the watch she gave me. It’s too expensive, and…” He started to say that he
wasn’t worth such a gift, but that sounded pathetic. “And I wanted to ask if
she would go with me to distribute my mom’s ashes.” There, that was better.
Still pathetic, but more to the point.

Ben
considered him for a moment. “Do you remember how you felt when I dragged Carly
across the parking lot by the arm? When you said I was hurting her?”

James
nodded miserably.

“That’s
how I felt yesterday. Do you get me?”

“Yessir,”
he replied. He held out the box containing the watch he’d never worn. “Just
give this back to her for me, and I won’t bother her anymore.”

The
watch was probably worth more than the truck James was driving, but Ben didn’t
bother to take it from him. “Carly,” he yelled, turning toward the stairs.
“James is here.” With that, he cast an averse glance over his shoulder and
walked away. It wasn’t a good-luck wish, but it was better than getting a door
slammed in his face.

Carly
came down the stairs, looking so fantastically beautiful that James’ heart
threatened to burst from his chest. Her black eyes flashed with defiance and
her hair bounced jauntily with each step. She was wearing jeans and a faded
T-shirt with gold lettering across the front. TRIUMPH, it said. Even James knew
it was some kind of motorcycle, but that detail paled in comparison to the way
her breasts moved beneath the soft cotton.

On
the last few steps she slowed down, sticking her hands into her pockets and
hunching her slim shoulders in a way that was irresistibly tentative. A silky
strip of midriff was visible between the hem of her T-shirt and the low
waistband of her jeans. Less than an inch of taut, smooth skin, more than
enough to send his pulse skyrocketing.

He
jerked his gaze from her belly to her face. She stopped in the entryway, waiting
for him to speak.

All
the words he’d practiced on the way over, everything he’d imagined saying while
he lay in bed awake last night, every carefully constructed explanation flew
from his mind in that moment, and he could only stare at her.

Incredibly,
he felt the burn of tears behind his eyes. He’d cried a little last night, but
it had been a painful, awkward release, as if his heart wanted to keep the
agony locked away inside, holding him prisoner. Now, in front of the one person
he wanted to be strong for, he was breaking down like a baby.

She
pulled the door shut behind her. “James?”

He
shook his head, unable to reply. He desperately tried to deny his emotions, to
hold it together, to keep the tears from falling.

He
wasn’t up to that task, either.

She
took the box from his trembling hands and set it aside. Then she put her arms
around his neck, let him bury his face in her shoulder, and held him there
while he cried.

Ben had misgivings
about letting Carly go with James and his hoodlum brother to scatter his
mother’s ashes, but the poor kid was so emotionally wrecked that Ben couldn’t
help but feel sorry for him, and Carly was brimming with renewed love.

Trying
to keep those two apart at this stage would only encourage a disaster of
Shakespearean proportions.

Maybe
he was being naïve, but he didn’t think Carly could get into too much
trouble on a boat in broad daylight with Stephen “chaperoning.” He made sure
her cell phone was charged and told her to get home before dark. When he
reminded her to take a sweater, he grimaced, sure he was turning into his
mother.

If
he was honest, Ben would have to admit his attitude toward James had changed.
He didn’t hate Carly’s boyfriend anymore, or pity him, or think he was trash.
Begrudgingly, he’d actually come to like him.

“Ugh,”
he muttered, shuddering with distaste. He needed to go surfing.

Instead
of walking outside, he climbed the stairs to his bedroom. What Sonny had said
about the killer having a connection to Olivia and Lisette had been bothering
him, niggling at the corner of his mind. Like his complex feelings for the
elusive special agent, he didn’t think a few hours on the water would solve
this problem.

Frowning,
he crossed the room, moving toward the sliding glass doors facing the ocean,
drawn inexorably to the Pacific.

After
Olivia had been murdered, Ben had considered selling this house, and the
decision to stay had been a difficult one. Her death had been so tragic, so
pointless, so impossible to make sense of. O’Shea’s confession had brought no
closure, no relief. The police had called the incident a home invasion murder.
A random act of violence.

Moving
had seemed like the only option in those first few weeks. He and Carly had
stayed with Nathan and at his parents’ house more often than in their own home.
He’d been like a zombie during that time, the only extended period of his life,
since the age of ten, that he hadn’t given in to the lure of the waves. He
hadn’t deserved it.

Surfing
had always been more than a job to him. It had been his religion, his drug, his
ever-faithful panacea, curing what ailed him without the pesky hangover or
drunken misbehavior. Quitting had been the ultimate punishment, and he’d earned
every minute of it for letting Olivia die.

A
month after the funeral, Carly returned to school and Ben went home for what he
thought would be the last time. He’d wanted to memorize every detail, to
remember how Olivia had looked in every room. He wanted to see her in the
living room, laughing as she put up Carly’s homemade Christmas ornaments. He
wanted to revisit the kitchen, to run his hand along the granite countertops
she’d selected. He wanted to lie down in the bed where they’d slept together
every night. He wanted to say good-bye.

The
instant he walked through the door, he was assaulted by images more horrific
than sentimental, from the nightmare morning he found her dead. Stomach
lurching with nausea, eyes brimming with tears, he rushed through the house and
ran outside, desperate to escape the overwhelming sadness.

He
hadn’t been able to. On the sand below the steps at the base of the cliff, he’d
fallen to his knees and sobbed like a madman. It had been the only time he’d
broken down completely. Holding his grief inside had been painful, but this
uncontrollable outburst had been worse. Cathartic, perhaps, but an agony to
experience.