Revenge (5 page)

“
I’m sorry,” I gasp as he kisses my throat, his tongue teasing the soft skin with little flicks.
 

“Sorry for what?” he asks, pulling up. I gaze into his eyes, his hair flowing over his forehead. Mark’s lips are in a half-smile of confusion. His eyes are dark with desire.

“For not trusting you. I should have known you’d never arrest my dad unless you had to.” I stretch my hands out and caress his back with a touch like an apology. A part of me feels like I’m ruining the moment. Sensuality and talks about my dad’s arrest aren’t exactly compatible.

M
ark’s eyes wrinkle with compassion. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t get annoyed or upset. He gives me a sad smile and says, “I wish I could go back in time and change everything. I lost you for three years.” His brow
is
furrow
ed
with concern. “I’m never making that mistake again. Ever.”

My heart
is
a cloud, rising on a windy day.

The wind rustles something outside. I hear an animal in the distance, the sound loose and indistinct.
O
ur breath fills the space between us. Mark’s weight is a comfort and a tease. His arms are on either side of me and he lowers himself, propping up on one elbow, freeing his other hand. I arch up to kiss him. We savor each other, our taste like wine and sunshine.

Well,
actually,
coffee and late-summer night air.

“
If you’ll have me, Carrie,” he adds between kisses, nuzzling my neck, his words a bit muffled by my own heated skin, “I want to be together again. And this time, I won’t let you leave. Please. I don’t think—” His words choke off and disappear into his throat.
 

I slide my cheek against his. The scratch of stubble grounds me.

“You don’t think what?” I ask.

“I don’t think I could bear losing you again.”

“You won’t,” I whisper into his ear.

“
You forgive me for lying all those years? And for being too stupid to—”
 

“I forgive you if you’ll forgive me.”

He jerks up, his face creased with confusion. “Forgive
you
? For what?”

“For leaving like I did.”

The worry lines fade. “Oh. That.”
His tone of voice makes it sound like it was nothing.
He frowns again, then gives me a gentle look. “How about we forgive each other and wipe the slate clean?”

“How about you make love to me and we’ll call that forgiveness?” I
ask
, the words true and real.

His face fills with a tenderness that makes my eyes tear up.

“You’ll have me?”

“You, Mark. And only you.”

“
Only?” One eyebrow rises. There are so many layers to that question.
 

“Only.”

He swallows, hard. His eyes fill with a contemplative emotion I do
n’t
see in him often. Mark’s a do-er. He makes things happen. For him to pause right now means he’s feeling so much.

So am I.

“You’ve never,” he says, his voice tight, “...since you left?”

“No.”

He blows out a long exhale. “That’s...wow. Carrie, no one?”

I shake my head.

His eyelids close so slowly, like he’s in pain. “Me either,” he says, his tone thick with emotion. “I couldn’t.”

“Not a single woman?” I ask, incredulous. I look him up and down pointedly.
My chin dips down to my chest as I survey his body, hovering over mine. My hands find his waist and I squeeze, just enough to make him press down against me. I hold back a moan.
“You can’t tell me that someone like—”

“You,” he joins me, our voices in unison. His eyes eat me up with the same hunger I feel for him.

I go silent.
His breath comes in steady pushes, his chest against mine, his heat blanketing me.
 

“We’ve both been waiting
three years
?” he finally chokes out. Those strong hands clasp me to him, and his mouth takes mine again. The power of the kiss, filled with regret and too much time alone, makes me wonder how much we have pent up inside each of us.

Three years.

It’s time to find out.

I arch up and his hands slide under my shirt, pulling it over my head with a yank that is nearly violent in its rush.
I whimper, the cloth catching on my injured cheek. I
t’s as if we suddenly both realize that we’ve wasted so much time. As if those three years are a precious commodity we can’t waste another drop of.

Which we can’t.

“
Ouch,” I yelp, the eye socket burning.
 

“I’m so sorry!” Mark exclaims, halting. “I didn’t mean
—
” He gives my forehead a sweet kiss, his eyes burning with desire to do the right thing.

A
nd good old-fashioned desire.

Time passes with each lick, each sigh, each touch.
W
e’ll be damned if we’ll spend another fraction of a second without being naked and vulnerable, hot and sensual, entangled and sweaty and—

“Oh!” I gasp
as the cold air hits my naked breasts. Mark sits up on his knees and peels off his t-shirt.
 

I gasp again, this time in admiration.

Oh, my God. I’
ve
forgotten how magnificent his body
i
s.

No, that
i
sn’t right. I ha
ve
n’t forgotten. Not one bit.

Mark’s handsome chest and strong body ha
ve
been in my mind forever. It haunt
s
my dreams. The need to touch his skin, to run my hands without restraint across his pecs, to touch him with permission and without end ha
s
followed me everywhere.

For three years.

I reach up and the second my fingertips ma
k
e contact with his abs, it’s like lightning str
ikes
. We both jolt, Mark’s stomach curling in, my fingers reaching for more. I can touch him again.
Really
touch him. And this time, I’m not a scared little teen.

I’m ready for
everything
.

Mark gives me a smoldering look. His lips twitch with a sexy smile. “You, Ms. Myerson, are looking at me like a woman with a mission.”

I run my hands around his waist to the front, then up the planes and dips of his muscled torso, finally sliding down, down, down...until he inhales sharply, his neck suddenly tight.
His thighs flex, thick and coiled on either side of my hips.
 

“Not a mission, Mr. Paulson.”

I begin unbuttoning his jeans.

“A plan.”

And then my wrists are high above my head, pinned to the bed, and whatever thin thread of control I thought I had is gone. Long gone.

Like my mind.

Mark bends over me and his tongue flicks at my belly button. I gasp and squirm, heat pooling between my legs like lava.

I feel him smile against my belly. He’s impossibly tall and strong, his arms holding mine high, his triceps bulging before my eyes. But I’m not focused on what his arms are doing on right now.

That tongue, on the other hand...

I alternate between excited, unremitting joy and anxiety fueled by the unknown.
Mark runs his mouth up, the line following the middle of my body, hot wetness leaving a trail that gives me goosebumps. I wiggle under him but can’t break free. I don’t want to break free. This feels so good. So new. So
much
.
 

His mouth lingers between my breasts and I am transfixed. The stubble along his jaw tickles and tit
i
l
l
ates. He moves and takes one nipple in his mouth, tongue
like wet, hot fudge. I am suddenly self-
conscious. What if I’m not enough? What if I’m too inexperienced? He’s seven years older than me and worlds away in terms of life. He’s a war veteran, a federal agent, a man used to going deep under cover to get what he wants. He’s a powerful, dominant adult.
 

I’m just Carrie. No one. A nobody with a dad who died in prison. My biggest adventure was moving away to follow dad and working in a check processing office.

How can
Mark
want
me
?

I tense. Mark stops. His eyes catch
min
e as his lips separate from my body. My mouth goes dry and waters at the same time. Mark has a way of looking at me that makes all the rules of physics stop applying. I can be weightless and heavy. I can be in motion and still. I can be hot and cold.

I can be terrified and in love.

“What’s wrong?” he asks in a voice that makes me melt. He takes my hand and puts it over his heart. His chest hair tickles my palm. I could touch him forever. He feels so good. So safe.

So strong and good and whole and
real
.

“I...I’m not sure,” I say, ducking the question.
I know exactly what’s wrong.
 

He leans down for a kiss, his lips like velvet as his hands caress my arms, which I’ve brought down by my sides.

“Talk to me, Carrie,” he murmurs, rolling off me and onto his side. We’re still touching. The room is filled with fire and shadows. I resist the urge to jump up and leave. That’s what I do when I’m nervous. When I’m confused. When I’m overwhelmed.

I leave.

It’s so much easier than staying.

Except...that’s not true any more. Leaving town three years ago robbed me and Mark of
all that precious time together
. Of a chance at happiness. And now here I am, half-naked under his own half-nude body. Yet I’m struggling with too many wounds from the past.

And making a few new ones, too.

He runs his hand into my hair, fingers sp
l
aying, his palm cupping my jaw. “Talk to me,” he urges.

I can’t.

I touch him instead. Maybe my hands and fingers can tell him what my mouth isn’t ready to say.

“
Is this the language you want to use?” he croons.
 

Something in me releases. A layer of tension unclenches. I’m covered in blanket after blanket of fear, and one of them just unfurled, evaporating like dew under a morning sun.

His hand cups my breast. He’s gentle. Respectful. His eyes tip down, long lashes at rest against his
cheek
. Mark’s mouth kisses my nipple with oh, so much of a whisper.

I reach for his body, my hands seeking comfort and so much more. Can you feel safe in the throes of passion?

I want to find out.

“
You,” he says, pulling back, eyes hooded and looking at my skin, “are so exquisite.” He trails a finger from my collarbone down the hollow of my skin, reaching the top of my breast. I’m buzzing and on fire, chilled and exploding. I breathe in like it takes a hundred years, and breathe out like it’s a blink of an eye.
 

I forget to breathe sometimes. I feel it, the air caught in the back of my throat. Mark takes his time. He moves slowly. The way he touches me is purposeful. Determined. Casual and sultry. I can feel the callouses on his hands, right below his fingers. He has the hands of a man who uses them to do hard work.

I remember how he looked, holding the gun the other night when he broke into my trailer. My screams brought him. What was he expect
ing
? As he plants a kiss on my ribcage and I shiver, I wonder:

What makes a man break down a door to rescue a woman? What drove Mark to do that? Was it pure instinct? Duty?

Love?

“I told you, three years ago, that I loved you, Carrie,” he murmurs against the soft skin he’s kissing. I inhale sharply. A line from his mouth to my core tightens, then turns to a warm wetness I know all too well.

I know it well because I felt it so often around him.

Before.

“
And I never got the chance to show you. You left.”
 

T
he line tugs suddenly. Hard, like a yank.

“You left and I found you, but I didn’t chase you. I gave you room. You took it.” With each sentence, he kisses me. “
I knew I had to give you all the space you needed.”
Kiss
. “I knew that if I followed you, if I gave in to impulse and appeared one day and tried to convince you to come back, that I’d lose you forever.”
 

Kiss.

Every cell in my body fills with a regretful warmth, like my blood can cry.

“So I waited. I hoped you’d come back.”

Kiss.

“But I didn’t know.” His voice is thick with sadness and truth. “I didn’t know, and that’s the part that broke my heart, Carrie. The not knowing.”

Kiss.

His lips brush against my belly, the touch maddening.

“Oh, Mark.” I sit up and pull him to me, needing to feel those lips on mine. I need to assure him.
R
eassure him. “I’m here.”

Kiss.

This time, the kiss is hungry. More urgent, with a kind of madness that comes from the insanity of spending so much time not knowing. Mark’s honesty is tearing my heart in two at the same time that it’s healing me. So many paradoxes swirl in the air between us.

That’s love, right? Two different truths can live together if there’s enough love to fuel them both.

I’m kissing him the only way I know how, with my hands stroking his back, my fingers digging in to the hard muscle under his ribs. Our mouths press and our tongues explore, the movements fevered and eager. We’re making up for lost time.

His hands slide to the waistband of my pants and instead of pausing, all I can think is,
Please
.

He reads my mind and in a few seconds I am completely naked, resting on my back as he rises up to unbutton his
own
pants. His gaze is filled with a kind of rabid lust that is contagious.
O
ne touch, and I’ll have it, too.

One thousand touches, and I’ll never want to live without it.

“You are...God, Carrie. Words are escaping me. All I can think is how beautiful you are. And it’s pretty much the only thing my brain can say.”

“I don’t mind.” My grin makes him laugh. A
s
he slips out of his pants I gasp. He’s so perfect. Not in a model-perfect kind of way. His body is worn.
A warrior’s build.
He carries himself in skin with scars and
imperfections. He has no tattoos of any kind. A part of me wants to ask how he could be a war vet and not have them.