Street Game (32 page)

He let her set that lazy, mind-blowing rhythm for as long as he could stand it, let her drive him to the very edge of his control, a slow, sensual ride. She made small circles with her hips every few strokes, sending electrical sparks sizzling through his groin and smoldering in his belly. His cock was on fire, his body no longer his own, but hers. She took him higher and higher, her sheath gripping his cock so tight his teeth clenched as streaks spread through his body driving out everything but bliss. Ecstasy. There was nothing but this ride. Their bodies coming together, the blood roaring in his ears, the feel of her soft skin, the sight of her perfect breasts.

His fingers dug into her hips, signaling to her that he meant business now. That he was taking control. She laughed softly. Her breath warm. Her eyes slumberous. Her body fiery hot. She did this little thing with her muscles that dragged over his sensitized cock, increasing the friction. He drove harder, deeper, letting the fire consume him, burn through him, burn him clean, burying himself again and again in her heat—
his
heat.

He dreamt of her like this. Liquid heat surrounding him. Her soft moans. Her soft pleas begging him to fill her body, to never stop. He didn’t think he could live without her. He’d been without her once, and he knew what he’d lost. What a gift she was. He swore the energy between them became more powerful when he took her. Every sensation seemed to intensify when he pounded into her body, sheathing himself again and again.

He felt the shiver moving through her body and knew she was close. Her soft little cries grew breathless. Urgent. He waited. He needed. Everything in him gathered and centered, waiting. He plunged into her wet heat again and again driving her closer to the edge.

“Mack. Please. Oh, God, please.”

Satisfaction. Elation. A powerful aphrodisiac. Her need of him. That soft little plea that meant the world to him. He needed that plea almost more than she did.

“Oh, yeah, baby. For me,” he whispered, his voice harsher than he intended.

Her entire body shuddered. Vibrated. Rippled with shocking intensity. And then he heard his own hoarse shout as she locked down on him like a vise. He felt the boiling in his balls, the rise of his ejaculation, jet after jet of hot seed, the hot release milked out of him by her strangling grip. Her body contracted over and over, rippling through both of them, tearing up through her womb to her belly and breasts. His body bucked against hers, matched her shudder for shudder. Waves of pleasure shook him as he emptied himself deep in her. He felt absolutely free. Absolutely light, as if she had lifted a huge burden from him.

He held her close, burying his face between her neck and shoulder, feeling the ripples course through her body, feeling the grip and release of her body surrounding his. He loved this moment, when they were joined together, when the blood roared and pulsed exactly where they were joined and their hearts beat there together, in the center of their beings. He felt they shared the same skin. He was no longer Mack McKinley, the brutal man who made life-and-death decisions. He was clean inside. She’d saved him for a little while longer.

He turned his head and took possession of her mouth. He let her legs slowly drop to the floor, all the while kissing her, his mouth fastened to hers, melded there together, taking the very breath from her lungs. He wasn’t ready to let her go yet. He kissed his way down her throat, licking at the sheen on her skin, finding the valley between her breasts, tugging and rolling her nipples while her body shuddered in reaction. She moaned low and long in her throat, sending sparks of arousal streaking through him, although he was spent and sated.

Her face was flushed, her mop of unruly curls damp. He framed her face, staring into her eyes. Jaimie. He could barely breathe with the overwhelming way she made him feel. Emotion welled up so strong it shook him.

She smoothed back strands of his hair. “I love you, Mack.”

The intensity in her voice shook him. He leaned down and pressed his forehead against hers while his hands shaped her body. He wanted all night—weeks, months, years—with her. Her eyes changed. Went dark. Shadowed. Her body, so soft and pliant, stiffened, and she pulled away. An inch, no more, but it might as well have been a chasm and he wasn’t having it.

He bunched her hair in his fist and pulled her head back until she couldn’t look away from him. “Tell me.”

She hesitated and he tightened his grip, his teeth coming together with a snap. “We’re not doing this. Tell me.”

“Do you love me, Mack?”

His breath rushed out of his lungs. He should have known—should have been ready. Love. What did that mean? That a man couldn’t escape? That he didn’t own his own soul? He detested that word. There wasn’t a word for what she was to him, what he felt for her. She was part of him, like breathing. She was the rising sun, the stars overhead. The most turbulent storm imaginable. Everything. Was that love? Was that what she was asking?

“I don’t know how to give you the words you need, Jaimie. I can only show you. I show you every time I touch you. Can’t you feel it? Will that ever be enough for you?” Because God help him if it wasn’t. He couldn’t lose her again.

Her eyes searched his face inch by slow inch. He held his breath, feeling as if at any moment his world could come crushing down. Her eyes changed. Went soft. Went liquid. Her body moved against his. Her slow smile warmed him, settled the churning in his stomach.

“I feel it.” Why hadn’t she noticed before? The answer was in the million things he did for her. Jaimie pressed her mouth to his and then trailed kisses along his throat. “Do you have any idea where my clothes are? I seem to lose them whenever I’m around you.”

Mack gathered her shirt and bra, handing them to her a bit reluctantly. “I like you naked. We need a little more privacy.”

She laughed and snatched up her jeans, heading for the bathroom. “I have to agree with you there.”

Mack dressed slowly. He’d never understood the tremendous pull Jaimie had always had on him. Quite frankly, he’d resented it for a long time. Until she left. Now he wanted to get over that spurt of idiocy. Feeling vulnerable and raw was a small price to pay to have her.

She was sunshine and laughter. She was everything good. He wanted to be those things for her. He needed to be there for her just as much as she was for him. He had to figure out what she needed most and provide her with it, because she deserved anything and everything he could give her. If the tremendous emotion he felt for her was love, he hadn’t been prepared for the enormity of it and it all belonged to her. He wanted to make her life the best.

Jaimie emerged from the bathroom. She could take the air from his lungs just by her smile. She held out her hand and he wrapped his fingers around hers.

“Come on. I’m tired. I need a bed.” She tugged at him.

He followed her up the stairs, although the last thing he wanted to do was to get back to business.

The men sat in a loose circle talking. They turned their heads as Mack and Jaimie entered the third floor together. Paul lost color and he glanced as if for assurance at Javier, who just shrugged. Silence fell on the softly speaking group. Gideon lay asleep in Kane’s bed and Mack crossed to him first, bending low to smooth back the few stray strands of hair as a father might a child. Gideon was actually asleep and looked peaceful, the lines of strain etched deep in his face somewhat eased.

Jaimie smiled at Mack, her smile a little sad, and slowly released his hand, the pads of her fingers sliding over the skin of his. He could feel that touch burning right through his body and tingling in the crown of his cock, but then it burned deeper, wrapping around and squeezing his heart. He watched her go into the bedroom area before he reluctantly turned to the others.

Mack walked up behind Paul, and smacked him hard on the back of the head. “That’s for being an idiot.” He cuffed him a second time and went on through to the kitchen. “You and your old man both are idiots. Consider that taking a hit for the old man.”

He poured himself a cup of coffee, added cream just to keep from looking at the kid. Silence stretched, a razor-sharp edge along the nerves. He sipped at the hot brew and turned slowly, fixing a cutting stare on the boy. Paul looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes.

Mack seated himself across from the kid, in the chair Ethan had vacated. “You look like hell. I’ve never seen a psychic surgeon at work. Does it take a lot out of you?”

Paul shrugged. “Depends on how bad the injury. Gideon’s been using himself up. His energy is a little different and I suspect what boosts others doesn’t always help him. The weave of energy.” He frowned, trying to puzzle out how best to explain it. “Energy is usually in waves, surrounding every person and object. Some is very low-level, other times it’s a surge of power. All psychics feed on that energy. Sometimes it’s good, and sometimes not so good.”

“In the way violent energy harms Jaimie,” Mack said.

“Exactly. She’s more sensitive than the rest of you. I can see it in her color patterns.”

“What color patterns?” Mack asked.

Paul waved away the question. “I just see differently. It began at a very early age.”

“Is that when your father decided to change your last name? Did he recognize what you were and tried to protect you that many years ago?”

Paul swallowed and looked away, shaking his head.

“What father wouldn’t?” Mack said, as if the boy had answered him. “Tell me about Gideon. I’ve been worried about him. We’ve all been. What’s wrong with him?”

Paul looked relieved to talk about someone other than himself. “I’ll try to explain it to you, but I have to sort of give you a starting point. It’s more than color I see, it’s all about the patterns. When violent energy rushes toward Jaimie, it invades and damages the actual patterns. Everyone with psychic energy has very distinct threads. Some merge together. Your energy and Jaimie’s merge, intertwine, and build a stronger base. I’ve not seen other couples, but I suspect that might happen with committed pairs. I have to study it a bit more.”

There was eagerness in Paul’s voice, an enthusiasm Mack had never heard before. Jaimie got that same exact tone when she was on to something in her work.

“I joined the GhostWalker program with the hope that I could learn more about what I could do and why I saw people the way I do, but”—Paul shrugged—“it seemed best not to admit to anyone that I was that different.”

“So you played down your skills.”

Paul nodded.

“What you really mean is, the old man found out his good friend Whitney was doing a lot more to the psychics than anyone had agreed upon and some of them were dying.”

Paul’s nod was barely perceptible. “Some were in bad shape. And he was taking apart anyone different. I looked at his color pattern and I knew . . .” He shook his head.

“Knew what?” Mack asked softly.

“That he was damaged beyond repair. He’s psychic and his pattern was all over the place. I could see it in his brain, the madness. He believes in what he’s doing. I knew if he found out what I could do—what I could see—he’d take my brain apart to figure out how it worked. I was the one who exposed what he was doing to . . .” He broke off and looked around the room. “To Sergeant Major.”

“And he told you to play down your abilities.”

Paul shook his head. “I was already doing that. Whitney’s a brilliant man. His weakness is thinking no one else is quite as bright as he is. His ego defeats him every time.”

“So he never guessed about you.”

“No.”

“And the old man decided to put you somewhere safe.”

Paul sent Mack a half smile. “You were the safest person he knew.”

“Did it occur to either of you I might blow your brains out, thinking you were betraying us? Your old man needs a lot more than a slap upside the head.” Mack glared at the boy. “I considered just shooting you and getting it over with. I’m not one for mysteries in my own backyard. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Top.”

“That’s boss to you,” Mack corrected.

The kid hid a smile, his eyes lighting up. “Yes, Top . . . boss.”

“You know we’re going to talk about the old man and the things you’ve been keeping from me. I’ll want to meet with him.”

“Not in his office, Top . . . boss.”

Mack’s eyebrow shot up. His eyes met Kane’s. If their commanding officer was compromised, and Paul seemed to be telling them he was, they were all in trouble. Why hadn’t Griffen found a way to reach out to him? He
really
hated mysteries. If someone wanted them dead, just come at them and make the try.

He sat back in his chair. “They sweep his office every day.”

Paul kept his eyes fixed on Mack. “Yes, they do.”

“Damn it. Why didn’t the old man tell me?”

“He said you’d figure it out.”

So the old man had expected him to figure it out. How? Without Jaimie experimenting with him they would never have discovered Paul. But maybe they weren’t meant to find out about Paul. Griffen had sent Paul to him as part of the team—not as his son. He hadn’t revealed the asset that Paul was because he didn’t want the boy compromised. Griffen would never have told Mack that Paul was his son. The sergeant major had expected him to figure out that he was compromised. How?

He did what he always did—he found Jaimie. She sat tailor fashion on her bed, listening.
What do you think?
he asked.

The suicide missions. You obviously had a bad feeling the moment the orders came down. What tipped you off?

It was the one thing that didn’t make sense, unless Griffen was working with Whitney. But if he wasn’t working with Whitney, then the suicide missions didn’t make sense at all. He would never set up the men in his own command. Mack pressed his fingers into his throbbing eyes. Griffen should have found a better way to get through to him. He must have subtly warned Mack, enough that he picked up on it, but not in a way that tipped anyone else off.

The boy was looking at Mack as if he was going to save the world—save his father. He stretched his legs out in front of him, feeling old and tired. A few minutes earlier, Jaimie’s soft body was wrapped around him, taking him away from reality, but this—blood and death and the planning of it—was his reality. He felt very alone. Weighed down. Sometimes he thought his back might break under the load.