The McClane Apocalypse Book Three (37 page)

She pleads again, "Hurry."

"Hey," he raises himself to look down into
her eyes. He holds either side of her lovely face. "You can be the
boss everywhere else, but not in here. I've got this under control.
When we make love, I'm the boss," John corrects her, and she slowly
nods at him in the dark. Only then does he kiss her mouth
thoroughly until she is right back to breathing fast.

He pushes forward this time slightly more
forcefully and then a bit further again and again until he is deep
inside of Reagan and has to grit his teeth to hold still while she
adjusts to him. He feels for the first time in his life of wars and
battles and killing like he's finally found home. She is so
delicate and supple and relaxing against him as she pants into his
ear and begs him not to stop.

"Are you ok?" he asks and brushes her hair
back from her cheek as his elbows rest on the blanket on either
side of her head. She nods and pulls him down. John's not even sure
she heard the question. He cradles her head in his hands and kisses
her eyelids, her chin, the tip of her nose and then her mouth again
as he lets her body acclimate to his invasion.

She is kissing his neck and chest of her own
volition, and John almost loses control. But he manages not to and
pushes her back against the hay as he withdraws and pushes inside
of her again and again until she is wild with need and wrapping her
legs around him. They are both covered in sweat, likely most of it
is his, he realizes. When his hand slides between them and he
touches her with expertise, she erupts violently around him and
cries out which he takes into his mouth so as not to alert anyone.
John joins her a second later and groans loudly.

"I love you, Reagan," he says into the base
of her neck as he buries himself and finishes.

They lie still, panting, trying to catch
their breath for what seems like forever, but he is careful not to
squash her beneath him. After a while, John withdraws from her
gently, slowly and rolls to his side, taking her with him. He's
never letting her go again.

His fingertips trace up and down her soft,
smooth back and lower to dip into the valley of her curvy hip.
Every detail of her is perfect, even the way she molds against his
side. Her skin is silky, flawless even with the scars that John
wishes she'd never gotten in the first place. If only he'd been
with her that day. He'd like to kill the guy again even as
irrational as that sounds to him.

"That was…," she whispers throatily against
his chest.

"Yeah, incredible. Just like I knew it would
be," he acknowledges and presses a tender kiss to her forehead.

"You didn't know it would be… like that,"
she answers shyly.

"Oh, I knew. You were the one that didn't
know," he smiles against her hair.

"How could you have known?" she asks
disbelievingly.

"I just knew. I've been walking around with
a hard-on for months, woman," he teases, and she pokes him in the
stomach.

"Don't be crude," she reprimands.

"You didn't mind me being crude a few
minutes ago," he teases further and kisses her on the mouth slowly,
savoring her sweetness. John can feel her smile against his lips.
Reagan lies back down against his chest. He'd like her to just lie
still because he could look at her all night. But he knows she's
not ready for that yet. They rest peacefully together for a while
before she speaks again.

"If
I'd
have known it would be like
that, I might've raped you," she says huskily.

John chuckles softly. "I might've let you,"
he agrees.

"Do I ever get to be the boss?" she
asks.

Reagan rises on her elbow to look down at
him. Her curls create a halo about her and tickle his side. There's
mischief in her tone which is playful and nice to hear. She raises
one eyebrow jauntily which makes John grin before he answers
her.

"No," he says resolutely and pushes her head
down on his chest. He can feel her smile against his pec muscle
which makes him grin in turn. Her fingers do twirly circles on his
abdomen. His fingers twine in her wild curls. Her thigh drapes
casually over his. It's funny, but she hasn't flinched from him
even once since they'd started, not even when he'd kissed her
stomach.

"Never?" she asks a few minutes later.

She's dead serious. John grins at her
because what the heck else can he do? She is so darn cute… and
annoyingly tenacious.

"Maybe." John lets her think this. Never
happening. Her fingers trail lower until they are into the hair on
his stomach that leads to his groin. His hand flattens over hers to
prevent further exploration.

"You said maybe," she sulks.

He puts his hand to the back of her head and
pulls her down for a kiss. She's immediately out of sorts and more
awkward being over him. Reagan is unsure of herself and back to
being stiff and nervous.

"Not as easy as it looks, is it—being the
boss? Got cocky, didn't you?" he teases when he pulls back. She
frowns at him. "Maybe meant maybe someday. Not tonight."

Instead of scowling again, she kisses his
chest and then his nipple which makes his pectoral muscles
jump.

"Maybe you'll be the boss again tonight,"
she suggests and refuses to make eye contact with him, preferring
instead to stare at his chest.

"Maybe," he teases on their word play, and
she leans up for a tentative kiss. John rolls her to her back
again. "I think that's enough for one night, Reagan."

"I don't."

"Do you have to argue about everything with
me?" John asks and feels his body stirring again just being pressed
against her bare skin. Reagan apparently feels the same way because
she lifts her hips against him, making him mad with craving for
her.

"Only when you're wrong," she taunts.

Reagan sucks in a breath as he slides his
hand under her hip and pushes against the tender flesh at the apex
of her legs. She pants readily and pulls his head down to her
mouth. She kisses him like she has more experience than she
actually does.

"You won't be able to walk tomorrow, honey,"
he says, trying to discourage her.

"So?" she puffs against his mouth. "Then you
can carry me."

For some reason this logic sounds rational
to John in his tortured state as he pushes inside of her a few
inches. He passes a long period of time in bliss with her and then
afterwards wonders how it had happened that he'd been talked into
making love to her again when he clearly remembers so ardently
being against it. He realizes that she has not returned his
sentiment of love, but it doesn't matter to John. He'd needed to
say it. He'd needed to tell her for quite some time, and now she
knows his truth.

A little after midnight they return to the
house, and John lives up to his promise and carries her the whole
way, though she tries to protest, even up the two flights to the
bathroom where he waits for her. He easily scoops her into his arms
again and carries her to their bedroom where he spends the next
three hours passed out from heavenly exhaustion with her. He's
waited so long to be with her, to hold her, to make love to her
like he did earlier that all he wants to do is hold her so tight
she can never get away. He spoons her back as she curls into his
front and falls fast asleep as a woman well-loved and spent. When
his watch alarm goes off at four a.m. John hits the button and
presses a kiss to his woman's neck, places their baby in the bed
beside her and goes off to keep watch over both of them.

Reagan blinks confusedly at the gray light
filtering through the draperies and rolls to her side. Jacob is
gone but a furtive peek to John's small bed, and she ascertains
that he, as well. Reagan rolls to her other side again to glance at
the alarm clock on her stand. Shit. She's slept in past nine. Why
hadn't he awakened her?

As she swings her legs to the side of the
bed, Reagan realizes how sore her inner thigh muscles and some
other parts of her body are today. Damn! She hadn't accounted for
this. She isn't the kind of person who likes to be laid up or
slowed down by anything. On the other hand, she's also not sure she
would trade last night's activities for a few less sore muscles in
her body, either. She yanks open the curtains, allowing even
drabber, drearier light to enter. Great. It's raining again. It
doesn't completely dampen her spirits as she remembers last night
with John. A sly grin creeps onto her features as she crosses the
room to her closet.

She chooses sensible black cotton cargoes, a
long-sleeved black tee, clean black socks and her .45 and balls it
all under her arm. Then she has to cover her face to hide her
embarrassment at her own thoughts of John's scarred, yet silky
smooth skin, his dark blue eyes as they'd pierced hers with passion
and the way he'd skimmed his fingers over her body with such vivid
familiarity, as if he'd done it a thousand times. Perhaps he had in
his mind. This thought makes her blush harder. Jesus, how is she
going to face him in broad daylight?

After taking a quick shower in the second
floor bathroom and trying unsuccessfully to do something with her
hair other than just running a brush through it, Reagan dresses,
straps on her pistol and brushes her teeth. Then she pulls her wet
hair into a messy, disheveled bun on top of her head. It probably
isn't the most attractive hairstyle going, but she reminds herself
that she doesn't care. She has to remind herself this again when
she takes it down and then pulls it back up again with uncertainty.
Who cares what he thinks of her hair? This is ridiculous. She's
fairly certain that John doesn't care what her hair looks like.
Obviously it didn't disgust him enough to toss her out of his bed.
The deep crimson stains on her cheeks stare back at her in the
large mirror above the double sinks. She traces the white scar on
her right cheek with her index finger and furrows her brow at it
with deep resentment. She has no idea how John could find her
attractive enough to have sex with her. Avoidance had been so much
easier than having to now deal with this new, uncomfortable
situation she is in. She knows nothing about what kind of woman
John likes. Does he prefer someone who would wear makeup? Or maybe
someone like Hannah who wears dresses all the time? Shit. This
relationship bullshit is hard. What had they been thinking? Oh,
right. She hadn't been thinking at all. His kisses and light
touches had robbed her of that ability last night. Reagan scowls
hard at herself one more time before leaving the bathroom. Grow up,
she mentally scolds.

She bounds down the stairs to the first
floor where most of the family has already gone outside. Grams is
at the island cleaning up after the breakfast that Reagan has
apparently missed, and Hannah is bouncing Jacob happily on her hip
while rinsing dishes.

"Someone surely must've needed some rest,"
Grams says lightly.

"Yeah, guess I was pushing myself too hard
or something," Reagan mumbles.

"Hungry?" Hannie asks from the sink. "We've
got plenty of breakfast leftovers."

"Um, sure," Reagan replies as her stomach
grumbles loudly. She helps herself to ham, fried potatoes and peach
cobbler. She even pours a full glass of milk, which she doesn't
usually care for all that much.

"Apparently a good night's sleep is what
your appetite needed to get charged up, young lady," Grams
comments.

Reagan chokes on a potato inelegantly. Her
grandmother takes Jacob from Hannah so that her sister can finish
with the dishes. If only Grams knew the truth behind her voracious
appetite. It was more like the sex Olympics in the barn last night
that had brought it on.

"You ok?" Hannah asks.

"She's fine, Hannah. Just eating like she's
in a timed competition is all," Grams falsely assumes.

Reagan doesn't correct her. There's no sense
in getting into any of her relationship issues with her family
members.

"Grandpa still with the patients?" she asks
with concern. She is trying to scarf her food down because she
feels guilty that he's been out there all night while she's slept
in like a lazy-ass.

"No, honey," Grams answers. "He went to bed
about an hour ago. Left Sam in charge. Said Huntley's doing much
better already, showing some positive signs of… I don't know what.
You'll have to read his notes."

Grams wipes her hands on her ever-present
apron and retrieves a piece of paper from one of the two, large
pockets on the front of it.

"Here, honey. You'll have to decipher his
chicken scratchings."

Reagan scans the notes quickly, wanting to
hurry out to the shed. Hannah and Grams talk around her, discussing
chickens or something while she studies and eats. She is vaguely
aware that Hannah clears her place setting when she finishes her
meal. A moment later, the screen door slamming jolts her out of her
study trance. The one person she'd like not to see today is
standing there with his manly countenance and wet, dripping
hair.

"It's rainin' cats and dogs out there,"
Grams confirms, although nobody needs her to when John is clearly
drenched to the bone.

"Sure is, Grams," he agrees.

John uses the towel Grams is offering to pat
his face and hair. He's also staring Reagan down, who is staring
mouth agape like a besotted moron. His plain white t-shirt is
clinging to his stomach muscles and chest.

"Boy, you sure did sleep late, boss," he
mocks with a cocky grin and a quick flash of white teeth.

Reagan's sure that her face has turned
scarlet again.

"Wh… what?" she croaks and expediently rises
from her seat. She also trips over the leg of her stool, proving
what a clumsy imbecile she is in front of John.

"She needed it," Grams adds. "She's been
working so hard in the shed and out with the horses, too!"