Hell Breaks Loose Page 15

  His fingers paused on her. “I’m sorry.” His voice shook slightly. “I shouldn’t take advantage of you like this, but I have to have this . . . you. Before I end up back in prison, I need this.”

  Eleven years. He’d been in prison for eleven years. For the first time, she didn’t feel the usual disgust. That fact made something hot unfurl in her belly. “I know what I’m doing.” She’d be his first woman in all that time. It shouldn’t matter, but for some reason it did.

  “I doubt that or you wouldn’t let me touch you like this. Like I’m going to.” He leaned down on his elbow and slid his hand into her hair, gripping hard, pulling her head back and angling her face so that they stared directly into each other’s eyes. “Say this is real,” he demanded. “Say you want it.”

  She unclenched her teeth from her lip. “I want it.”

  His eyes flicked back and forth between hers like he was assessing for the truth.

  She inhaled a thick breath. “I want you.”

  A growl rumbled up from his chest, vibrating into her. The sound made her feel desired, beautiful. Wanted by this big, gorgeous brute with his piercing eyes and magic hands.

  He did this thing with his wrist and bore down, making her gasp, moan. She couldn’t help herself.

  She ran her fingers into his short hair, learning the shape of his skull beneath her palm. The promise of release welled back up inside her again, bigger than anything she had ever felt before. She couldn’t stop it. She didn’t want to. She rode the wave arching under him.

  He pushed, touched, stroked. All over the thin soaking wet fabric of her panties. She wasn’t even naked. There was no penetration.

  “God. You’re hot for it,” he grunted against her mouth before claiming her lips in another scorching, messy kiss that was full of pants and moans.

  And then, suddenly, he knuckled aside her panties and pushed one finger deep inside her, curling up and touching her so deeply that she shattered, crying out loudly. Wildly. Uninhibited. Something she had never done. Never thought possible. Especially with a man like him.

  It was like he wasn’t going to give up until he wrung an orgasm out of her. Her grip twisted tighter in the sheets. “Give it to me. Come for me, Gracie. I need to hear it, feel it, from you.”

  No one had ever called her Gracie before. It was cute. Feminine. Not nearly formal enough for her parents’ tastes, and it was another hit, another attack to her overwrought system.

  “I—I . . .” She tossed her head from side to side, not knowing what to do with the overwhelming sensations.

  “Now, Gracie,” he said, his voice hard. In control. “Come for me now.”

  She arched, breaking apart as his fingers worked over her, not stopping, not slowing down even through the wave of her mind-obliterating orgasm.

  She gripped his skull with one hand as her other palm skated down the smoothness of his muscled back, the aftershocks of her orgasm eddying throughout her.

  This wasn’t her. It couldn’t be her. And yet it was. It was and she didn’t regret it. They were still partially clothed, his finger buried deep inside her. The hunger was still there, pulsing within her . . . unfed in him.

  Even through his clothes his erection rocked solid against the inside of her thigh. She was acutely, achingly aware that there was much left to explore and a lot left unfinished between them.

  And they had a long night still ahead of them.

  Fifteen

  This had BAD IDEA written all over it. His entire body shook with restraint as he hovered over her. He took a gulp of air as he fought to pull himself together.

  He’d forbidden himself to cross this line with her. It was wrong on so many levels. Even if she wanted him now, she would regret it tomorrow. Or the next day. Or simply when she was back in her world . . . back in her role as First Daughter.

  She would look back at this time with him in horror. What he’d just done to her was bad enough . . . but if they went ahead and had sex. Well, that would be worse. He might not be forcing her, but she would feel just as traumatized later.

  Still, with all of these very reasonable, very sobering thoughts tracking through his mind, he did not withdraw. His one hand remained buried in her hair while his other was still lodged between her smooth thighs, his finger deep inside her. He breathed slow breaths in and out, the pulse thudding a fast tempo in his ears as he reveled in the way she throbbed all around him. He felt awake and alive in a way he had not felt in years.

  That could be you buried inside her. She wouldn’t stop him. She was saying all the right things that signified consent.

  If he didn’t get off her, Reid didn’t know if he could stop himself. He was too hard, too hungry, too desperate . . .

  He withdrew, sliding off her. His body protested, wept for her, but his mind held strong. He couldn’t stand the thought of her hating him later. For abducting her and holding her captive, sure. That was fair. He’d take the hit for that. But he wasn’t going to fuck her when it was something she would regret later.

  One of her hands grabbed his arm, her slim fingers digging into his skin. “Where are you going?”

  He inhaled a deep breath. “Grace, we can’t. We’re done.”

  Her eyes widened, liquid-dark pools that could drown a man. He certainly felt like he was drowning. And not just in her eyes. In her scent. In all that night-black hair that his hands couldn’t get enough of. In the taste and texture of her.

  Christ. He needed out of this room.

  “What?” she whispered, her voice no less demanding for its quiet.

  He decided to go with honesty. “I didn’t climb into this bed to do this. You were crying . . . I was concerned—”

  She recoiled as though he had struck her. “That was pity?”

  He shook his head, realizing that wasn’t the full truth of it either. Touching her had nothing to do with pity. “No—”

  She angled her head, her voice mocking as she bit out, “Here’s an orgasm to make you feel better?” She let him go and scrambled for the covers, pulling them over her bare legs. “I’m such an idiot.” She shook her head, tossing all that lush hair behind her. “You’re just a full-service kind of criminal, aren’t you? Abduction and orgasms. Do you know how to bake brownies, too?”

  “Gracie—”

  She shook her head harder. “No, don’t call me that.”

  “You’ve been through a lot. You don’t want to do this with me.” He motioned between the two of them. “You’re going to go back to your world soon and you don’t want to regret—”

  “I get it.” She held up a hand, clearly hoping to stop him from saying more. “No need to explain. We’ve been through this already. I’m not your type. And hey, you’re not mine. I already have a fiancé.”

  He stiffened. Somehow he had forgotten that fact. Just another reason to keep his distance. She wasn’t his to have. She belonged to someone else.

  “That’s right.” He nodded, an ugly tightness stealing over him. All reasonableness fled him. Gone was the cool logic of moments ago. His urge to fling her down on that bed and make her his, mark her forever, stamp her as his own, was overpowering. For eleven years he’d lived by a code of taking, claiming, and holding onto what’s yours with your last breath if need be.

  Irrational anger pumped through him. He wasn’t in a position to be with her and yet that didn’t stop him from resenting like hell that another man could be. “You have someone to fuck you just as soon as you get home.”

  He felt a stab of satisfaction at her sharp inhalation.

  “That’s right!” she echoed. “And he won’t stop when the job’s half done. He’ll have no problem finishing.”

  His hands curled into fists at his sides to stop from reaching for her. He felt like shaking her, but God knew what he would do if he actually touched her.

  Turning, he strode toward his pallet, his feet hitting the floor hard. Bending, he snatched up his bedding. There was no way in hell he could sleep in the same room
with her. He straightened and glared at her, sitting at attention on the bed, and she glared in turn at him, her dark eyes coal bright.

  With one hand on the doorknob, he tossed out, “Be sure to let him know that I kept you warm and ready for him.”

  With a growl of indignation, she grabbed a pillow and threw it across the room. It landed several feet short of him. He glanced from the pillow on the floor to her. He knew he should walk out. He was angry. Sexually frustrated. Anything he said at this point couldn’t be kind.

  Still, he couldn’t stop taking one more parting shot. “Try not to think of me when it’s him inside you.”

  “Why would I?” she hissed. “I haven’t a clue what that’s like . . . thank God,” she added with a flourish, waving her arms out on either side of her.

  He tsked. “How quickly you forget you were just begging me for it.”

  “Bastard!”

  Grinning, he shut the door. He tossed his blanket on the couch and settled in, lying flat on his back and propping his hands behind his head. His smile quickly evaporated, taking with it any smugness he had felt. He glanced toward the closed bedroom door, feeling an uncomfortable tugging in his gut.

  He’d forgotten how much he sucked at the relationship thing. He’d had plenty of girls, but never loved any of them. He didn’t know how to do that. He’d gone to prison at twenty years old, so maybe that would have come with time. Maybe not. It wasn’t as though he’d had any stellar examples to follow.

  His grandmother died when he was just a baby. His grandfather had been a quality person but had never been the model for a healthy, monogamous relationship. His parents had only shown him dissipation and general fucked-up-ness.

  Christ. He scrubbed two hands over his face. Why was he even thinking about love with Grace? Or relationships? This had an expiration date. And it wasn’t like anything was possible between them even without one. They were from two different worlds. Might as well be different species.

  Damn. He was obsessing. He needed to get out of here and get on with it all.

  Pushing up from the couch, he strode to the kitchen. He didn’t care if it was late. He grabbed the phone and called his brother, pacing until Zane picked up. It sounded like he was at a party. Music and voices overlapped in the background.

  “Hey, Reid. How’s it going out there?” Zane said in an overly loud voice.

  “Fine. What’s the word, man? Heard from Sullivan?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Talked to Sullivan. Honestly, he wasn’t too happy. He doesn’t think you’ve got the chops to see this thing through with the girl.”

  “Zane, I need you to convince him.” Just like he needed all of this to end. This thing with Grace. Over. Sullivan? Yeah, he needed to finish that, too. It was the whole point. The reason he broke out—although too much of his head was wrapped up in the girl in the next room. He was starting to lose focus.

  “Don’t worry, man. I got your back.” Voices and laughter broke out in the background. “Hey, save me some!” Zane shouted with a laugh.

  “Hey! Don’t forget about me,” Reid warned, his voice snappy.

  Zane spoke into the phone again. “You got our hostage. No one’s forgetting. How’s she doing? You roughing her up?”

  Emotion clogged Reid’s throat. Grief for the kid brother he’d lost. Anger at the man who had taken his place.

  “You come up here much, Zane?” he asked, gazing blindly into the darkened kitchen, focusing on the window above the sink, the frosted glass, the world outside of it. Brittle leaves drifted from the branches of a big oak.

  “Nah. Why? Is it run-down?”

  “No, just being here reminds me of the old man. Those were good times.”

  “Honestly, I don’t remember him too much.”

  Reid closed his eyes in a slow pained blink. That might explain some of it. His brother didn’t remember their grandfather and all he had taught them . . . shown them. How not to be like their father and men like Rowdy. How to not fall under the thumb of a man like Sullivan.

  Shaking his head, he swallowed down the thickness in his throat. “All right. You keep working on getting me that meeting with Sullivan.”

  “Will do.”

  He hung up the phone and turned back to the couch. Settling down on it, he fixed his stare on the door that separated him and Grace. Gracie. That’s how he would always think of her. When he returned to his cold jail cell, he wouldn’t think of her as Grace Reeves, the First Daughter. She was Gracie. His. Even if she wasn’t.

  Grace spent the next day in her room. Mostly. She came out in the morning, but only because she had to use the bathroom and eat. She managed to avoid his gaze as she made toast, grabbed an apple, and poured herself juice.

  In the afternoon she wasn’t so lucky. She emerged to an empty cabin and tiptoed like a teenager sneaking out. Stealth was critical. She opened the refrigerator and took out a package of cheese slices and slapped together a cheese sandwich. Under normal circumstances she would have grilled it on the stove, but she wanted to be back in her room before he returned from wherever he was. She knew he was close. He wouldn’t have strayed too far. Last night had changed nothing. If anything, things were worse. More tense. He still wouldn’t trust her.

  She grabbed a can of soda and bag of potato chips to go with her sandwich, ready to dive back into her room when the front door suddenly opened. He walked in, carrying an armful of firewood.

  His gaze locked with hers. Tension crackled and she felt her face heat, the memory of him in bed with her, his hands on her, touching her where she hadn’t been touched in so long. In a way no one had ever touched her.

  “Getting chilly,” his voice rumbled. “Tonight should be downright cold.” He turned his back on her and squatted, stacking logs in the firewood rack.

  She shifted on her feet, her mouth drying as she gazed at him. “Didn’t think it got this cold in Texas,” she said inanely.

  “Texas is a big state. Lots of different climates. It snows early in these mountains. Soon this place will be blanketed in white.”

  It would be beautiful. Something right off a Christmas card. She bit back the comment that she would like to see that. This wasn’t a holiday. And he wasn’t a friend . . . contrary to how the lines might have gotten blurred last night.

  Turning awkwardly, she moved toward the bedroom, ready to slip inside where she didn’t have to look at him anymore. Where she didn’t have to reflect on everything they had done last night. Everything she had let him do. Everything she had felt.

  His voice stopped her.

  “Afraid to eat out here? In my company?”

  She turned back around. “Why should it matter to you where I eat?”

  After a moment he replied, “It doesn’t matter.”

  She stared at the broad expanse of his back, admiring the way the muscles and sinew flexed under his thermal shirt. She headed back for the bedroom, but his voice stopped her again. “How’d you meet your boyfriend?”

  “Charles?”

  He rose, dusting his hands, leveling those green-gold eyes on her. Amusement lurked there, and something else. Something she couldn’t name but that did funny little things to her insides. “Yeah.”

  “He’s my fiancé,” she reminded him.

  His lips twisted, looking down at her hand. “No ring?”

  “Not yet. It’s not official.” She knotted the hand that should have showcased an engagement ring. “I met him during my father’s first campaign,” she answered.

  “So he works for Daddy.”

  There was no mistaking the derision in his voice. “Yes. You could say that.”

  His gaze flicked away, dismissing her. “Doesn’t seem your type.”

  She straightened her spine, heat flaring in her cheeks. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard someone say that about Charles and her. Not the first time some cute intern blinked her long eyelashes at her and tapped her glossy lips with some passive aggressive remark. You two seem soooo different. I never wo
uld have pictured you two dating.

  “Oh, you know him, do you?”

  He shrugged like that was a moot point. “No.”

  “Then you know me so very well?”

  At this, he looked at her and paused again. Really looked at her. Almost like he did know her. Like he saw her. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had looked at her like that—as if seeing past flesh and bones to the woman who had been trapped inside for so long—and she felt an uncomfortable flush of heat.

  “Well,” she prodded, even though she knew she should let it go. “Why is that?” she demanded, her fingers clenching around the edge of her plate.

  “He just seems so slick.”

  And why did it sound like he just said sewer rat?

  “Well, he is the White House communications director. Being polished is part of his job.” Defensiveness edged her voice.

  “It’s not just that.” He advanced on her where she stood holding her plate. She held her ground.

  She knew she shouldn’t rise to the bait, but she heard herself asking, “Then what is it about him that doesn’t seem my type?” What she was really asking was: What is it about me?

  “Well, if you have to know . . .”

  His voice faded as he closed the last few feet separating them. She backed away until she bumped the small kitchen island. His hands settled around the edge of the counter, caging her in. Her plate was wedged between them, saving them from full body contact. He idly glanced down at the dish.

  She swallowed the boulder-size lump in her throat and nodded at him to continue.

  “He seems a little too polished for you,” he elaborated, his voice low and husky, reminding her of a dark room and his hands on her skin. “Not the kind of guy to bury his face between a woman’s thighs because it might mess up his hair. Know what I mean?”

  Actually, she did. Charles took great pains with his hair.

  The heat scoring her face reached nuclear level proportions. “Oh.” Suddenly that’s all she could imagine. Reid’s face between her legs, her hands in his hair.