Over the Edge (45 page)
He could feel the sharp bite of her fingernails on his shoulders as she gripped him as tightly as she possibly could. He could’ve written a book about the sweet sensation of her tongue against his, about the familiar scent of her hair, about the grip of her thighs or the softness of her breasts as he crushed her to him.
She pulled her mouth away from him. “Stan, oh, God, don’t stop! I’m gonna . . .”
“Come on, Teri,” he said. “Come on, I’m right behind you.”
“Oh, my God,” she gasped. “Don’t we need a condom?”
Condom. Shit! Stan pulled himself out of her, off of her so quickly, he fell off the bed.
“Holy shit,” he said. “Holy, holy, holy shit. What the hell am I doing?”
“Quick,” she said, scrambling off the bed and searching through the pockets of her pants. She slapped a foil wrapped little package into his hand.
“You carry condoms?” he asked inanely, still stunned that he’d even been inside her without protection. Christ, he didn’t have to come inside of her to get her pregnant. They only had to do what they’d just done.
“Yes,” she said. “I do. Are you going to put it on, or am I going to do it for you?”
He ripped open the package, but he wasn’t fast enough for her. She snatched it out of his hand, pushing him back on the bed and straddling his legs.
“God, is this even going to fit?”
“Yeah.” He sat up to help. “Teri, Jesus, I might’ve already gotten you pregnant.”
“Are you sure you want to talk about this now?” she asked. “I’m going to come in about five seconds whether you’re inside of me or not.”
And with that stunning announcement, she finished covering him, shifted her weight, and slid down, directly on top of him.
Yes, that was his voice crying out. Mr. Much Too Easily Distractible. He, who prided himself on never making mistakes, had just broken the biggest rule in the book. Sex without protection.
But it suddenly didn’t matter because her breasts were in his face. He kissed her, suckled her—hard—and she moaned his name, moving on top of him as if she couldn’t get enough of him, as if she wanted more.
The woman knew exactly what she wanted. She pushed his shoulders down, back toward the bed, so that he was lying flat. So that he was pressed fully inside of her, as deeply as he possibly could be.
Time stopped for Stan as she held herself there, just looking down at him. The sight of her like that—dark curls tousled, full breasts tightly peaked, her skin slick with perspiration, pleasure shining in her beautiful brown eyes—was something he would carry with him to his grave.
“I don’t want this to end,” she whispered. “But if I move, even just a little, I’m going to come.”
He laughed in amazement. “If you keep saying things like that to me, I’m going to come. You won’t even have to move.”
She smiled. “Really?”
It was her smile that did it. That beautiful, beautiful smile of pure delight lighting her incredible face . . .
He had to move. He had to . . .
“Teri,” he gasped.
He bucked beneath her, and she moved, too. And she was right there, with him, true to her word. She fell forward to cling to him as she shattered, as his release rocketed through him in an explosion of color and light, sensation and sound.
Teri’s sweet face. The taste of her mouth, the softness of her lips. Her voice, thick with pleasure, calling his name. Her storm of tears as he’d held her. His vision of her at eight years old. Her eyes filled with anger. With fear. With desire. With trust.
With trust.
Stan opened his eyes as Teri lay on top of him, breathing hard. He could feel her heart still pounding. His was still going at quadruple time, too.
He was still inside of her and he didn’t want to move, even though he knew he had to. He wanted to stay like this, right here, forever. But used condoms could leak. He’d learned that back in Birth Control 101, in junior high school. And this one had already leaked in a very major way. Condoms were susceptible to that—particularly when you failed to put them on prior to penetration.
Ah, Christ. Welcome back to reality.
It was an ugly place to be right now—particularly after the sheer perfection of the place he’d just been.
He gently lifted her off of him, tucking her alongside him, her head on his shoulder, under his chin, as he held her close.
She sighed, running her fingers through the hair on his chest, intertwining their legs despite the heat.
And making him want her again, already, despite the harshness of a reality in which she could be pregnant, a reality in which Muldoon, a kid who looked up to him, who trusted him, was definitely going to wind up hurt.
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Nineteen
Maybe coffee would save her.
Alyssa headed through the lobby, careful not to jar her head. She’d showered and changed and tried to lie down for a while, but failed to sleep.
Her head was pounding and she couldn’t shake free from that image of Sam Starrett with his head bowed as he cried. It was haunting her even more than this infernal headache.
“Hey, Alyssa!”
The dead last person she wanted to see was heading toward her across the lobby. Well, okay, maybe the second to the dead last person.
“Are you okay?” Jules asked. “Where were you last night?”
Resolutely she turned to face her partner.
“Whoa,” he said, taking in the bags she knew were under her eyes, the death-warmed-over color of her skin. “You look like hell.”
He, on the other hand, looked adorable with his perfect hair and his perfect face and his trim little body clad in impeccable army wear—a very clean T-shirt and neatly creased camouflage pants. He looked like GI Joe’s gay little brother.
“At least I’m consistent,” she told him. “Because I feel like hell.”
His concern was immediate and genuine. “Oh, no, did you eat or drink something you shouldn’t have? One of the SAS guys ate some kind of stew and—”
“I had too much to drink last night.”
Jules closed his mouth. And looked at her closely. And just like that, he knew where she’d gone, who she’d been with. “Oh, shit,” he said.
To her horror, tears welled in her eyes.
Jules hugged her. “Okay, sweetie. No recriminations. No blame. You did it. Let’s deal with it. Let’s get you to your room. The last thing you need is for him—or anyone—to see you crying in the lobby.”
Stan was too quiet.
Teri lifted her head to look up at him, and even though he smiled at her, she knew.
He was having regrets.
Her heart sank and all of her newfound self-confidence shrank to a little shriveled ball of lead in her stomach. Maybe he’d never really wanted her in the first place. After all, she’d made it impossible for him to turn her down, coming in here the way she had and taking off her clothes like that. Oh, God.
She sat up, her back to him, wanting nothing more than to find her clothes and leave.
“You all right?” He touched her on the arm as he sat up, too, his hand as warm as his voice.
“I don’t know,” Teri admitted.
He sighed. “We need to talk about this.”
The last of her hope died.
God, she was so stupid. She had been actually lying there mere seconds ago, completely content, thinking what they’d just shared was more than a morning of casual sex. She’d done it again. She’d jumped to the conclusion that this was the start of something big, of a relationship that would build and grow and last, maybe even forever.
But it wasn’t.
It was just what she’d claimed it would be when she first stormed into the room.
A pity fuck. She’d felt bad, so he made her feel better. The end.
And now that it was over, Stan was sitting there, trying to figure out the best way to repair their friendship. He was in mop-up mode. Mr. Fix-It to the rescue.
“Where are you in your cycle?” he asked, and his words didn’t make any sense.
She looked at him. “What?”
“Do you know when you’re due to get your period?”
Oh, damn, he actually thought he might’ve gotten her pregnant. Well, if he had, that was going to be a hard one to fix, wasn’t it?
“I don’t know exactly,” she told him. “Maybe a couple of weeks?”
He nodded. Exhaled a laugh that had nothing to do with humor. “That couldn’t be more perfectly worse, could it? Christ. Okay.” He took a deep breath. Mr. Calm-and-in-Control. “All right. We’re just going to have to wait it out. And if you are pregnant—”
“Don’t worry, I won’t make you marry me.” Teri said it more sharply than she’d intended as she crossed the room. Her underwear was right in the middle of the floor, right where she’d dropped it.
Stan didn’t move. “That’s just one option,” he said evenly as she pulled up her panties, wrestled herself into her bra. “But, you know, if you don’t want to consider—”
“I don’t. Why are we even talking about this?” She pulled on her shirt.
“I thought it might be reassuring for you to know—”
“That you’d ruin your life over an hour of sex? Great sex, but still . . .”
“That I take responsibility for my mistakes,” he countered quietly.
Teri was glad her back was to him as she pulled on her pants, glad he couldn’t see the effect that word had on her.
Mistake.
“What happened here was my fault,” she said just as quietly. She turned to face him and even managed to smile. “You kept saying it was a bad idea. I guess you were right.”
“Teri, don’t run away,” he said, but it was too late.
She’d grabbed her jacket and was already out the door.
Jules Cassidy was walking toward Sam Starrett like a man on a mission.
Okay. Perfect. Here we fucking go. The shittiest day in the world—round two.
Sam didn’t stop eating. He just sat there, at his special table. In his special seat. Shoveling pasta that tasted like crap into his mouth. Giving the world a great big go away message with his glower and his body language.
But Jules didn’t go anywhere. He stood there, obviously waiting for Sam to look up at him. Well, fuck it. Sam wasn’t going to.
So Jules sat down. Sam had to give him credit—the little fruit had balls.
“This has got to stop,” Jules said quietly. “Wasn’t Washington enough for you?”
Well now, wasn’t that the ultimate in irony? Alyssa Locke had warned Sam not to tell anyone about the night they’d spent together in Washington, DC. She’d nearly threatened him with bodily harm over it. And he hadn’t told a soul.
But apparently she’d turned around and spilled the whole sorry-assed tale to her swishy little partner.
“Starrett, you can’t play Neanderthal with me. I know that you care about her,” Jules continued.
Sam finally looked up. Two weeks after he’d seen Alyssa last, after Washington, DC, he’d called Jules. Just to make sure she was really all right. He’d made up some stupid reason why he was calling, but he knew that Jules had seen right through it. He hadn’t asked him any questions then, not even when Sam had asked him not to tell Alyssa.
“I never told her you called,” Jules said softly.
Sam couldn’t hold his gaze. But he managed a nod, a gruff “Thanks.”
“You can’t take advantage of her whenever you feel the urge,” Jules told him gently. “She doesn’t need this. She needs someone who’s going to be there for her, someone willing to commit.” He paused. “Someone who loves her.”
Sam laughed at that—a burst of disparaging air. “Who? You?”
Jules just smiled. “Well, I do love her, but Adam might get a little upset if I tried to bring her home.”
Jules had a live-in lover named Adam. Now, that was more information than Sam had wanted to know. Ever.
Jules sighed. “I know you probably think I’m the last person to judge anyone in terms of what turns them on, but this sadomasochistic thing you’ve got going with Alyssa is killing her. Now, maybe that’s part of the game to you, but—”
Sam put down his fork. “You think I like it? Hooking up with her once every six months? Only to have her hate me again in the morning? Fuck you—she’s the fucking masochist!”
Jules was startled. “But she said . . .”
Sam lowered his voice. “She gets drunk so she’s got an excuse to get down with me. Then she comes to my door and it’s my fault when I don’t turn her away? Fuck you twice.”
Jules narrowed his eyes. “You know, the bad language might be part of the problem. I can see how that might be off-putting for someone like—”
“Yeah, how well do you know her anyway?” Sam said. “It makes her laugh, if you want to know the truth. Jesus, when she’s drunk, she relaxes enough to let herself like me. It’s the rest of the time that . . .” He shook his head. “Fuck.”
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