#2 Dangerous Games (19 page)

"Where doesn't matter," Clint murmured. "Fuentes and his men thought women were one step below their dogs. Except for that aberration he called his wife. They worshipped her. Saul shared this view and he knew Fuentes' business inside and out. He could be the key we're looking for."

"Was the Fuentes bitch even female?" Joe grunted. "The reports I read on her suggested otherwise."

"She had a kid," he grunted. "So she was at least equipped physically. Mentally, I'd put her against Genghis Khan. Let me know what you can find out. I'm going to make a few more calls, then catch some sleep. I'll contact you later to see what you've learned."

Dawn was peeking through the sides of the curtains, reminding him exactly how long it had been since he had actually slept.

He disconnected the call, made a few more contacts with friends he knew would spread the word that he was currently trying to tame the shrew, then pocketed the cell phone and muttered a curse.

Damn, this was starting to get sticky. They thought they had taken out enough of Fuentes' network to
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completely disable the cartel. Who had they missed?

He rose from the couch, pushing the phone back in its holder as he paced back to the bedroom. He just wanted to look at her. Hold her.

He shucked his jeans and underwear before easing slowly onto the bed beside her, careful to stay on top of the blankets that covered her as he curled himself around her.

He buried his face in her hair, inhaling the sweet scent of it, smelling the combined scents of their bodies.

Hers warm and tinted with spring, his darker, more forceful. He was sunk and he knew it. Years of secrets, of hiding the truth even from those who knew him best, weighed on his shoulders with backbreaking force. On his back, old scars, long ago healed, stung with a fiery heat.

He flinched at the memory of the belt coming down on his back, the rage in his father's eyes, the violence that tightened his features.

You're the man of the house while I'm gone and you couldn't stop her?

Whoop.

She's a woman, boy; where's your pride? You're going to let them make a whore of your momma?

Whoop.

I'll teach you to do your job right. By God, you'11 do it right or I'll kill you.

Whoop.

He had been thirteen years old. It was his responsibility to keep his mother home, to keep her from screwing everyone on the fucking base while his Navy SEAL father was gone. His responsibility.

His father had never beaten Clint's mother. He had never so much as spanked Raven. It was Clint's job to watch them, to protect them, to keep them safe. Even from themselves. If he failed, then the punishment was his. It was the lesson his father had learned from his father, and so on down the line. It was a bitter legacy that would end with Clint.

Clint remembered the day the black car had driven up, his mother's hysteria at the news of his father's death. Clint had known only relief. Soul-destroying, guilty relief that his father wouldn't return. Ever.

Allen McIntyre had been a good husband, despite his wife's infidelities. To Raven he had been a loving, strong figure for a father. But the face he had shown his son had been demonic, and one Clint knew would haunt him forever.

He tucked himself closer to Morganna, pulling her into the cradle of his body as weariness washed over him. He couldn't keep her forever, and he knew it. He couldn't be certain that the insanity that gripped his father wouldn't take hold of him one day as well. He had been given proof of that the first time he met one of Morganna's lovers, years before. He had wanted to kill the bastard. Every instinct inside him had pushed him to kill. And it terrified him.

But while he had her, he would love her. Silently. Stoically. He would love her.

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DREAMS WERE CLINT'S WORST FEAR. Each time he closed his eyes he knew the chances of reliving the past were high. Seeing himself in his father's place, his hand raised back, the length of a leather belt clenched in his fist as his blue eyes blazed with fury, was his greatest nightmare.

He knew the child before him was his own flesh and blood. Big for his age, maybe, smart for his age, but still just a child. Tears stood in the boy's eyes, but none fell to his cheeks until the flesh of his back smeared with blood. A still the belt fell, the fury cracking around them with each strike.

It was a dream Clint had never forgotten. Just as he had never forgotten his own beatings.

My father taught me to be a man, boy, Allen McIntyre had raged as he beat Clint. I'll teach you to be a man. A man doesn't stand by and let others turn his momma into a whore.

The bastard had idolized his wife. He had worshipped at her feet, fought with her, screamed, and cursed her. The house and Allen's life had revolved around Linda McIntyre.

The dreams poured through Clint's unconscious mind, though this time they grew dimmer, dimmer.

Rather than feeling the stripe of his father's leather, Clint felt a soft caress along his arm. The smell of his own blood was pushed away by the scent of summer, of heat and passion.

The smell of Morganna.

He shifted against her touch, knowing this dream better than most. He would feel her touch, light as a butterfly over his body, but never as he needed it. He would awaken, poised at the gates of her glistening, wet flesh, unsated, aching for her.

But the touch was firmer this time. Lips heated rather than merely warm. Her fingertips like silk, the murmur of her arousal against his abdomen as she licked.

He arched to her, rolling to his back, his arms outspread as he relished this touch. A touch from a woman whom he had only had in his dreams. Until now.

Her approval was a stinging little kiss just above his navel. He groaned, the sound piercing his mind as his fists clenched in the blankets. He needed her lower, just a little bit lower. His cock was rising fierce and hot from between his thighs, his balls aching with the need for relief.

Slowly, the knowledge that reality and dream commingled penetrated his mind, sending a harsh flare of horror raging through him. His eyes snapped open as his hand flashed out, catching her wrist as her slender fingers moved to encircle the throbbing shaft rising so eagerly to her touch.

Her witchy eyes, stormy gray, almost black with arousal, lifted to his. Dark lashes shadowed her cheeks as a wanton smile curved her lips and her pink little tongue swiped over her lips before her head began to lower.

He couldn't speak. Jaw clenched, body aching, his free kind shot out, gripping her hair to hold her back.

Her lips were but a breath from the damp, flushed crest rising so eagerly to her lips.

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Nothing could stop her tongue. His jaw clenched so hard he wondered it didn't snap as her tongue swiped over the bead of come welling from the tip, then tickled at the gold ring piercing his foreskin.

His hips jerked, involuntarily arching to her lips despite the hold he had on her hair, the desperation in his mind that he hold her back falling beneath the pleasure.

It was so good. So damned good. Her tongue tugging at the little ball ring, sending sparks of heated sensation burning along his cock.

She was so pretty. Naked, flushed, her breasts swollen, the nipples peaked and rosy as she bent to him.

His greatest fantasy, his worst fear.

"Let me," she whispered, breathing over the damp head of his erection as he jerked at the lash of pleasure that so simple a caress brought.

His eyes narrowed on her as he took the hand he gripped, wrapping his fingers over hers as he forced her to grip the base of his tortured flesh.

He couldn't speak. God only knew the insanity that would pass his lips if he tried. His other hand tightened in her hair, intent on dragging her rosy lips over the throbbing crest.

A frown snapped between her brows as she leaned back, tugging at the hold on her hair.

Her voice was strong, demanding. "You had your playtime; now it's mine. Let me go, Clint."

He fought to breathe. How the hell was he supposed to allow her the freedom to touch him as she pleased? She would kill him. Didn't she know she was already destroying his soul?

"Let me go." Her voice softened as she continued to stare at him from between his splayed thighs. "I've dreamed of this. Bringing you pleasure. Let me bring you pleasure now."

Her free hand reached up, her fingers gripping his wrist, pulling at it as he forced his fingers to release her. He could see the need in her eyes, the hunger. Just for a minute. He could bear it surely-

"Jesus!" His hand flew to her hair again, gripping the strands as her hot mouth encircled the violently sensitive crest. "No."

Her lips lifted from him as her gaze flashed.

"Don't tell me no." She pulled his hand from her again. "What are you afraid of, big man? How is the puny little girl going to hurt you? Like this ... ?" Her tongue swiped over him, sending a burst of heat to his loins that damned near stole his breath.

"Morganna." He moved to snag her hair again, only to have her flip her head to the side, anger mantling her cheeks.

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"If you grab my hair again, I'm going to bite you." Her teeth raked over the throbbing head of his cock and he nearly shot his release then and there. "Now stay still and let me play, Clinton McIntyre, or I promise, you're going to hurt for a week."

Her tongue snagged the gold ball ring a second before her teeth gripped it, the little pout on her lips assuring him she meant business.

Clint fought to swallow. With every touch, every sweet, silky caress, she was destroying his soul. How the hell was he supposed to let her go when this was finished?

"I need to taste you," she whispered as she licked beneath the crest, her little tongue flickering over the most sensitive area of his cock. "I need to make you feel good, too, Clint."

His hands slapped to the bed, fisting in the blankets as he dared back at her. He couldn't speak.

Gibberish would result.

"So gracious you are, too." Her husky laughter breathed over him, torturing him as her delicate hand began to stroke the thick shaft. "That's okay, lover; I'm used to the Grouch. God knows how I could handle the shock if you were actually nice."

Her eyes gleamed with laughter.

He forced himself to stay silent, to brace himself.

There was no bracing himself for her mouth. Her lips surrounding the blazing ache in the head of his erection, sucking it deep into her mouth as her tongue caught and played with the ring that pierced the foreskin.

"Sweet God!" he prayed, feeling the come boiling in his scrotum as he fought for control.

Her moan vibrated against him as her mouth tightened on him. Her lips stretched around him, sending exquisite fingers of electric shock through his penis, straight to his balls. Shit, he wouldn't last a minute like this.

His hips arched again, driving the bloated head deeper as her mouth sucked him firmly. So sweet and hot, velvet-tight. And her face. Her expression was something he knew would be branded in his mind forever.

It glowed. Her sweet, beautiful face glowed before him as her hungry lips consumed him. Heavy-lidded eyes stared up at him; slender fingers stroked his shaft, caressed the taut sac below, and blew his mind.

She was the vision of every sexual fantasy he had ever known in his life. Of course, every sexual fantasy he had ever known was Morganna.

"Sweet baby." His lips opened, his voice, so hoarse it shocked him, spilled the words building in his mind. God, he couldn't resist her, couldn't resist the need that had his hips pumping, his erection fucking into her mouth as his loins tightened with a release he wondered if he would survive.

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"Perfect." His strangled groan tore from his lips as she tongued the ball ring, tugged at it, licked over the foreskin. Sweet Heaven have mercy on him, he was going to blow his mind with his orgasm.

This wasn't pleasure. This was torture with silken licks, a firm draw of satin cheeks. It was the most incredible torment he had ever known in his life.

"God yes!" His body corded as he felt her take him deeper, felt the sweet, fiery constriction at the back of her throat on the highly sensitive tip of his cock. "Damn you to hell, Morganna!"

He was going to come. His hands moved for her head, only to have her slap them back as the pressure on his cock eased.

"Fuck. Suck me." His hands slammed back to the bed.

He wasn't a fool. If he dared attempt to control this, she would stop. And he couldn't bear that. She was sucking his mind from the tip of his cock and he considered it an acceptable sacrifice. Fiery fingers of exquisite pleasure were tearing up his back, sizzling in the base of his spine, warning him that he couldn't hold off much longer.

He was panting for air. Breathing was almost impossible. Sweat broke out over his body as he gritted his teeth, snarling with the rapture tearing through him.

"Damn you!"

Her mouth tightened.

"Morganna. Baby ..."

Her tongue flickered, tugged at the ball ring, lashed him with heat, and then as the tip of his erection was sucked to the back of her throat the explosion that resulted had him crying out, when he never cried out.

His hips arched tight, his eyes closed as his head ground into the pillow and his semen burst from the tip of his cock, spilling into the hot depths of her mouth. It was never ending, ripping through him, shuddering through his body, and stealing his soul.

When the last furious pulse of hot liquid was consumed by her greedy lips, he was free. He jerked her to him, rolling her to the bed and pushing in between her thighs.

He was still hard, still hungry. He would never, could never, get enough of her. His hands gripped her hips as he came over her, his thighs widening hers as he pressed into her.