He was shaking with the effort to control himself, but he didn’t have to. She needed this just as much as he did. She needed this wild coupling, this drive each of them felt to get inside the other’s skin. There was no such thing as being too close, not at this moment.
Her tongue licked deeply in his mouth, her arms strained to hold him as tightly as she could. Desire blossomed in her, a hot unfolding and swelling, until her skin felt too tight to contain her. It was almost painful, this intense desire, and she whimpered.
“Now, Drake. Don’t wait.”
It was as if she had lashed a whip across his shoulders. In seconds, he had her pants unbuttoned, sliding them down her legs together with her panties, and as soon as her legs were free, he was kneeing them apart.
He didn’t need to do that. They separated of their own volition, eager to twine around his hips. Oh God, his weight felt so delicious on top of her, heavy and warm, grounding her, making her whole.
It seemed insane to her that she’d spent almost twenty-eight years without this. How had she survived all those lonely nights?
Drake pulled back a little, face harsh, eyes closed to slits, as he reached down and opened her with his fingers.
“Have…to…now,” he gasped. He was always so careful entering her, making sure she was ready for him, but she could tell he couldn’t wait. She didn’t want him to.
In answer, she opened her legs even wider and lifted her hips, in an invitation as old as time.
He entered her on one hard thrust, muscles hard and straining. She was ready, soft and wet and welcoming. Her entire body embraced him, held him, arms and legs and sheath, as tightly as she could.
He moved inside her heavily, thrusting so hard she was going to get carpet burn, but she didn’t care because she needed this, needed it desperately. She needed his hard possession of her body, since she’d just given it to him, together with her heart.
He was straining, hips slapping against hers, the sounds of their panting loud in the hushed quiet of the apartment.
The intense friction caused a firestorm of heat in her loins, her vagina clenched once, twice, rising toward an orgasm…
Drake stopped, panting, head hung low between his shoulders. Every muscle stood out in bold relief. He was so huge inside her, she knew he was close to orgasm, too.
“Why—” she whispered.
“No…protection,” Drake gasped. A drop of sweat ran from his forehead down over the hidden scar, to drop off his chin and onto her shoulder.
Instinctively, Grace tightened her legs around his hips, her hands pushing down on the ironlike muscles of his buttocks, pulling him closer.
“We’re married,” she whispered to him and it was as if those two words set off a firestorm. He bucked, hard, then started thrusting jerkily, fast and hard, in shallow, irregular strokes. Shuddering, he swelled inside her, then started coming on a low moan, almost of pain, setting off her own contractions.
For the first time in her life, Grace felt a man come inside her and not inside of latex. It was glorious. She could feel the hot washes of semen pulsing inside her, her vagina becoming wetter than it had ever been before, so that he could slide in her more easily.
Even after coming, Drake didn’t stop, though he gained control over the strokes, slowing swinging in and out of her in measured movements, moving so easily inside her now that she was wet with his semen.
He groaned with pleasure, eyes tightly closed. Grace’s legs and hands rode his buttocks, completely attuned to his movements. She felt herself become one with him, felt his movements inside and out of her, his body a part of hers…
With a high cry, she started coming again in tight, almost painful pulses that seemed to come from her entire body. He rode her through the contractions, prolonging them, finally coming once more with her.
At last, spent, he collapsed onto her, huge chest moving like a bellows to pull in air.
His limp weight was enormously heavy, so heavy Grace had to work to be able to breathe, so heavy she could feel her joints stretching where he lay atop her.
But she relished it, held him to her as tightly as she could. It was like his weight grounded her, made her feel she was truly a part of this earth for perhaps the first time in her life.
As consciousness returned, she took stock. She’d substituted romance novels for romance in her life, and in the books, it was never this…earthy.
The smell of their sex was sharp in the air, sharper than the smell of wood smoke. Her hair was all tangled and sweaty—she was sweaty all over, as was Drake. Her entire groin area was wet and undoubtedly they had created a wet spot on that incredibly expensive antique Persian carpet under her, the one that had given her rug burn.
Her muscles ached and she had to open her arms, legs falling limply open, too, as she let Drake go. One part of her still held him, though. He was still inside her, softer than before but still semi-erect.
She shifted a little to find a more comfortable position, finding it hard with all that weight on her. The instant her hips moved, he stiffened a little inside her and she nearly laughed.
Not right now, ace, maybe later was on her lips, but she didn’t have the breath to say the words.
Grace was squashed, uncomfortable, wet and sweaty and totally happy.
Finally, Drake turned his head, eyes half closed, a small smile on his face. He kissed her ear and whispered something in a language she’d never heard before, three short, liquid syllables.
She had no idea what he’d said, but there was only one possible answer.
“I love you, too, Drake,” she whispered.
Seventeen
Lido di Ostia Marina
20 miles from Rome on the Tyrhennian coast
December 4
Rutskoi reluctantly killed the outboard engine and gazed with loathing at the rippling black water under him.
He was an army man, through and through. Put him on land and he could fight his way through anything. The Russian army had saved Russia from Napoleon and from Hitler. What had the Russian navy done? Nothing.
It didn’t help that he couldn’t really swim. He could paddle around in a pool without drowning, but that was about it.
He had imagined his final confrontation with Drake on dry land, walking away the victor, Drake slumped on the ground in a pool of his own blood. Not on the roiling sea. But here he was, on water, the unknown element.
He had supplied Terabyte with a list of all known Drake aliases, including a couple he’d only used a few times. And fuck him if they didn’t get back to him within seventy hours, that a credit card in the name of Serge Blansky had been used in Ostia, a small port city just outside of Rome.
It was the name Drake had used in Ossetia, when he’d been supplying the rebels. As far as Rutskoi knew, Drake had only used the name during the month he’d spent negotiating in Tskhinvali. Still, Rutskoi had remembered and had included the name among the twelve known identities of Drake.
So here was a Serge Blansky, booking a room in Lido di Ostia at a fancy five-star hotel that was just Drake’s style, and buying a Lamborghini from a local dealer. How many Blanskys had that kind of money?
Rutskoi had kept the hotel under surveillance from a hundred yards away, but somehow Drake came and went right under his nose, because he never saw him come and never saw him go. Rutskoi was very aware of the fact that a surveillance op like this required a team of five or six men operating around the clock, but he was alone. Deal with it, he told himself.