She looked up, her eyes dark, intense. “My hands are clumsy.”
“I don’t mind.” When she’d finished, he shrugged out of the shirt.
For a moment she simply looked at him and he felt oddly… humbled. “I always wondered what went on under your suits,” she said softly. “I never thought I’d find out.”
“I’m glad you were wrong.”
She smiled at that, shyly, but her hands were clenched together. She was nervous again, but she hadn’t told him to stop, so he started anew. He kissed her until she kissed him back and her hands unclenched, flattening on his chest, and he shuddered.
He’d missed this. Needed this. He dropped his head to her shoulder. “Don’t stop.”
“I won’t.” And she didn’t, fanning her palms back and forth, exploring.
He lifted his head and watched her face as she touched him. She’d needed this, too. “I like the summer,” he said abruptly and she looked up, surprise in her eyes.
“Why?”
“Because you have this shirt that you wear to the bar.” He trailed his fingers up under her sweater, along her stomach, and felt her muscles clench and quiver. “It’s cut high. When you twist a certain way, I could see part of your tattoo. What is it?”
She swallowed hard. “Why don’t you find out for yourself?”
“I could do that.” He pulled her sweater over her head, revealing a plain, serviceable bra that shouldn’t have made his mouth water, but it did. Gently he pushed her to the bed and followed her down, running his fingers over the skin he’d bared.
He pressed his lips between her breasts then forced himself to lift his head. “This drove me crazy all summer.” Vines crept up from the waist of her jeans, curling this way and that. Some bore tiny flowers. In some places the vines were thicker than others.
She was holding her breath. He ran his fingertip over one of the thicker vines, felt the hardened, raised skin beneath. And understood. They were the scars from the eight times she’d been stabbed. She’d turned something horrific into something beautiful.
He waited to meet her eyes, waited until he’d shoved all the sorrow and rage back deep, where she couldn’t see. Waited until the only thing left was pride. And desire. “This is one hell of a tattoo,” he said, his voice between husky and hoarse.
She breathed then, her tension ebbing. “It keeps going. You know. Down.”
Noah’s mouth curved even as his fingers itched to rip the jeans from her body and see just how far down the vines dipped. “I can see that.”
She exhaled through her teeth. “Hurry, Noah.”
But he wouldn’t let himself be hurried. He kissed the skin above her bra, then below it until her shoulders lifted from the bed, seeking more. Finally she threaded her fingers through his hair and pulled his mouth to her breast and he gave in, sucking hard through the cotton, groaning when she pushed the fabric away.
She twisted higher, humming her pleasure when he took her other breast in his mouth. “More,” she whispered. “Do more. Please. Don’t make me wait anymore.”
His hands shaking, he yanked the jeans and lace panties down her long legs, leaving her naked and wide-eyed, waiting for his reaction.
He had to wait, to make sure his voice didn’t crack like a teenager’s. “I always wondered what went on under your clothes. I never thought I’d find out.”
She said nothing, still waiting, and his heart squeezed even as his body throbbed.
“Eve, I imagined a lot, but never like this. You’re beautiful.”
Her eyes closed and her throat worked. “Hurry,” was all she whispered and he knew she was terrified. Noah wanted to curse, no, to kill the man who’d left her scarred and scared. But that wouldn’t help either of them now.
No pressure, he thought and let his own trousers drop to the floor in a jingle of keys. She flinched, just a little, but he saw. So he lay down beside her and started again, kissing, caressing, until her hands relaxed and her hips lifted, her body seeking his.
“Please,” she whispered. “I’m ready.” But her eyes were still closed.
“No, you’re not.” He kept his voice soft. “Look at me, Eve.”
She opened her eyes. There was arousal there, but still too much fear. He brought her hand to his lips, then down his body, wrapping her fingers around him.
“That feels so good,” he said huskily. “I want you to feel good, not afraid.” He covered her mouth with his once more and teased her, working one finger up into her, then two until her hips moved restlessly and little cries burst from her throat.
Now, he thought. It had to be now. Slowly, carefully, he pushed inside her, watching her face. When her eyes met his, relief hit him like a brick. Arousal had won.
And so had Eve. He started to move, never taking his eyes from hers, and when they clouded with pleasure he felt like he’d conquered the whole damn world. When she came, convulsing around him, he dropped his head to her shoulder and followed.
In the minutes afterward, he felt dizzying relief. He might have had more powerful orgasms, but never one more satisfying. There would be time for powerful later. Now he rolled them to their sides, and savored what they’d done.
Eve blew out a breath. “I’m glad that’s over,” she murmured.
Startled, he blinked down at her. “Excuse me?”
She winced. “I didn’t mean it that way. I meant… hell. We dove into a cold pool and I was so scared, but you… you were so patient with me. You couldn’t have enjoyed that very much.” Her brows lifted. “Although you were exceptionally functional.”
He snorted a surprised laugh. “I’ll have you know I enjoyed it very much. As did you.”
She smiled shyly, charmingly. “I did.”
“Now that we’re finally in the pool, we’ll both enjoy it more the next time.”
“Next time?” She looked intrigued. “When might that be?”
He laughed again. “Give me a few minutes.”
“Thank you,” she murmured. “For understanding that I needed the shove.”
“Thank you for trusting me.” He raised one brow. “And for… you know.”
“I do know,” she said sagely. “I’d be interested in knowing again. If you don’t mind.”
“I think I can sacrifice.”
Thursday, February 25, 12:30 a.m.
He drove by Adele Donner’s house, pleased to see Donald’s car in the driveway. The house was dark, its occupants tucked into bed. For now, the fact that Donner was staying with his wife and very elderly mother made for a wonderfully thin alibi.
He’d let the Hat Squad have Donner for a little while. They’d question. Interrogate. Use their tough, scary voices. Donner would deny and tremble. Maybe they’d arrest him right away, but Donner had sufficient assets to pay the bail the judge would set. Then later, he’d take him and hold him where no one would find him.
The cops would search high and low, while the press seethed and the public’s respect for Hat Squad seeped away. And when they’d been sufficiently humiliated, Donner would be found, having hanged himself, his suicide note a full confession.
Webster would close the case, defeated and maligned. And then I go back to the way things were. Quietly eliminating the dregs of society nobody would miss.
He drove away from Adele Donner’s house. It was time for the sixth of his six to die.
Thursday, February 25, 12:30 a.m.
Virginia Fox looked in the mirror, sighed angrily. She was not a beautiful woman, and that always mattered to men. She had hoped that this man would be different, but she knew he wouldn’t be. His screen name was Dasich. His real name was John.
He was a newbie to Shadowland, eager to learn, and like all the men, he knew how to sniff out the women who could actually accomplish something. She’d helped him along, shown him the ropes, knowing he’d find some excuse to skip away when he’d learned his fill. So she’d been shocked when he wanted to meet.