Page 92 of Eyes in the Shadows

He inhales and watches my fingers move gently over the broken skin. I keep glancing up, expecting a wince or some sort of indication of pain. There is none.

“It’s a bit of a waiting game. Most of his men are dead now, so he may retreat. At least we have some idea of where he is, though.”

“Do you think he’s been staying in that house you followed him to all along?”

“Possibly. Wes will need to do a little digging on that property—it didn’t show in our initial search under his name and we also checked properties registered to his wife and kids. We might have missed one he bought for another family member or something.”

I screw the cap back on the ointment and lay it on the bed next to us. The gauze is next, and I break open the sterile seal. He holds his hand up, wearing a patient expression, as I try to find the end of the roll. “Why do you think he was there with the mayor? Especially so late—so close to closing.”

“He’s probably in Rossi’s pocket. Bribes, that sort of thing.”

I consider that as I start carefully winding the white fabric loosely around his hand. “It’s weird. I didn’t even recognize the mayor, but I knew immediately it was Rossi.”

“It’s not that strange—lots of people don’t follow local politics.”

“I guess,” I allow. I don’t follow local politics that closely, but I’m pretty sure I could pick out our Attorney General and the office of Mayor is at least that important. “It just seems strange to me. Rossi’s face is everywhere—bus stops, billboards, stuff like that—and the mayor’s isn’t. It’s like he doesn’t want us regular people to know who he is.”

“He may not. If people know who he is, they’ll ask for things. I’m sure he’s just coasting—running unopposed and taking money under the table.”

I tuck the end of the gauze into the wrapping I made and Mac drops his bandaged hand to my hip, gripping loosely. I let my gaze settle onto the outline of trauma on his stomach. My lower lip quivers, so I press it against the top one as I run my fingers gently over the ridges of his abdomen.

“It’s okay,” he assures me, covering my hand with his uninjured one. “It’s a little sore, but it doesn’t really hurt.”

“You,” I correct. “It doesn’t hurtyou. It would hurt me. And that makes me wonder what happened to you that being punched in the stomach doesn’t even register.”

“It’s not worth wondering about.”

I look up, aghast. “How can you say that? Someone was trying to cause pain! To k-kill you—” All of the sudden, my eyes fill with tears. It surprises me so much that I gasp.

Mac sits up, wrapping a thick arm around my back and cupping my cheek with the other. “Hey, no. Baby, stop. There’s no real damage.”

But I’m rattled. This is what gets the tears? Not the dead men, or the blood, or the fear, or the worry… It’s the thought that Mac was hurt, that he’s been hurt so bad in the past that he barely perceives it, and that he’s so unbothered by it that I know he’s accepted that it will happen again in the future? The ache that makes in my chest is deep, stealing my breath.

I slide both hands to frame his face, lean forward and kiss him, tasting the salt of my tears. I meant for it to just be emotional—an apology for whatever he’s been through, an assurance that I feel for him, a promise of some kind that I can’t even identify—but his hand slides to the nape of my neck and he deepens it. I feel his cock hardening under me, pressing the soft towel harder against where all the heat and need is pooling, and I can’t help myself as I rock against it.

Realizing what I’m doing, I pull back, shocked at myself. But with a growl, he fists the terrycloth at my hip and yanks it, jerking the whole thing to the ground before I can grab onto it. My hands drop to his chest as he flexes a thick arm and uses his grip in my hair to bring me back in.

I allow myself to pour what I’m feeling into him because it feels so good to let it go. Fear, anger, horror, dread, cowardice, self-loathing, everything becomes a spiral of passion and yearning that he takes from me and gives back to me as only more heat. Raw lust zings through me, bringing a rush of moisture, readying my body.

I have to tear myself away this time. “Wait, but you’re all bruised,” I protest.

“Not being inside you is what hurts.”

He bends his neck, dropping his head at the same time that he grabs my breast. Taking the sensitive peak into his mouth, he swirls his tongue around it andthe skin tingles, hardening painfully. I cry out, letting my head fall back, and he repeats the action on the other nipple. I stroke his soft, still damp hair as he teases me with the pleasure-pain that sets my body on fire.

His left arm snakes down, winding under my ass and lifting me slightly. Then his towel is open. This time when I lower my pussy against him, it’s only searing, unyielding flesh against me. I moan as I roll my hips, rubbing the length of him through my lips.

His torso falls back a few inches, resting against the headboard again. “Ride me, baby. Take what you need. Give me that beautiful body.”

The tip of his cock against the hardened, pulsating center of my desire is almost enough to get me there. But I need him inside me more than I need to come. I rise on my knees and reach down to align his head with my entrance. Then I slide down slowly.

We both make long noises of hunger and satisfaction as I sink onto him. I barely maintain the presence of mind to make sure his noises aren’t also edged with the wrong kind of pain. They’re not. On his face is nothing but lust and awe. I lean forward, pressing against his chest and needing my lips on his as I start slow movements with my legs and pelvis.

He answers me with an all-consuming longing that matches my own. We kiss, exploring each other’s mouths, as our bodies rock together. He’s unbelievably deep inside me, each small motion nudging him to the very end of what I have to give. It’s like being glued to someone, not allowing an inch of space between us. I feel like I’d crawl inside him if I could.

I break away when the need for air and more pressure gets the better of me. He takes both breasts, squeezing then rubbing rough thumbs over my nipples, and I find a rhythm that gives us both a little more. More impact and stimulation and pleasure.

“I was really scared when you were gone,” I say, letting the emotions well in my throat and spill out however they want. Now that we’re so connected again, it doesn’t feel as hard to do.

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