Page 224 of Fearless
But she had to close her eyes, because she felt the orgasm starting, and all of her being was straining, straining to meet it.
Mercy cursed in French, his fingers dug into her hip, and his next hard thrust was the finish for both of them.
She thought she might faint, the heat sweeping beneath her skin, through her face, making her neck and arms and legs limp. Powerful, sweeping pulses as the orgasm kept coming and coming.
She drifted – probably seconds, but it felt like minutes.
She felt Mercy withdraw, and as he sat back on his heels, he put his arms around her and lifted her up, settling her against his chest, holding her to him, so their sweaty skin glued together.
With one hand, he smoothed her hair back off her face and down her naked back. “Ava,” he said, voice tight. “Ava. Oh God, I got you back. I got you back. I won’t ever leave you again. I swear. Baby, I swear. Not ever again.”
Forty-Two
“Did she tell you where they were staying?”
Ten till six. Not light out yet. Maggie squinted up at the grainy ceiling above their bed. She really hated the old popcorn ceiling. One of these days, she was going to insist on an upgrade, just like she had with the kitchen tile. “I bring home a paycheck, too, you know¸” she’d reasoned. “Not all of that should have to go back into the club.”
It had been just after eight last night that she’d finally heard from Ava, the call coming from a landline with a rural New Orleans area code, because, according to Ava, the cell phones didn’t work “out here.” There’d been no details, because they were a paranoid outlaw family used to the idea of phone taps. Ava had sounded tired – that was a long trip on a bike – but there’d been an unexpected note of pure bliss in her voice.
“How is it?” Maggie had asked, right before they hung up, and she hadn’t been talking about the lodgings, or the ride down, or anything like that.
Ava had known. “It’s wonderful. It…it’s just wonderful, Mom.” Because she was with her Mercy again, and those two had five hungry, heartbroken years to make up for. Fleeing was never fun, but both of them, Maggie knew, were grateful for this chance to be alone together.
Ghost’s hand settled on her shoulder, playing with the strap of her nightgown, reminding her that he was still waiting for an answer.
She smiled at his impatience. “She said it was a house. I think it’s out in the middle of nowhere. She said Mercy promised to take her gator-scouting.”
Ghost snorted, a sound of general fussiness and discontent. “That sounds safe.”
“I have no doubts he’ll jump in and wrestle any gator that disrespects her.”
Another unhappy noise from him.
Maggie turned her head on the pillow. With the streetlamp glowing against the blinds, she could just make out his profile in the dark. It looked as unforgiving as always. “Have you still got your panties in a bunch over Mercy? You do realize, don’t you, that there’ll be no separating them now? You might as well just get used to the idea: he’s going to be our son-in-law. Accept it, and stop wasting stomach acid on it.”
“Well aren’t you just a ray of fucking sunshine.”
“I am, actually. You’re the Oscar the Grouch in this bed, not me, baby.” She grinned. “If you want, I can bring in one of the garbage cans for you to sleep in, if that’ll make you feel more at-home.”
His hand moved up to cover her mouth, lightly, and she laughed against it. “You’re suppressing my first amendment rights,” she said, voice muffled.
“You don’t live in America; you live in the United States of Teague.” There was a smile in his voice; she was wearing down his grumpy mood. “We don’t have any amendments. I woulda thought that would get me more respect.”
She closed her teeth on the inside of his finger, until he pulled his hand away. “Nope. It doesn’t. Wives aren’t subject to tyranny.”
When he didn’t respond, she rolled onto her side toward him, looped an arm around his neck, draped her leg across his hips. She’d always loved the way she fit against him, the complementary planes and hollows of their bodies, the softness of her breasts on his solid chest.
“How bad’s today gonna be?” she asked quietly.
His arm came around behind her shoulders, holding her to his side. “I don’t know yet. Probably bad.”
She traced the still-strong line of his jaw with a fingertip. Sometimes, she frightened herself with the reminder of their age gap, that at some point in the future, he’d be an old man, and he might not be able to hold her and love her and squabble with her like he always had. She was starting to worry about his cholesterol, and his stress level, and all those little things that age brought on.
But right now, he was still her rock-hard husband, the boy who’d bought her beer and felt her up as his reward, all grown up. “No reason you can’t at least have a good start to the day,” she said, and his eyes slid over to her, just a glint of shine in the dark.
“No,” he drawled. “Guess not.”
Aidan had an apartment. He and Tango rented a place together, but it was a dump, in the true sense of the word. Neither of them kept up with laundry, housekeeping, anything, really. And some nights, Aidan preferred crashing at the clubhouse, where the sheets were at least clean and there was booze and food he didn’t have to shop for on hand.
