Page 43 of The Survivor
“Samantha,” he gasped out, then crushed his mouth against hers and kissed the breath out of her lungs.
She kissed him back, arched her breasts against his big, warm chest and hungrily flicked her tongue against his.
She didn’t know how long they lay there, kissing, panting, but she didn’t care. For the first time in six months, she felt whole again, and for the moment, that’s all that mattered.
* * *
She was in that house. Screwing that man. Rubbing her infidelity in his face.
He gripped the steering wheel. Dug his nails into it and imagined that it was something else he was squeezing. Namely her neck.
He’d known the roses would lead him to her. The house in which they’d shared their first encounter was in the hands of new owners but he’d decided it was the perfect setting to make his move and find out if the reporters were right about her survival. He knew showering the lawn with flowers would catch the attention of the police, as well as his prey. She’d always loved his roses, loved them so much she’d had one tattooed below her right breast, where only the man in her bed could see it.
There was a man in her bed now. The Fed whose picture had been in the paper. The reporter claimed he’d seen the cop at the hospital with the woman, and all he’d had to do was wait for the man to lead him to his quarry. Following him had been difficult; he’d almost lost him a few times in order not to be made. But he’d been trained by the best—the United States Army. General Madsen would’ve been proud, had he been alive. But his old mentor was gone now, died for his country. A country that hadn’t even given a damn about him.
He was glad Madsen was in the grave. The general would’ve been horrified to know what he’d been through. The general would’ve spit in the faces of those incompetent asshole cops whohadn’t thought his best soldier was goddamn “stable” enough to be one of them.
Useless cops. What did they know about honor or courage or fighting for your country? Apparently, all they did was sleep around on the job.
Acid burned his throat, made his eyes water and his veins bubble with poison. The wind rocking the car only infuriated him more. He should be inside that pathetically cheerful-looking brick house, lying in that bed with her. Not sitting outside in the middle of a raging blizzard and longing to have his hands on her throat.
A faint beam of light caught his eyes. Headlights. A police car approached the house, more than likely arriving to guard the filth inside.
He moved the gearshift to Drive and steered down the snowy street. His mouth twisted in a smile. She thought she was safe, that he couldn’t touch her as long as she had her big bad cop lover to protect her.
She’d always been a very stupid woman.
He turned at the end of the road and headed toward his sanctuary. She’d be joining him here, very soon. Now that he knew where she was, he could bide his time. Wait for an opening, an opportunity to make his move.
And then he would exact his final punishment.
This time he wouldn’t fail.
CHAPTER 10
By the time five-thirty in the morning rolled around, Blake officially gave up on the notion of sleep. He’d been lying awake for hours, debating whether to kick himself or simply bask in the afterglow of the best sex he’d ever had, and the constant battle in his brain made drifting off into slumber impossible.
He glanced down at Sam’s sleeping face and held her warm naked body close to him, knowing it was probably time to throw the FBI-conduct handbook out the window.
He’d been an agent since he was twenty-two years old and in the ten years he’d worked for the Bureau he’d never slept with a witness. And then Samantha Dawson came into his life, and suddenly all he could think about was her silky hair and smoky-gray eyes and that centerfold body that felt too damn good pressed against his.
His chest ached at the memory of the vulnerability he’d seen in Sam’s eyes before she’d turned to show him her scar.
He hadn’t lied to her; the rose on her back didn’t disgust him, didn’t make him want to run for the hills. All it did was deepen his desire for her, and as he stared up at the ceiling now, he realized why he felt so troubled.
This wasn’t just about lust. Hell, it never had been. Yes, he was attracted to her. Yes, she brought him to a level of arousal he’d never known before. But it was more than that.
Her strength amazed him. Her determination impressed the hell out of him. And her vulnerability brought him to his knees.
He wanted to take care of her. Not because she was a witness or a victim or someone he was paid to protect. He wanted to take care of her the way a man took care of the woman he shared his bed with. Shared hislifewith.
He hadn’t felt this way since Kate. And yet it was different. With Kate, it had taken months for them to fall into bed with each other. Months for them to reach that level of sated comfort he now felt lying next to Sam.
“Blake?”
She stirred in his arms. With her cheeks flushed and hair tousled from sleep, she looked tired and satisfied and so beautiful he fought the urge to roll her over and make love to her again.
They’d already spent most of yesterday afternoon in bed, talking and making love for hours, getting out from under the covers only to grab a quick bite before dashing right back into bed. It almost felt wrong, having time to play and unwind while he was in the middle of a case, but Knight had made it clear he didn’t want Samantha going out in public, which meant Blake had no choice but to stay by her side. Not that he minded.
