Page 78 of Midnight Secrets

His shirt, her sweater. Pants, jeans.

Something ripped. He didn’t give a fuck because suddenly his hands were full of warm soft smooth woman, naked breasts pressed against his chest, soft belly against his. He smoothed his hand over her backside, pressed her against him. The lips of her sex opened over him and he rubbed himself against her, up and down, feeling her warm and wet.

It was insanely pleasurable but it wasn’t enough.

Joe picked her up, turned her around and placed her against the closed door, hoping he wasn’t slamming her because a drumbeat of urgency was throbbing inside him and he couldn’t think much beyond that.

He hitched her up. “Put your legs around my waist,” he muttered against her mouth and she did, instantly, and there she was, open to him.

Slowly, he told himself and he tried, he really did. He clenched the cheeks of his ass and moved into her as gently as he could and oh God, she was like wet silk.

“Move,” she ordered.

Everything about Isabel was open to him, welcoming him. Her mouth, her arms, her legs, her sex. She was signaling with her entire body that she wanted him. Joe found her mouth with his and pushed forward, as slowly as he could, until he was firmly embedded inside her. He went slowly because he didn’t want to hurt her but also because there was red-hot pleasure so intense he wanted to savor every second, every inch. They were holding each other tightly, kissing deeply, there was nothing anywhere but Isabel.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he said.

“Good.” She licked his ear. “Now move.”

It was like a storm, hot and wild. Joe slammed into her over and over again, not asking if he was hurting her because she was with him every step of the way. Her arms and legs were tightly wound around him, holding him, meeting him. Her head was thudding against the wall so he cupped her head and her kisses deepened.

She went first, with a wild cry in his mouth, clenching hard around him. She threw her head back, white throat exposed and he kissed her there, his tongue feeling the beating of her heart in her neck. He could feel the beating of her heart in her sex, too, throbbing and clenching.

He was covered in sweat and thrusting into her in hard little stabs because he couldn’t bear the thought of pulling back too far because that meant leaving her heat. So he set his legs and pressed into her, circling her, stabbing hard and his heart stopped and the top of his head came off and he spilled into her, hard spurts that made him shake.

When he was finally done, he put his palms against the wall near her head to hold himself upright. Isabel slowly lowered her legs to the ground and he slipped out of her.

They were panting, both of them.

Isabel’s legs were shaking and her knees gave. She slid to the floor and he slid with her, rolling until it was his back against the cold floor and Isabel was lying on top of him, eyes closed, mouth upturned in a mysterious smile.

Joe lifted his head to watch her then let it fall back with a thud. He was completely wiped out.

“Forget killing Blake,” he said when he got his breathing under control. “You’re going to killme.”

She laughed.

* * *

Washington, DC

She knew.The bitch knew, somehow. She had to go. It was time.

Blake had thought of this over and over again. Leaving Isabel alive was a security risk. But she’d been so broken he’d let it ride and all things considered, she’d had a good run. He’d let her live six months. Her memory was returning, and he knew exactly what she was remembering. Isabel alive was now an unacceptable risk, but it was good that it had taken time.

No one was going to connect the suicide of a troubled young woman with the events of months ago.

And soon Blake was going to be busy with phase two, and he wouldn’t have time to deal with her if she all of a sudden woke up and remembered halfway through a presidential campaign. So, it was time.

He arranged a rock-solid alibi then called his personal pilot. The pilot would fly him under an assumed name, flying a plane that was registered under a company it would take forensic economists months to trace back to Blake.

And why should they?

Hector Blake in Washington would have nothing to do with the suicide of a young woman across the country.

He could actually deal with this himself, with the help of his pilot and Kearns, his man on the ground.

He called Kearns. “Our little dove is going to fly away.” Their code for it’s time to get rid of the little bitch.

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