Page 148 of Her Reluctant Hero
All the more reason to get out of this room. Pushing the covers back, she dragged her duffel close to the bed to retrieve fresh clothes. She grabbed panties and was digging for a bra when she heard the snick of the lock and Adrian opened the door, in his same clothes from last night, balancing two glasses of orange juice and yet another greasy white bag.
The grin that creased his face had heat spreading through her body. He set the glasses on the dresser, tossed the bag on the nightstand and crawled up from the foot of the bed.
“I thought maybe we’d get an early start, but I didn’t think I’d find you still in bed.” He slid his hand under the sheet, his thumb stroking the hollow of her ankle before gliding up her calf. “Still naked.”
“Adrian.” She should have pulled away, but arousal already heated her blood in advance of his touch.
He flicked his gaze to hers, those silver-blue eyes crinkling mischievously. “It’ll be a long time before we get a bed again. We’d better take advantage.”
Her mind fought for coherence. “When we get back, this is over.”
He stilled a minute, his hand on the inside of her knee, pressing it toward the mattress. “No.” He stretched out beside her and nuzzled her shoulder before kissing her throat. “You’re moving into my tent, with me, where you belong.”
“Ade.” She pressed her hand against his chest, not really wanting to push him away, but needing the emotional distance.
He only took advantage of the new position to look into her eyes, threading his fingers through her hair, brushing his thumb over her lower lip. “I missed the hell out of you, Mal. I’m glad you came back.”
Those words, and God, the look in his eyes that darkened them, melted all her reserves. Even as she cursed her ability to be manipulated so easily by her emotions, she reached for him, lost herself in the sensations of his hands, his mouth. She slid her palms under the hem of his T-shirt and over his warm, hard body, over the curls on his chest, digging her fingertips into his shoulders.
He flipped onto his back, pulling her with him. Her pulse skipped as she braced her hands on his chest and looked down. As he curled into a sitting position, he positioned her legs on either side of his hips. Making a shushing sound, she wriggled his shirt over his head. She didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to think, just wanted to feel. God, she loved the feel of him, the heat, the strength. She trailed her fingers down his stomach. Even as his skin twitched beneath her touch, he grinned.
“Don’t tease,” he murmured.
She wrestled with his fly. “You never did know how to pace yourself.”
He squeezed her butt. “When I see what I want, I go for it. And you never complained before.”
“Not complaining now.” She freed his erection and glided her palm over the length of him, then leaned forward, nipping his lower lip. He coursed his hands up her back, urging her closer. Hooking her feet behind his butt, she brought him inside her, covering his mouth with hers as she did, feeling the vibration of his moan from her lips to her toes. Laughing softly at his response, she eased back, brought him deeper. A quiver went through him as she moved over him, and the power she experienced at having him at her mercy only increased her arousal. Her hair fell forward, brushed his shoulder as they found their rhythm, a familiar, sensual dance, one they knew so well, punctuated with gentle moans, quick gasps as the pleasure built, plateaued.
Part of her wanted to remain on this plateau. This would be their last time, after all. She couldn’t continue this once they were back on the dig, couldn’t risk getting hurt again, getting pushed aside once more. So she wanted to savor even as her body craved the climax.
He took the decision out of her hand, tilting her onto the bed, driving into her, his hand stroking down her side, up her thigh that curved around his hip, shifted so he opened her more to him, plunged deeper, faster, his breath coming quick, his forehead beaded with sweat, his eyes intent on hers.
The orgasm was long and slow, the pleasure rippling through her body, hot and sweet, tightening everything in her, then melting the tension away so that all she wanted was to lie in his arms forever, here in this bed, here with this man.
The words she feared most floated to the surface, and only the strength of her will kept her from murmuring them as she stroked her husband’s damp hair when he collapsed over her.
She would not say, “I love you,” though she was very afraid she meant it.
“I just need to get my manuscript from next door.”
Adrian had moved more quickly than Mal after their lovemaking, had showered and dressed while she still stretched out on the bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering how she’d let this happen. Now both were dressed, packed, fed and ready to hit the road. He walked to the adjoining door and flicked the lock before he swore and stopped.
Mallory looked up from zipping her duffel. “What is it?”
But he’d gone into action, disappeared into the other room. Mallory followed, uncertain of what she’d find.
The room was spotless. None of the yellow papers that had been strewn across the bed, the dresser, the table by the window last night remained. None were in the trash, either.
“The maid’s been here,” she murmured, even as her heart sank. His notes, his manuscript, even those six pages were hard-earned and hadn’t been duplicated. Why would the maid throw out the papers on the bed and dresser?
He was already at the door, swinging it open, scanning the hall. He strode out. Mallory continued searching the room, though why the notes would be in the dresser drawers or his duffel, she didn’t know. Moments later she heard rapid-fire Spanish from Adrian, and a defensive female voice. Mallory hurried to the door to see Adrian flip open the maid’s pushcart as the tiny wide-eyed woman protested. He leaned in, pawed through the trash, emerged with his face twisted in disgust.
“Where is the trash?” he demanded.
She pointed down the stairs. He scowled.
“In the Dumpster?” he asked the woman.
