“Shh. This doesn’t hurt…fuck me, you’re so damn hot and tight…” the muscles of her sheath clutched at him as he screwed his finger slowly inside her ass.
“Joel…” her voice was still soft and nervous, but her body was pushing back against him, eagerly, hungrily.
He added a second finger and she yelped, her body going still as she stretched around the added penetration. “I want to fuck this ass of yours, baby…fuck it until you beg me to stop, until you beg me not to.”
As he spoke, he rotated his fingers and that was when she climaxed, a hot rush of fluid soaked his cock so that as he pulled out, there was a wet sucking sound.
He thrust to the hilt, and flooded the wet depths of her pussy with his semen, holding her hips tightly to him as he rolled his pelvis against her ass. “Sweet…” he purred. The energy drained out of his body and he sank to the mattress, rolling to the side so she wouldn’t be pinned beneath him.
Wrapping an arm around her waist, he pulled her back against him and nuzzled her neck, breathing in the warm, soft scent of her skin. “Damn it, I’ve missed you.”
Emory’s body trembled, and her breath was coming hard and ragged. A little knot of worry started to form inside his gut as she remained silent. He hadn’t hurt her—but had he scared her?
Then her hand slid up, covering the one resting on her midriff. Their fingers laced as a soft sigh escaped her. The tension inside him slowly dissolved as she cuddled back against him.
“Missed you, too, Joel. I’ve felt empty since the last time I saw you.” She made another one of those soft little humming sighs, as she cuddled deeper into the pillow.
Within moments, she was asleep and Joel was left holding her against him, his mind working busily. In the silence of the room, he pressed his face against her hair and grimaced.
He still had to tell her about her husband.
* * *
Shoving a hand through her hair, Emory watched with sleepy eyes as Joel walked back down the drive.
Her body ached—the muscles in her thighs pulled with every damn move, and her pussy felt raw and sore. It was the best she could remember feeling in a very, very long time. As he slid into the car, he flashed her that slow smile that was uniquely his own, his dark eyes holding a promise.
When he drove away, she slowly closed the door, resting her back against it as she leaned her head back, closing her eyes. Hot tears rolled from beneath her eyelids—the emotions she’d fought to keep under control while Joel was there were breaking free, and before she knew it, a sob ripped from her throat.
It was relief. It was joy…and fear.
There was something Joel wasn’t telling her.
From the beginning, he had coddled her, protected her, done his damnedest to keep anything from hurting her. Hiding her from the reality that had been her life for so long. And he was still hiding her from reality.
She could see it in his eyes. There was something he wasn’t telling her—something that had him worried.
Emory knew Joel. If he was worried, then damn it, she ought to be terrified.
* * *
His steps were heavy as he stumbled into the small efficiency apartment where he’d been staying for the past few weeks.
Joel hadn’t had a sound sleep since beginning his search, and for a while, he’d run on pure energy and fear, while Tracy—no, she was Emory now—had seemed to slip farther and farther away from him. Even as his body had begged for sleep, he had resisted, doing little more than catching a few hours a night. Fear had kept him moving—once he found her, once he caught up with her and knew she was safe, then he could sleep.
Last night, the thrill of having her close had been too new, and his emotions too raw for him to sleep. Joel hadn’t slept even for ten minutes as he lay cuddled around her in the bed.
Hadn’t slept, although his body had ached with exhaustion. Couldn’t think clearly, although there was nothing more he needed to do.
That was why he had kissed her softly after she woke up and told her he had to get some stuff done.
Not stuff. He needed sleep. He needed the distance to think. To make phone calls…couldn’t think around her.
Now he was exhausted. Collapsing onto the bed face first, he fell into a deep, heavy sleep, unaware of the soft, hazy white form that watched him.
Joel fell into a dream, the same dream that had haunted him for months. Ever since he’d come out of prison and wondered where in the hell his woman had gone.
Tracy Grainger had just fallen off the face of the earth—he’d damned near gone insane searching for her.
He’d exhausted his leads and gone through hundreds of thousands of dollars trying to track her down. She had slipped from town to town, always using cash, never leaving any sign of herself behind.
Emory Hughes had a birth certificate, a work history that seemed solid, but she hadn’t existed until that day eighteen months ago when she left the office of an attorney who specialized in helping abused women escape from a dangerous past. Where she’d been in the months between her disappearance and when she’d emerged as Emory, he didn’t really know. It had been almost miraculous that he’d found her at all.
The dream was the same, always the same. He walked into the posh apartment where he’d found his sister all those years ago, but instead of Carly lying on the floor, naked, beaten, the evidence of a rape still on her thighs, it was Tracy…Emory.
And not as he was so used to seeing her, with that short, sophisticated coif of pale blonde hair and a thin exotic face.
No. It was her as he’d seen her earlier, with thick waves of mink brown hair, her mouth lush and full in the soft curves of her face.
Safe…he had to keep her safe.
You will…
His hands fell away and he sat up, scowling at the pale misty form hovering on the chair by his bed. Carly’s ghost had come to him that very first day after she’d died.
Grainger’s men had been watching her apartment and when he had gone in there, they’d seen him. They’d called Grainger, apparently, because as Carly had whispered in his ear Run, Grainger had been driving to the apartment. Joel, called Marc then, had slid out the window to the balcony and monkeyed down to the balcony below, working his way down ten stories, sweating and scared to death. As he’d hit the street, he had heard the voice shouting overhead and he’d looked up, seeing one of the men he’d seen with Grainger before.
He’d taken off running. At the intersection ahead, he’d seen Grainger’s black Porsche as it came flying around the corner and Joel had ducked down the alley to his left, running for his life.
And Carly had continued to whisper to him.
He didn’t actually see her form for a long time, but her ghost was with him almost constantly as he grew up. She’d been taking care of him for so long—even after she’d moved away from home. Mama had been too busy getting laid or getting high…
They’d killed Mama, too.
Joel knew that, even though it had been made to look like an accident. When he’d tried to go home after running away from Grainger, Carly had whispered to him again. He’d gone home anyway…or tried to. And found ambulances and police cars surrounding the small, ratty apartment.
He’d disappeared after that.
Nobody was likely to notice another twelve-year-old punk on the streets of New York, and he’d done okay. When he was eighteen, he’d taken the test for his GED and passed with flying colors, then joined the Army with one goal in mind.
To become a tough enough bastard to handle Vincent Grainger.
It had all been so simple. He could handle Grainger. Could kill him. Happily.
What wasn’t simple was Emory. How did he tell her that Grainger was awake?
How did he handle letting her know what he had done? Killing Grainger was one thing—and he would kill him.
But the things he had done to move closer to Grainger, that was different. He’d turned into a fucking criminal, barely a step above Grainger.
/>
That was the part that wasn’t so simple.
Jerking his mind out of the past, he stared at Carly’s surreal form, hovering on the edge of the seat as though she was just sitting down for a break. “What’s wrong, Carly?” he asked tiredly.
She laughed. The sound was hollow, as though it came from some distant tunnel and it echoed. “Wrong? Why does something have to be wrong, Marc?”
“My name is Joel,” he said wearily. “Marc Baker is long gone, Sis.”
She sighed, and the sound was desolate. The room seemed to chill and Joel rubbed his arms. “Gone…just like me,” she said forlornly.
“Carly…”
“No. No. I’m fine. Hell, for the most part, I’m more than fine. I don’t have any bills, I don’t have to worry about gaining weight…granted, I can’t eat anything, but it’s not a bad trade-off.” She laughed softly. “I’m better off dead than I ever was alive. Too bad I had to leave you alone.”
Silence fell and Joel tried to figure out what in the hell to say, if there even was anything to say. Staring down at the sheet that covered his legs, he closed his hand around it, wishing that somebody had killed Grainger long, long ago.
“Are you going to tell her? You can’t just think she’ll blindly leave. She’s not the same woman she used to be.”
“I know that.”
“Then maybe you also know what you’re planning isn’t fair—it’s not right. Tell her. Tell her about Grainger. Tell her what you’ve done.”
No. “I can’t do that. She doesn’t need to know.” Hell—if she ever found out, he could lose her. And she wouldn’t find out. She wouldn’t want to be in the same state as Grainger, so when she found out he was awake, and Joel offered her a safe place, she’d leap on it.
“Don’t count on it.”
Joel snarled at her, “Damn it, will you stay out of my head?”
Carly sighed. “You’re setting her up as bait, baby. It’s not fair. And you haven’t even told her yet. When are you going to tell her—she’s in danger, damn it.”
“She’s safe,” Joel said flatly. “I’ll keep her safe.”
Starkly, Carly said, “She’s not safe. He thinks about her constantly, her and you. Even while he was in that damn coma, it ate at him. He wants you both dead. That hatred consumes him, just like your hatred of him consumes you. Don’t let it make you foolish, baby.”
* * *
Emory knew who was at the door even before she opened it. She’d been restless all day, haunted by thoughts of Joel, plagued by memories of times best forgotten, the years she’d spent in fear and humiliation, awaiting another blow from Vincent Grainger.
And…the day she had all but been given to Joel.
Given, as if she was just a belonging.
A possession. She had just been a toy for Vincent, some pretty little piece for him to show off to others. When she’d tried to run, he had always found her, always brought her back. The whispers, You’re mine…had left her shuddering and shaking in terror. How could those same words, coming from Joel, make her shake with need and blush with pleasure?
She was torn, though. Torn with the need to wrap herself around him…and the need to show herself she could stand on her own two feet. The first few months, when he hadn’t come after her, she had been shattered, and learning how to stand on her own had been damned near impossible. It had been his voice, a voice from the past, whispering to her from her memories that had given her the strength.
That strength was her own now.
If she relied on Joel, was she giving up on herself?
With a spinning head, she opened the door and stood there, staring at the craggy lines of his face, those impossibly deep blue eyes.
“Hey,” she said quietly.
A slow smile creased his face as he moved up closer, until his toes nudged hers, his breath warm on her face as he murmured, “Hey.”
His lips brushed across hers and she sighed into his mouth, whimpering as his tongue pushed inside her mouth to tangle briefly with hers. His arms came around her and she gasped as her feet left the ground. Dimly, she heard him kick the door shut and then he was leaning back against it, hiking her thighs up around his hips so he could cup her bottom.
She arched up against him as those hard, hot hands kneaded restlessly at her ass. With her knees clutching his hips, the folds between her thighs were exposed and she whimpered as the covered length of his cock pressed against her.
A savage groan fell from his lips—the room whirled around her and then she was cold. Cold and sitting alone on the couch, while Joel stalked away from her. Arching a brow at him, she mused, “Well, nice to see you, too.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she hugged herself as a chill raced down her spine and her body ached.
He sent her a narrow look over his shoulder, eyes slitted, mouth grim. “I can’t think around you. I’ve never been able to think clearly around you,” he muttered. He shoved his hand through his hair as he dropped to sit on the chair across from her. “And right now, I need to think. We need to talk.”
Licking her lips, she stared into his serious face. She really didn’t like the sound of that, or the grim look in his eyes. “Okay,” she finally said, her voice soft and hesitant. “What about?”
His face was cold, implacable as stone—his lips barely moved as he said flatly, “About your husband. And about your lawyer.”
“What about Aleisha?” she asked, her voice worried even as her face went rigid. “And that bastard is not my husband.”
His lids drooped and he murmured, “That’s not how he will see it.”
Emory swallowed, then forced the fear back under control. Restless energy filled her and she stood, unable to sit down any longer.
As she paced, she said, “He’s in a coma, Joel. He has been ever since that day. It’s not very likely he’ll ever come out of it.”
Joel’s eyes closed.
A cold chill raced through her. She stared at him as his eyes slowly opened and he stared at her, those dark unreadable eyes holding so many secrets. She’d known he wasn’t telling her something.
Emory stood still as he rose from the chair and moved toward her, closing the distance between them. His hands came up, cupping her face. She swallowed, the knot in her throat damn near choking her as she looked up at him.
“What is it?” she asked quietly, tears blurring her vision. One fell, and it seemed to burn a path down her cheek.
“He’s awake.”
The strength drained out of her. As though somebody had simply opened something inside of her and just let it all flow away. Emory started to crumple to the ground and Joel’s arms caught her, pulling her against him.
“No.” Struggling, she tried to pull away, but he just held her against him and carried her to the couch. “Damn it, let me go! You’re lying—Aleisha would have called me. The nurses, the doctors, they know to call her…”
“Emory.”
She saw it in his eyes. Shaking her head, she whispered, “No. Damn it, no! She was safe! She told me she was safe—he couldn’t have hurt her.”
“He didn’t.” Emory jerked away, but she couldn’t break free from him, and deep inside she knew she didn’t want to. She needed his comfort too badly. “She was in a car wreck a few days ago. An accident, baby. Accidents happen.”
“No,” she whimpered, shaking her head as a sob rose in her throat. Giving in to the need to cry, she crumpled against him. Harsh, bitter cries tore from her throat and she clung to him.
For the longest time, she could do nothing more than cry. The grief inside her had left her dumb, blind and deaf to everything around. For years, she’d run without any real contact. Then she’d finally made herself stop running, made herself think. She’d found Aleisha and made one connection, one friend.
Aleisha had been her one contact to real life. Her one contact to sanity—when she was running and hiding, she worried she’d forget who she was.
Aleisha had been her anchor.
; And now her one friend was dead.
“W-was it fast?” she finally asked, her voice hoarse.
“Yes. She wouldn’t have felt anything,” Joel murmured, reaching up and brushing her hair back.
“Thank God for that,” she muttered, closing her eyes again. There was an odd niggling doubt in her head and she sat back, looking up at him narrowly. “How did you know about her?”
“The FBI.”
Emory’s heart froze. “They know where I am.”
Joel sighed, his head falling back to rest against the couch. “One agent does. I don’t know about them as a whole. And I don’t know why she hasn’t tried to talk to you.”
She felt his gaze on her as he studied her under the fringe of his lashes. “Don’t you want to know more about Grainger?”
Emory saw something in his eyes that she had only glimpsed before. He hated Vincent Grainger. It was a gut-deep hatred, and somehow…old, she sensed. She had glimpsed it before, all the times she had run into him when he had come to the house on business, but he’d always hid it so quickly, and he never showed it around Vincent.
Why… Hatred was a personal emotion. Hate, like love, was generally earned. What had Vincent done?
Swallowing, she pushed insistently against his arms until he let her go. Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she rose and walked away.
I’ll have to grieve later…think about why Joel hates Grainger so much later.
Right now, she needed to think. Moving to the window, she brushed aside the curtains and stood there, staring outside.
When Joel moved up behind her in silence, she never even heard him.
* * *
Emory whirled when Joel touched her shoulder. “What are you planning on doing about Vincent?” he asked quietly.
She licked her lips, staring at him with haunted eyes. She just shook her head. “I don’t know. I need to think.”
He watched, his hands curled into useless fists as she walked away, her head bent low.
Moments later, he heard the back door close quietly.