Julie Walker - Hell for Leather

And wishing was a dangerous business. After wishing came hoping. And after hoping came what the hell; let’s try. And after what the hell; let’s try came—

Jolene! That broken cry from that ravaged voice echoed in his head. He could still feel the unfathomable ache in his chest.

As he looked down at Delilah, so pretty, so…everything a woman should be, he knew he could fall, if he let himself. Perhaps he had fallen…just a little. And that right there was enough to scare some cotton-pickin’ sense into him.

This is a one-night stand, asshole. Nothing more. You’d do well to remember that.

Good advice. Great advice. And since it was just a one-night stand, he’d be damned if he wasted one single, solitary moment of it.

“Darlin’,” he murmured, rubbing his burgeoning cock against her silky hip, thumbing one of her delicious nipples to rigid life. “Wake up. I want you again.”

Her pale lids fluttered open. Her eyes impossibly green in the lamplight spilling across the bed.

He wasn’t sure she was fully awake, but she turned in his arms, eagerly offering her lips. He took them like the heartless, ravenous bastard he was…

Delilah would say this for the man, he was certainly thorough.

She’d fallen asleep on him twice, and twice he awakened her to wild positions and mind-blowing sex that shattered her psyche and decimated her body. He’d bent her over the bed, forcefully thrusting into her from behind while his fingers did things to her clitoris that made her scream. He’d had her on her knees, murmuring titillating commands to her on just how she should suck him, stroke him, cup him. He’d even taken her up against the wall, heaving into her over and over and over again until she shattered into a million tiny pieces and couldn’t remember her own name, much less his.

What wonderful delights would he show her next?

Without opening her eyes, she reached for him, her outstretched fingers searching the rumpled sheets next to her. The linens were cool, and…empty…

She bolted upright, pushing her hair from her eyes. A quick glance told her two things. One, she’d been asleep for a while because the sun was sliding toward the western horizon, sending tendrils of golden light through the slats of the aluminum blinds, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. And two, Mac wasn’t in the room.

“Mac?” she called quietly, her heart giving her rib cage a quick kick. She ignored it. He was just in the bathroom.

Mmm. Sex in the shower. That was one they hadn’t tried yet. Water, slippery soap, their bodies slapping together. Yes. She could go for some of that.

Sliding from the bed, she smiled at the little twinges and aches that were proof her body had been well-used, well-loved. Bending to grab her panties and T-shirt from where they’d fallen to the floor—fallen? More like been hurled—the memory of his fervor caused a shiver to race up her spine. She hoped he’d be just as anxious to undress her again. With a little giggle, she shimmied into the garments.

“Mac?” she called again, padding to the bathroom, knocking hesitantly on the partially closed door. It squeaked open under the pressure of her knuckles, revealing…nothing. Just the standard motel shower, sink, and toilet. But no Mac.

No Mac…

It was then she realized. True to his word, he’d given her one gloriously decadent afternoon. And that was it. Done. Finished. Over.

She slumped against the doorjamb, biting her lip as tears instantly filled her eyes. Thoughts spun through her head like tornados, threatening to destroy everything in their path. That ball of broken glass was back, tearing at her lungs, scraping against her heart, shredding her until the sob she held at the back of her throat broke through.

The sound was pathetic, even to her own ears. Desperate. Devastated.

You made the bargain, the voice whispered.

But that was before I realized I loved him! she argued in her own defense, then covered her mouth with a shaky hand because she knew that wasn’t true.

She’d known she loved him. Hell, if she was honest with herself, she’d known she loved him for years…

In fact, she’d fallen in love with his chin dimple and crooked nose the very first time she laid eyes on him. A few months later, when Ozzie told some raunchy joke and he tossed back his head, belly laughing, she’d fallen in love with the crinkles at the corner of his eyes. Then there was the day he valiantly came to the rescue of a woman whose husband was pushing her around out in the alley behind the bar, and she’d fallen in love with his courage. Fast forward to just a few months ago, when he held her close after she lost Buzzard, and she’d fallen head-over-heels in love with his compassion.

Yes. From the beginning, she’d loved him.

And now I have to live with it being…over.

She glanced wearily at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were red and shiny, her hair a rat’s nest of tangles. The skin around her mouth was pink from Mac’s whiskers and…what was that? She pushed away from the doorjamb, leaning against the sink as she turned her head to the side, examining the skin on her neck. A love bite. Just a small one. But it was a reminder of how well, how thoroughly he’d taken her. Made her his in every which way.

A reminder… A memory…

It was all she had now. And it would have to do.

She was Delilah Fairchild, after all. The ass-kicking, Harley-riding, shotgun-toting beer-slinger-from-hell. What was a little heartbreak to a woman like her?

“Everything,” she admitted to her reflection, wiping at the tears slipping down her cheeks and dropping from her chin. “It’s everything. But you can’t let him know.”

Because she’d promised there would be no strings, no hurt feelings. And if she couldn’t keep her word, the least she could do was never show him how much she suffered.

So toughen up, buttercup, she scolded herself, sniffling and pressing a hand to the ache in the center of her chest. Shaking out her hair, she forced herself to take a deep, cleansing breath, and turned on the faucet. In the middle of splashing cold water on her face, she jumped when the CIA agent tasked with guarding the rear of the motel tapped on the large frosted window positioned behind the toilet.

“May I have a glass of water?” he called, his voice hoarse and slightly muffled.

Poor guy. He’d been out there in the sun all afternoon. He was probably about to shrivel up and die.

Out there all afternoon…

Her cheeks flamed when it occurred to her that he might have heard everything that been happening inside the motel room, that whoever was positioned at the front had probably heard it, too. She wasn’t known for being a quiet lover, after all. And Mac had been nearly as vocal. Growling, groaning, yelling in triumph during orgasm like he’d just won an Olympic race or something.

“Well that’s just great,” she muttered to herself, embarrassed, wondering how she’d ever look any of these people in the eye again. I mean, really. What must they think of her? Her uncle was missing. Nuclear warheads were about to fall into the hands of terrorists. And what was she doing? Yep. You guessed it. She was getting her groove on. Getting her groove on and getting her heart broken all at the same time.

Pathetic. Deplorable. Unfor—

Tap. Tap. She could just make out the shadow of a hand knocking against the glass. “Just a second!” she called, bending to grab one of the plastic drinking cups from the shelf beneath the sink. Unwrapping it from its hygienic covering, she filled it with cold water before reaching to unlatch the window. It was a bit tough. The windowpane having been painted a few times. But it finally gave way and she threw up the sash.

“Here you g—”

That’s all she managed before a hand grabbed her wrist, yanking her forward. Her forehead slammed into the window sash, causing stars to dance in her field of vision. She was half hanging out the window, her knees atop the toilet tank, the cup having fallen from her hand to bounce on the ground below. In confusion, she watched it land atop Agent Wallace…

He was lying in the dirt beneath the window, his lifeless gaze staring vacantly into the sky above—a look that chilled her to the bone as it instantly reminded her of Buzzard—blood pooling beneath his head from the giant gash flaying his throat open in a gruesome, macabre smile. His foot was twitching. She didn’t know why she should notice such a thing in the split second it took her to open her mouth to scream, but she did. She saw it. That awful, twitching foot. She heard it. That terrible scuffling sound it made against the ground.

Then…pain. White-hot agony. It exploded at the base of her skull. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a familiar set of brown Timberlands, felt the brutal bite of terror as it sank its sharp fangs into her galloping heart. The second blow to her head cut off the cry lodged at the back of her throat. And then…lights out…

Mac was a coward.

That’s all there was to it. Because he’d wanted to stay with her while she slept. Hold her in his arms. Pet her. Kiss her. Watch her dream…

But he couldn’t. He had fallen…just a little. And he didn’t dare risk it. He was too afraid to risk it.

On the other hand, it’d been nearly three hours since he slunk from her room like the lily-livered cur that he was, and that probably meant she’d be waking up soon. He couldn’t stand the thought of that, of her rolling over to discover his dastardly desertion.