“You use the shower first,” he said.
“You’re worse off than I am.”
“Which is why you won’t want to get in it after me. Go ahead. I’ll see if I can find us something to eat in the main house.”
Without another word, he left. Listlessly, Honor stared at the closed door and listened as he went down the outside stairs. Then for several minutes she stayed exactly as she was, lacking the wherewithal to move. Finally she forced herself.
The bar soap in the shower was locker room variety, but she used it liberally, even washed her hair with it. She could have luxuriated in the hot water all night, but, remembering that Coburn needed it even worse than she, she got out as soon as she had thoroughly rinsed.
The towels were thin but smelled reassuringly of Tide. She finger-combed the tangles out of her hair, then dressed in her dirty clothes. But she couldn’t bring herself to put her feet back into her damp sneakers. She carried them out with her.
Coburn had returned, bringing with him staples similar to what he’d brought to her father’s boat. He’d set out the selection on top of the chest of drawers.
“No perishables in the fridge, so they must have planned to be gone for a while. But I found one lone orange.” He had already peeled and sectioned it. “And these.” He held up a pair of kitchen scissors, the kind used to cut up poultry. “For your jeans. Only the lower part of the legs is really dirty.”
He had already used them on her dad’s pants. They’d been hacked off at the knees.
She took the scissors from him. “Thanks.”
“Dig in.” He motioned toward the food, then went into the bathroom and closed the door.
She hadn’t eaten since the breakfast sandwich from the truck stop, but she wasn’t hungry. She did, however, take the scissors to her jeans, leaving them with a ragged, stringy edge just above her knees. It felt worlds better to be rid of the fabric that was stiff with dried mud and swamp water.
The ceiling light was glaring, so she turned it off and switched on a small reading lamp on the nightstand. Then she moved to the window and separated the inexpensive, no-frills curtains.
It had been an overcast day, but the clouds had thinned out. Now only wisps of them drifted across a half moon. I see the moon, and the moon sees me. The song she and Emily sang together caused her heart to clutch with homesickness for her daughter. She would be fast asleep by now, hugging her Elmo and bankie close.
Honor wondered if she had cried for her at bedtime, when homesickness was always the strongest. Had Tori told her a story, listened to her prayers? Of course she had. Even if she hadn’t thought to do so, Emily would have reminded her.
God bless Mommy and Grandpa, and God bless Daddy in heaven. Emily prayed the same prayer each night. And last night, she’d added, God bless Coburn.
Hearing him emerge from the bathroom, Honor hastily wiped the tears off her cheeks and turned back into the room. He had dressed in the cut-off khakis and the oversized T-shirt he’d pilfered from the chest of drawers. He was barefoot. And he must have found a razor because he had shaved.
He looked up at the extinguished ceiling light, then over at the lamp on the bedside table, before coming back to her. “Why are you crying?”
“I miss Emily.”
He raised his chin in acknowledgment. He glanced at the food items. “Did you eat anything?”
She shook her head.
“How come?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Why are you crying?” he asked again.
“I’m not. Not anymore.” But even as she said it, fresh tears slid down her cheeks.
“Why’d you risk your life?”
“What?”
“Why’d you leave the garage on foot? Why were you coming toward the train?”
“I told you. I just… I… I don’t know.” The last three words rode out on a sob.
He started walking toward her. “Why are you crying, Honor?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.” When he reached her, she said once again in a hoarse whisper, “I don’t know.”
For what seemed like the longest time, he did nothing except stare deeply into her tearful eyes. Then he raised his hands to either side of her face, slid his fingers up through her damp hair, and cupped her head. “Yeah you do.”
Angling his head, he kissed her as passionately as he had the night before, but this time she didn’t fight the sensations it evoked. She couldn’t have even if she had wanted to. They were explosive, consuming, and she gave herself over to them.
The stroking of his tongue, the mastery of his lips, even the placement of his large hands when they moved to her hips and drew her up against him made the kiss intensely sensual and caused dark and seductive curls of arousal deep within her lower body. And when he growled against her lips, “Are you gonna stop?” she shook her head and drew him back to continue the kiss.
He lifted the hem of her T-shirt and worked it up her torso, then unhooked her bra and took her breasts in his hands. Honor whimpered with pleasure at the light tugging of his fingertips and gasped his name when he bent his head and closed his mouth around her nipple.
With one hand, he unfastened the khakis, then raised his head and held her mesmerized by the blue-hot intensity of his eyes as he took her hand, placed it on himself, and moved it up and down. He lifted his hand away, but hers remained and stroked him. He hissed a curse of surprise and delight when her thumb rubbed the tip.
Leaning into her, with his mouth against her ear, he whispered, “I think I’m gonna like the way you fuck.”
They kissed recklessly and hungrily as he kicked out of his pants and whipped the T-shirt over his head. He removed her T-shirt and bra just as quickly, then dropped to his knees and undid her jeans and pulled them down her legs along with her panties. He pressed a kiss just below her navel as he drew her down onto the floor.
Moving between her thighs, he stretched out above her, then thrust into her. Once. Because, as he did everything, he acted without hesitation or apology to claim her entirely. Her eyes went wide and her breath caught. Holding her gaze, he pressed himself deeper, barely easing back before pressing deep again.
She loved his weight on her, loved the heat of his clean skin, the feel of the hair on his chest against her breasts, the pressure he applied from inside and out, the smell and rough texture of his body, his maleness. Boldly, he pushed her knee back toward her chest, changing the angle of his thrusts and heightening the friction, and the pleasure increased tenfold.
It was immense. Almost unbearable. She bit her lower lip. She covered her eyes with the back of one forearm, while with her other hand she tried to get a grip on her spinning universe by attempting to dig her fingers into the hardwood floor. But she continued slipping, slipping, slipping toward…
“Honor.”
Gasping, she lowered her arm from over her eyes and looked into his face.
“Put your hands on me. Pretend this means something.”
With a whimper, she wrapped her arms around him and clutched his back, then slid her hands down over his ass and drew him even deeper into her. He groaned, buried his face in the hollow of her neck, and rocked his body against hers. An orgasm burst through her at the same time he came.
She pretended nothing.
Chapter 38
For Clint Hamilton the wait was agonizing.
An hour ago, an agent in the Lafayette office had called to inform him that the scheduled meeting between Honor Gillette and Tom VanAllen had ended disastrously with a car bomb explosion.
Since receiving the staggering news, Hamilton had been alternately pacing his Washington office or sitting with his elbows propped on his desk supporting his head while he massaged his forehead. He considered taking a shot from the bottle of Jack that he kept in his bottom desk drawer. He resisted. Whatever the forthcoming update from Tambour was, he needed to receive it with a clear head.