In this case, the strategy didn’t work.
Everywhere she looked, she saw tufts of white stuffing blowing in the breeze. And all she felt was the ice of Dryden’s controlling rage. The chill slashed over skin and stabbed into muscle. Stabbed into bone. She wrapped her arms around her middle and shivered.
Risa had always been able to take care of herself. And not just herself. Others, too. Even as a child, she’d watched out for her sister and mother. She’d been the strong one. The one who’d helped her mother to bed after a night of vodka. The one who’d made sure Nikki finished her homework when no one else cared. The responsible one. The one in charge.
What a laugh. Right now she felt about as in charge as a newborn baby.
Trent pulled out one of the chairs. “You should sit down.”
“Before I fall down?” She tried to inject humor into her voice. Instead it sounded small. Tremulous. Afraid.
“Before you fall down.” He stepped to the window, slid it closed, and locked it, dulling the machinery’s roar. “Cassidy said he’d send a deputy over to stay with you while I’m briefing the task force. He should be here soon.”
She nodded but didn’t move. She couldn’t. Not only was she unsure her legs could carry her the four or five steps to the bed, but she didn’t want to move away from him. From his warmth. From his strength. “I can’t. I—”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not.”
“No. It’s not. But it will be. You’re safe. Right now, you’re safe.”
Before she could let herself think, she leaned back against him, trying to get as close to his warmth as she could.
His arms slipped around her, wrapping tight around her waist. He pulled her against the hard plane of his body. Against muscle and strength. His breath grazed the side of her face, sending several strands of her hair dancing across her cheek.
Warmth spread over Risa’s skin. She closed her eyes. She remembered this. Being in Trent’s arms. The sense that, for this moment, she wasn’t alone. But her memories paled in comparison to having him here now. Surrounding her. The scent of him. The feel of him. The solid reality of him.
She could fight memories. She couldn’t fight this. She didn’t even want to.
Without breaking contact, she turned in his arms, pressing against him, molding her body to his. Every muscle. Every ridge. She reached up, locked her arms around his neck and pulled him to her.
His hand moved to the back of her neck, as it had so many times in the past. He cradled her head, entwining his fingers in her hair, and lowered his mouth to hers.
His lips fit hers like they always had. Like she’d known they still would. His tongue. His taste.
But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. She wanted to feel him, the hard wall of his chest, the taut muscle of his stomach, the tight ridge of his desire. She wanted to mold to him, skin to skin, no barriers between them.
She fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, pulling them free until the fabric parted under her fingers and she could slip her hands inside.
He shrugged out of the shirt and clutched her against his chest. His skin rippled warm and smooth over hard muscle. She traced the even lines of his ribs, the flat plane of his belly, the ribbon of coarse hair leading to his waistband. The feel of him was so familiar, yet new.
And she needed more. Needed more like she’d never needed before.
As if reading her thoughts, he smoothed his hands down her back and grasped the hem of her sweater. He slid the cotton up, baring her skin to the cool of the air, the heat of his touch. He broke contact with her lips only to lift the sweater over her head and discard it.
Not willing to wait one more second, she reached around her back and unhooked her bra. She slid the flimsy lace garment off and let it fall to the floor.
She reached for him. She needed his heat. Needed to feel his skin against hers. Her breasts flattened against his chest, the coarse sprinkling of hair abrading their sensitive tips.
A groan rumbled in his chest. Lowering his head, he devoured her mouth, his lips nipping and caressing, his tongue demanding and giving. His fingers found the waistband of her slacks. Unbuttoning. Unzipping. He eased them over her hips and let them fall. Her panties were next. He pushed the lace down her thighs, past her knees. His actions coiled with a need of his own.
She held him tighter. Wanting to be part of him, to meld with him, to become stronger together than they ever could be apart.
Grasping the waistband of his slacks, her fingers found the button, the metal tab of the zipper. She pulled the zipper down.
His trousers slid down his legs, and he kicked them free. He slipped his hands down her sides, over the swell of her hips and cupped her buttocks. Lifting her, he pulled her against his body, against the straining bulge in his briefs. She spread her thighs, wrapping her legs around him, fitting her body to him. Cupping him, holding him, rocking against him. This was what she needed, what she wanted. To feel alive. To feel safe. To feel strong.
He took the few steps to the bed, laid her on the mattress, and lowered himself down on top of her. His heat seeped into her, firing her blood past fever, past reason.
Risa’s breath rasped in her ears, harsh, uneven. Her heart pumped, strong against her ribs. She worked her hands between their bodies, slipped her fingers under the elastic waistband of his briefs. “I need you so much, Trent. I never stopped needing you.”
His body went rigid. He drew a sharp breath and let it out in a shudder. “We—” His hand closed over hers and stilled. “We can’t do this.”
Pulling back from his kiss, she opened her eyes, searching his face, trying to make sense of what he was saying, why he had stopped.
His skin was flushed. His eyes echoed the want, the need she knew glistened in her own. He swallowed hard and shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
His words fully registered this time, slicing deep. His weight still bore down on her. His skin was still melded to hers, his erection pressing into her thigh. Yet he was pulling away. Distancing himself. Denying her needs. Denying his own.
Like he had done before.
“What is wrong with you?”
His mouth flattened into a hard line.
It was a cruel thing to say, and she knew it. What they were doing… they’d gotten carried away. Sleeping together would just make everything more difficult. But she couldn’t help it. She wanted to hurt him. Like he’d hurt her two years ago.
Like he was hurting her now.
He rolled onto his back, cool air rushing to fill the space where his body had been. Sitting up, he turned to the window. Soft light filtered through the sheers and glowed off the planes of his face, making the stress lines framing his eyes and mouth appear etched deep as the abyss that had opened between them. “I’m sorry.”
“Then don’t pull away.”
“It’s not that simple, and you know it.”
“It is that simple, Trent. It’s just that simple. I was stronger in your arms just now than I am alone. We were stronger. And we need that. If it’s just for now, fine. We need it.”
His brows turned down in anger and frustration. “Making love with me isn’t what you need. It’s just going to bring you more pain.”
She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it without uttering a word. He was right. Making love with Trent wasn’t going to help her escape the threat of Dryden, the fear of losing Nikki. Needing him, melding with him, losing herself in him would only bring her pain once he returned to Washington alone. But no matter what logic told her, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was stronger in his arms.
And where did that leave her?
Her stomach knotted and her eyes stung. Worst of all was that he had been able to stop. Even as she’d been touching him. Even as she’d been so caught up, she’d only been able to feel. Trent had been able to pull away—just like he had before.