Hail Mary, page 27
“So beautiful,” he whispered. “I’m going to do this every day.”
And then he pinched her nipple and suckled her clit with strong, heady pulls, and she splintered. A wrenching cry tore from her as she hurtled into orgasm, her body shuddering in release.
Beau rode it with her, his tongue stroking every last tremor from her. Then he looked up at her, his eyes like dark jewels, his mouth wet. Dark possession stamped his features, and she trembled because this was the man who’d survived hell. Who spoke so easily of death; who would die for her.
Kill for her.
Beau, at his most basic. And the sight of him made her want to come again.
“Now you’re ready,” he said.
Wynn reached for him, suddenly desperate to have inside her. Even as the fluttering of her orgasm faded, a new, stronger hunger was surging through her.
He slid up her body, the hair that covered him bristling her skin, the hard muscle that lined his frame pressing her deep into the sheepskin. When he settled between her thighs and his hard cock pressed against the entrance of her body, she arched against him, shaking all over again, perched once more on that steep edge.
“Look at me,” he demanded. One of his hands held her thigh pressed wide beneath him. The other gripped her hip.
His eyes glittered wildly.
“More,” she told him.
“And you say I’m bossy,” he grated and leaned down and suckled her breast.
Then he thrust deep inside of her.
Pain seared through her. She arched with a sharp, startled cry, her nails tearing into his shoulders. The hand at her hip tightened.
“Easy, sweetheart.” The hand on her thigh stroked down to the place where they were joined. He rubbed her clit with his thumb, spreading the slick moisture he found there, and a streak of intense pleasure seared through the ache inside of her. A soft moan broke from her.
“Sweet, beautiful girl,” he murmured. “You’re mine now.”
Then he kissed her, deep, slow, leisurely, as if they had all the time in the world. And he stroked her: her clit, her nipples, the gentle swell of her belly.
It was too much and not enough; the discomfort was fading, and she could feel him, hot and hard and huge inside of her, throbbing intensely in the deepest part of her. She arched, her nails digging deep, needing him to—
“All mine,” he whispered and pulled out of her slowly.
“Don’t go,” she protested, but then he thrust back in, hard, and pleasure burst through her like a rocket firing. “Oh!”
“Yes,” he said and thrust again.
He stroked her clit; suckled her breast. Thrust again. And again. Harder, stronger, deeper.
Faster.
“Oh,” she whispered, shuddering. “That’s...”
“Yes.” A harsh sound rumbled in his chest. She rose with him, meeting his next stroke, and the next, and the sharp, wild rise of sensation within her grew. She was climbing again, everything inside of her tight and intent on reaching the peak.
His strokes deepened, pounding harder, pushing her higher.
“More,” she demanded.
“As you wish,” he murmured and began to thrust with such sharp, hungry force, everything else faded. There was only him.
Them.
She was climbing higher, her nails deep in his skin as she held him. A soft wail broke from her; she found the hard curve of his shoulder and bit him. Hard.
“Fuck,” he hissed.
“Please,” she panted.
“Not yet.”
His thrusts grew deeper, wilder, and Wynn moaned, caught in the maelstrom he wrought. Higher; tighter; so taut she thought she might break. And then another harsh, feral sound broke from him. His mouth touched her ear.
“Now,” he said, and Wynn fractured.
Pleasure ripped through her, and she was lost. Her body convulsed in release, but he was still thrusting, harder, deeper, and she cried out soundlessly when another orgasm ripped through her belly. Beau threw back his head and growled as he came, his body trembling wildly as it thrust into hers. Then he collapsed on top of her, shuddering, and Wynn slid her hands into his hair and held him there.
Her heart was beating like the wings of a trapped bird; her breath shuddered in and out of her violently. But every muscle was lax, except for the residual tremors shivering through her.
Holy crap, she thought.
Beau rolled them over, still inside of her, and settled her on top of him. His arms wound tight around her; one of his hands traced her spine long, soothing strokes.
“I love you,” he said, and her heart stopped.
Wynn levered herself up against his chest and stared at him.
“I just thought you should know,” he said, his eyes stark with the raw honesty that echoed in his voice.
But there was no expectation there, only hope.
And Wynn knew then they were both crazy. Because they’d known each other all of a week. And yet—
“I love you, too,” she told him seriously. “Have we lost our minds?”
“Maybe.” He rubbed his thumb over her mouth. “But at least we’ll go crazy together.”
Yes.
“I’m keeping you,” he told her roughly.
Her heart fluttered. “Promise?”
He rolled her back over. “Promise.”
Chapter 32
Wynn had been fully prepared for a very nosy interrogation when Beau brought her home. Between Jenna and the tenants, she understood she was in for some intrusive questions and, knowing her little sister, probably a fair amount of snark as well.
The last thing she expected was the circus they pulled up to.
A news van, a catering truck, a Superior County Sheriff’s truck, and half a dozen other vehicles parked haphazardly in her front yard.
“Crap,” she muttered, frowning at the small crowd gathered at the side of the house. “So much for sneaking in.”
“We’re not sneaking anywhere,” Beau told her darkly. “We have nothing to hide. Unless you’re ashamed of me?”
She leaned over and pressed a lingering kiss to his mouth. “Prickly little pear.”
“I’m the fucking sheriff.” He wound his hand in her hair and kissed her back, hard and possessive.
Wynn broke away and sucked in a breath. She ran a hand down the padded muscle of his chest, drunk on the freedom to touch him.
Hers, now.
He caught her hand, his green eyes serious.
“I claimed you,” he said, and his tone made a shiver ripple down her spine. “There’s no going back.”
“Duly noted,” she told him. “But you don’t understand what we’re in for.”
Some of the tension eased out of him. “We beat a serial killer. I think we can handle a few meddlesome family members.”
Wynn smiled slowly at him. She couldn’t help it. That he understood her tenants were family made her forgive the scowl he wore. He’d been scowling since they’d climbed into the truck at his cabin.
Reality, she thought. Back to the real world. And no matter their deal, he was worried that she would suddenly freak out and run. Even though he’d been the one who’d tried to quit.
Silly man.
She wasn’t going anywhere. Beau Greystone was the one she wanted, every snarly, brooding, moody inch of him.
God help her.
“If you say so,” she murmured and kissed him again. “Tinman.”
His response was instant and white-hot. The hold on her hair tightened; his tongue stroked into her mouth. Wet and open and hungry, as if he was still inside of her.
He’d woken her with a kiss like that. And then he’d woken the rest of her, his touch sly and deft and far too skilled. Such intense focus.
She didn’t think she’d ever get enough.
“Think they’d notice if we just stay in the truck?” His hand cupped her breast. “We can climb in the back. Plenty of room.”
He rubbed her nipple, and Wynn hissed in a breath.
“If this truck starts a-rockin’, they’ll definitely come a-knockin’,” she gasped and arched into his touch.
A ragged laugh escaped him, rough and deep; a sound so rare and captivating, her heart squeezed hard.
A handful of smiles. A laugh.
He was getting there.
“Goddamn it,” he whispered and slid his hands away.
A pang echoed through her at the loss. But then he climbed from the truck, walked around, opened her door, and offered her his hand.
“Let’s get this over with,” he said, his eyes lidded, pure green fire. “We have sweet love to make.”
She snickered. “Cornball.”
“You won’t say that when I’m inside you.”
He pulled her from the truck. The rain had finally ceased, and the sun was warm and bright in the morning sky as they made their way to the front porch. Sean Evers stood next to the front door, talking to a sleek blond in a crisp lavender pantsuit and six-inch heels. He looked up as they approached.
“Sheriff,” he said, his gaze on Beau. Then he looked at Wynn. Color rushed into his cheeks. “Wynn.”
She eyed him darkly. They hadn’t had a chance to talk after he’d bashed Harry Baker’s brains in with a shovel, and it had been Winston Reynolds, Beau’s new/old deputy who’d told her Sean was, in fact, Ian Long, the twin brother of the Stick Man’s first victim, Bridget. The disclosure had annoyed the crap out of her.
Not because she didn’t understand perfectly why he’d hunted the Stick Man. She would have tracked that bastard to the ends of the earth if he’d taken Jenna. It was the fact that Sean hadn’t disclosed his true identity that annoyed her—an unnecessary lie, and worse, one perpetrated by someone with whom she was sharing her home. But then she’d imagined hunting her sister’s killer, never resting until he was caught. How much sacrifice it must have taken; how much pain must have driven him.
And she’d let it go. Still, he was going to hear about it.
“You,” she said, her eyes narrowing on him, “have some explaining to do.”
He had the grace to flush. The blond he was talking to looked at Wynn in speculation.
“I know,” he said quietly. “Can it wait?” He nodded at the blond. “Channel 8 wants to interview me.”
Wynn arched a brow. Beau slid his arm around her and pulled her into his side.
“He did save our bacon,” he murmured into her ear. “You should cut him some slack.”
She leaned into his embrace. “I’m charging him double.”
Velma burst unexpectedly through the front door; she skidded to a halt on the porch when she saw them. “Thank God you’re here! They’re out of control!”
And so it begins, Wynn thought. “What now?”
Velma pointed toward the house. “It’s like watching a tornado tear apart a town! Hurry!”
“As sure as the sun sets in the west,” Beau murmured.
“Told you so,” Wynn replied silkily.
They climbed the porch steps and headed toward the front door.
“Hurry,” Velma demanded again. She wore a billowing, bright blue tunic and silky pants; streaks of dark, emerald green had joined the pink highlights in her hair. She looked worried, her mouth tight, her hands wringing themselves together.
Wynn frowned. Velma rarely lost her cool. “Who’s out of control?”
“Tristan and Sasha!”
Wynn halted and stared at her. “Tristan and Sasha?”
“I thought it would be fine!” Velma slapped her palm against her forehead. “I arranged for Tristan to interview Earl this morning, but apparently no one bothered to tell Sasha, and she was prepping him to talk with the lady from Channel 8 when Tristan arrived and…”
And all hades broke loose.
“Crap,” Wynn said.
“Quite,” Velma agreed. She rubbed at her temples. “I thought perhaps they could get past whatever it was that happened, but…apparently not.”
Wynn looked up at Beau. He stood beside her, his hand possessive on her hip, his warm, hard body pressed against hers.
“Do you know what happened?” she asked quietly.
“No.” He shook his head. “Not the details.”
Did no one know?
How bad could it be, if neither Sasha nor Tristan had never told anyone…not even family?
Wynn wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer to that question.
The sound of raised voices floated toward them. Velma sighed fatalistically and disappeared back into the house. They moved to follow, but Jenna surged through the door and planted herself in their path.
“You should get a load of that.” She jabbed her thumb toward the door. “Holy sexual tension!”
Beau shook his head, a hint of a smile touching his mouth. “Jenna.”
“Just saying,” she said and shrugged. She looked at Wynn; then at Beau. A broad smile broke across her face. “Right on! I knew it!”
She threw her arms around Beau and hugged him. Surprise flitted across his face as he hesitantly hugged her back, and Wynn’s throat suddenly tightened.
They needed each other.
Something she hadn’t realized until that moment. That not only did she need Beau—Jenna did, too. An example of what a good, strong man should be. His advice; his protection; even his discipline. And Beau needed Jenna just as much: her youth, her resilience. That endless appetite for life.
“Yes!” Jenna crowed. She pulled back, grinning, her eyes glinting in the sunlight. “Earl owes me ten bucks.”
Wynn blinked at her. “You made a bet?”
“I’m not freaking blind.” Color touched her sister’s cheeks. “It was a sure thing.”
“You’re giving me half,” Wynn told her.
The voices inside the house suddenly grew louder.
“We’d better get in there,” Beau muttered. The hand at her hip tightened.
“I wouldn’t,” offered another voice. They turned to see Garrett strolling across the porch toward them. “I’d let that fire burn out.”
“At this rate, it’s going to torch the whole house,” Jenna retorted, rolling her eyes.
“Harpy,” Garrett replied without heat.
“FBI Ken.” She smiled sweetly. “Tell me, do you come with a gun and badge, or do they cost extra?”
Another rare laugh broke from Beau.
Two in one morning.
“Jenna,” Wynn said. “Manners.”
Her sister snorted. “This from you?”
Winston Reynolds suddenly rounded the corner of the house. He strode toward them, clad in a pair of ragged jeans and a Def Leppard shirt. “Hey, Chief. The Governor called this mornin’. Said he’ll be in town on Wednesday and wants to meet with the team that took down the Stick Man. You got somethin’ I can borrow to wear?”
Beau’s brows lifted. “How do you feel about a tropical vibe?”
Something inside of Wynn went still. She leaned into him. “You don’t have to.”
She didn’t expect him to give Marie away. Not his shirts or his watch, or anything else. First, she wasn’t a wasteful person, and if it was useful, she kept it. Second, their relationship existed beyond and outside of what he’d had with Marie.
It was either strong enough to make it, or it wasn’t.
Beau’s hand squeezed her hip. His breath tickled her ear. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep the ugliest ones for myself.”
Then he leaned down and kissed her, a hard, possessive stamp of reassurance.
“PDA alert,” Jenna sang.
A crash sounded; the clamor within the house grew to rock concert proportions.
Beau nuzzled Wynn’s temple. “Maybe they’ll kiss and make up.”
“And maybe they’ll burn down my house,” she retorted.
He sighed and stepped forward to open the door. He held it open for her—something that kept startling her, his penchant for opening doors. They stepped inside, and Beowulf immediately charged toward them, barking noisily. Wynn leaned down and picked up him.
“Hi, sweetness,” she murmured and kissed his head. “What’s wrong with these crazy people?”
Beau rubbed the pup’s ears, and the dog squirmed and grunted and tried to get closer. Sunlight slanted in through the door, turning Beau’s eyes into dark, glinting emeralds. His mouth was relaxed, the lines that marked his face not so deep, and although he was limping slightly, the tension that normally clung to him was conspicuously absent.
“This is how it’s going to be, you know,” she said, studying him. “Barely controlled chaos with intermittent periods of anarchy.”
He only snorted. “Sweetheart, I’ve been to war.”
“I’m just saying: anarchy.”
His gaze met hers. “As long as we’re together.”
Cornball. Still, a tremor moved through her. What she felt for this man scared the bejesus out of her.
“I’m holding you to that,” she told him seriously.
“You’d better,” he murmured. His eyes fell to her mouth.
A spike of sharp, piercing need stabbed through her. She gripped his shirt and pulled him toward her.
Velma appeared in the kitchen doorway. “There you are. What took you so long? You have to put an end to this!”
Beau growled softly. Wynn pressed a lingering kiss against his mouth and reluctantly let him go. Then she put Beowulf down and walked into the kitchen.
All of her tenants were seated at the table. Earl was freshly shaven and clad in a pair of new overalls and a pressed blue shirt; he looked excited. Esme sat beside him, sipping a cup of tea. Griff nibbled at a piece of toast on her other side, unconcerned with the chaos around him. Eloise had her hand wrapped around the wooden cross she wore, and Ethel, who sat beside her with a look of mystified fascination on her face, clutched the cape she was crocheting for Beau.
Velma leaned against the stove, rubbing her forehead. “Complete and utter lunacy.”
Sasha stood at one end of the table, clad in a sharp black pantsuit, the picture of sleek professionalism. Her arms were crossed beneath her breasts, and her face was so red, Wynn was surprised she hadn’t passed out.
Tristan James stood at the other end, his own handsome face hard and tight, a look of such intensity stamped across his features that Wynn hesitated.
