Last Kiss Goodnight - By Gena Showalter Page 0,105
That’s why she’d had to move their clothing aside and use rags. Here, with the more expensive dry enzyme, the removal of clothing was unnecessary.
His weight on the tiles triggered the automatic switch, and the spray began to mist over them, cleaning them inside and out, as well as their clothing. His skin tingled, and a minty taste even coated his tongue.
That done, he entered the bedroom and settled Vika atop the soft mattress. A mass of pale hair spilled over the pillow, and a soft sigh parted her lips. She curled to her side. He couldn’t help himself. He reached out, traced his fingers along the curve of her ear. She was such a stubborn woman. Such a beautiful woman.
His woman.
He removed her coat and tucked the covers around her. His fingers ghosted over the diamond choker he’d left on her. The stones were cold but pretty, and he wished he had bought the jewelry for her. Still, something about seeing so delicate a woman wearing it tempted the animal inside him. The animal he would have denied with his dying breath only a few days ago.
The animal he’d once hated.
Somehow, his biggest fault had become his greatest asset. He hadn’t used his strength to intentionally harm but to protect someone precious. And she was precious, wasn’t she? Precious to him in so many ways.
The need he had for her spun into the most sublime sense of satisfaction as he realized he would finally be able to have her. In every way. No interruptions. No distractions. No danger. And she was ready for him. He knew she was. Last time . . . the way she’d moved . . .
And then, this morning . . .
“Still frustrated?” he’d asked her.
“Maybe,” she’d snipped.
He’d worked her up but hadn’t given her any kind of release.
“Soon,” he promised her now, even though she couldn’t hear him. He placed a kiss on her forehead and stalked quietly through the house. It was two stories, though the second story was underground and only a trained eye would be able to find the doorway to below.
The heat was already on, the air warm, but he started a fire in the hearth in the living room anyway. The kitchen was small, with granite counters; cherrywood cabinets held enough boxed and canned food to see a family of four through a few months of seclusion. There was only the one bedroom. The other had been turned into an office.
An office Solo took over. He claimed the only chair in front of the wall of computers, and started typing on the center keyboard, reengaging the traps outside. He sent a message to Michael, John, and Blue, waited five minutes, ten, but no response was forthcoming from any of the three. He would check again after he ate, he decided.
The pantry was stocked with even more canned food, and he devoured an entire gallon of chicken noodle soup. And . . . still no response from the boys.
That didn’t mean anything, he assured himself.
He padded to the bedroom, eased onto the mattress, and tugged Vika into his side. She didn’t wake, but she did mold herself against him. He anchored a hand in her hair and a hand on her bottom, loving how perfectly they fit together.
But . . . half an hour passed. Two hours passed. He lay there, simply peering up at the ceiling. He was too primed to sleep, his mind too active. What a journey he’d undertaken. Forced to become a sideshow freak. Surrounded by evil, but tended to by a saint. A race through a frozen tundra, with a beautiful little blonde at his side. An attack by wolves. And now, this. Satisfaction.
And, honestly, if everything he’d endured had been necessary to bring him to this moment, knowing Vika was safe, that he had saved her from a life of torture and torment, he wouldn’t have changed a single thing.
• • •
Sunlight poured through the bedroom window. Solo hadn’t slept at all, but he still lay in the bed, Vika still curled up beside him. She had remained in the same position all night, not a sound to be heard from her.
He wanted her. He needed her.
When would she wake up?
He counted the beams in the ceiling. Twenty-three.
He counted again, just to be sure. Twenty-three.
He counted dust motes. Two thousand and sixteen. Two thousand and seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen.
Finally, she sighed and shifted to her back. Arched and stretched.