down with one hand and guided him inside.
“Ah, yesssss,” she said as he hit home, and she slid along the turgid length until he was almost buried inside. She pulled up agonizingly slowly and then repeated the descent, squeezing her vaginal muscles to massage him as she made the mad ride back down. When she was close to bottoming out, she wriggled and quivered until she took the last inch, releasing another gush that wet his testicles.
I’m going to have to wash the comforter, too. Awesome.
He was momentarily distracted by the image of blood gushing out of her, binding them where their flesh met, the ultimate proof of love. He pushed the vision away. Because he still loved her.
Don’t I?
She worked up and down, then swayed side to side to make sure he touched every secret part of her, the tips of her hair feathering against his face. He grabbed her hips as the need took him, and he thrust as he shoved down on her waist. A wet slapping filled the bedroom Sebastian Briggs fucking her in the Monkey House His jealousy and rage made a perverse transition into sexual energy, and he felt himself swell even more.
“Yes,” she urged. “Drill me hard.”
Which was odd, since she was the one driving the train, but who was he to argue with such a command? He assisted her frantic pummeling, the friction increasing. And then the change occurred, the one recurring hiccup to his innocent desire.
The lust merged into fear and rage and he clutched her hair, not hard enough to hurt, not yet-he still loved her-though he wanted badly to yank until her neck snapped back.
The madness came back as strongly as it had in the Monkey House, when he’d killed Sebastian Briggs. He’d told himself it was self-defense, an involuntary reaction, but honesty was a hard, hot edge of a knife that pressed against the thin fabric of every deception.
He’d killed Briggs because Briggs had seduced Wendy.
Even though she had no recollection of her surrender-however involuntary-he couldn’t bury it, and the only way he could defeat it each time was to become a little like the monster Briggs had wanted him to be.
As he plunged upward, his hips slapping against her moist bottom, he curled his hand into a claw and grabbed the back of her neck, forcing her shoulders down.
And she responded with her own inner sickness, exploding yet again, and this time he joined her, the fervid volcano of his demented passion driving deep into her soft and hidden self.
As they relaxed, grinding together to squeeze out the last drops of joy and shame, Roland couldn’t help but feel that Briggs was getting the last laugh from the safe comfort of the grave.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I thought we’d buried them,” Senator Daniel Burchfield said. He adjusted his tie in the mirror, brushing some of the powder from his cheek. “Goddamned makeup. I want to look smooth, not like the corpse of a French mime.”
Wallace Forsyth looked around the small dressing room. He didn’t trust these cable news outlets. They were in the business of catching people with their pants down, looking for the gaffes that would feed the cycle until the next natural disaster, shooting spree, or Lindsay Lohan arrest.
“Is the room clean?” Forsyth asked.
“Abernethy went over it himself. But you don’t need a bug to eavesdrop, Wallace. We’ve got stuff that can pick up a conversation through the carpet if necessary.”
Forsyth looked down at the floor, which was covered in shiny vinyl. The tip of one leather Oxford was scuffed and he rubbed it against his pants leg. “You say ‘we’ like you know who is on whose side.”
“Everybody’s on my side,” Burchfield said. “Some of them just don’t know it yet.”
Satisfied with his reflection, Burchfield turned to face Forsyth. “We did everything we promised,” he said. “We leveled the Monkey House, sold that ‘limited contamination’ story in the press, hid the bodies, and pretty much let everybody else go on with their lives.”
“Even though they might snitch you out?”
“You’ve been reading too many spy novels, Wallace. Most people aren’t looking for intrigue or danger. Most people are scared as crap that they’re going to be noticed. Then they’d have to act like their job is vital, that they don’t cheat on their taxes, and that they know all the words to the Pledge of Allegiance.”
“Have you ever considered, Daniel, that you’re far too cynical to be the president of the United States of America?”
“Yes, I’ve considered it. But they say if you scratch a cynic, you find a frustrated idealist. And, I confess, I am idealistic. I love this country. I still think we’re the best in the world, and that we have a sacred duty to shape the future.”
“‘Sacred duty’? Sounds like you’re starting to cater to my crowd.” Forsyth smiled inwardly.
“Don’t worry, Wallace. Federal support of religious non-profit groups is a done deal. And it won’t even be a fight. I’ve already got a nod from the House leader.”
“You’re assuming the Republicans will control the House next year?”
“Change is in the air. Change is always in the air during troubled times.”
“Some would say your actions have helped make them troubled.” Forsyth knew the devil’s hand was involved, but Burchfield wasn’t as true of a believer as he played it in public.
“Look, I didn’t start any wars. The people wanted them. We have a moral imperative. Where governments are corrupt and people are oppressed, we lend our might. That’s been true since the Monroe Doctrine.”
“Only when it serves our corporate friends.”
“Don’t make me use up all my best material right before an interview, Wallace. Right now, we need to tie up this Halcyon thing before the primary. That’s all we need, to let one of the neo-cons catch wind of it, or that goddamned Utah governor.”
“He’ll carry his home state, but as long as you bring up the word ‘Mormon’ in every press conference, the Internet bloggers will do the job for you.”
Burchfield, who stood a good four inches taller than Forsyth, slapped the wispy-haired man on the back. “You’ve been catching up to the Digital Age,” he boomed, with the boyish grin that guaranteed him an extra 10 percent among women voters. “Good man. Before you know it, you’ll be running your own Facebook page.”
There was a knock at the door, and a woman’s muffled voice came from beyond it. “Five minutes, Senator.”
Burchfield adjusted his tie again and nodded at Forsyth to continue. The senator had been in bed with Big Tobacco before the historic settlement had gutted that lobby’s power, and then he’d eased over into Big Drugs without a hiccup. As senior member of the Senate health committee, he’d exploited killing and healing with equal success.
Now Burchfield had said the one word that had been on both their minds since receiving the same text message earlier in the day: Halcyon.
“Our boys have Dr. Morgan under surveillance, but we don’t see her conjuring up anything,” Forsyth said. “Her current research project might as well be June bugs in a jar, as far as we can tell.”
“You think she backed off Halcyon completely?”
“She didn’t get on the president’s council by being a dummy. She knows we got eyes on her.”
“And Mark Morgan?” Burchfield’s face darkened with the memory of betrayal. Mark Morgan had been a staunch ally in the pharmaceutical game, but he’d chosen his wife over his career, and then added insult to injury by refusing Burchfield’s offer to join the campaign team. And now, unaccountably, he was training to be a cop.
“I checked on his performance at Durham Tech,” Forsyth said. “Solid Bs, mediocre marksmanship, generally well-liked by his teachers but considered town-cop material at best. He won’t be enrolling at Quantico any time soon.”
“And that Underwood guy is still locked away in the loony bin?”
“They’ve got him juiced on so many drugs, he can’t tell daffodils from dandelions. You don’t have to worry about him talking none.”
