Last Kiss Goodnight

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.

The ferocity of his need strained and bucked against the tight leash he held. Had she been any other woman, he would have pounced then and there. But she wasn’t. She was Vika. His Vika. He would rather die than frighten her or press her for something she wasn’t ready to give. Right?

But he had nothing to worry about. She was ready; he’d already come to that conclusion. And he was never wrong. Right?

“Solo?” she said, her voice scratchy from sleep.

Right. “Vika.” He rolled on top of her, clasped her by the nape, lifted her head, and fit their mouths together. Her taste, her heat, her softness, her gentleness, every curve of her luscious body fanned the flames of his desire.

He kissed her thoroughly, deeply, branding her, being branded by her, kindling a fire that would always burn between them. After a moment’s hesitation, she welcomed him with the sweetest of moans, wrapping her arms around him and arching into him. He nearly roared at the intensity of the pleasure.

She was ready.

“Are you going to stop this time?” she asked.

“Only if you want me to.”

“I won’t.”

“Then I’m never going to stop.”

On and on the kiss continued, until she was panting, struggling to breathe.

“We’ve done this before,” she said. “Now I want to know what comes next.”

“We’ve done the next part, too, but we’re going to do it again. And probably a third and fourth time.” Until she was ready with more than her body. Forcing himself to move slowly, he slid his hands underneath her shirt, until he encountered warm, bare skin. “Tell me if I scare you.”

If she caught his words, she made no reply. However, she leaned into his touch, telling him all he needed to know. He cupped the heavy weight of her breasts, just as before, and groaned. Another perfect fit. She mewled her excitement, encouraging him to knead . . . until his hands were trembling, until she was arching continually, trying to press more fully against him.

“Gonna go lower now,” he said.

Maybe she read his lips. Maybe she didn’t. He moved his attention to the plane of her stomach, dabbled at her navel. When she offered no protest, he traced his fingers along the waistband of her pants.

A gasp slipped from her. Her gaze locked with his, and she trembled.

“Change your mind? Want me to stop?” he asked, swallowing a denial.

“No. Keep going, please.” A needy entreaty.

He continued, moving lower still. He kept his caresses light and easy, and she responded to every movement, every brush of his thumb, again mewling . . . soon begging.

“More. Please.”

“Yes. I’ll give you more. But I want to see you first, sweetheart.”

“I . . . I have a few scars,” she replied tremulously.

A burst of fury, quickly subdued. “You’re beautiful. All of you. Every inch.”

She licked her lips. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Prove it.”

With pleasure. He whisked the shirt over her head and tossed it aside, then removed her bra, baring her to his view, and oh, was she gorgeous, perfect in every way, just as he’d known she would be. She . . . the first woman to ever tempt him to the brink of losing control.

He saw a pale, thin scar on her right shoulder and kissed it. There was a puckered pink scar on the left side of her rib cage, and he kissed that one, too. Goose bumps broke out over her skin.

“You are the most exquisite creature ever created,” he said, rising from the bed.

If she had other scars, they would be lower, on her legs, and when he got down there, he wouldn’t want to pause to take a moment to shuck his clothing. Best to do that now.

“Where are you going?” she demanded.

Such a fierce tone from such a tiny creature. He almost grinned.

Silent, he stripped, then leaned over and stripped her the rest of the way. His breath caught in his throat. He’d described her as perfect before, but this . . . this was perfection. Every inch of her was encased by luscious rose-tinted skin, her supple curves creating a canvas of the sweetest femininity.

As he’d suspected, she had other scars. Just a few, but they formed puckered circles where her bones had broken through skin; they somehow only added to her beauty. She had survived a kind of hell that would have destroyed countless others. Every mark of abuse was a badge of her incredible strength.

“So powerful,” she said, looking him over. “Come here.”

“Want to kiss your other scars.”

“Soon.”

“Soon,” he parroted. He would take such good care of her, he vowed as he stretched out beside her. He would treat her as the treasure she was, make her feel so special she would never doubt his determination to protect her.

Heat radiated from her, enveloping him, but still she shivered.

“Scared?” he asked.

“Blissful.”

“I want to make you feel even better.” Wanting to urge her back into that state of total arousal, he gave her another kiss, seeking, tasting, taking, giving. Finally, she needed more—she needed everything. Yet still he only caressed her face, toyed with the ends of her hair. He traced the line of her shoulders. Every touch was innocent, yet strategic.

“Solo,” she finally said, a command.

“Yes,” he replied, a promise.

“More.”

Exactly what he’d been waiting for. He explored her the way he’d longed to do from the start, leaving no part