Night Resurrected Page 27

  “She’ll stay with me,” Wyatt said, easing away from the wall. His movements were deliberately casual, but the look he gave Vaughn was not. The room stilled, quieted, and he didn’t understand why.

  “Is that all right with you, Remy?” asked Vaughn, purposely placing himself so Wyatt couldn’t see her face, his back presented to him.

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Wyatt said. Done. He was done with this, done with all of this. And his hands were shaking.

  For safety reasons, a large group accompanied Remy and Wyatt back to his room. But none of them lingered; in fact, they seemed eager to be off—with the exception of Fence, who stepped into the room and wandered around, looking about as if to ensure its security hadn’t been breached. Or maybe he was just being nosy. He bounced his palm on the tightly made bed and glanced at Wyatt.

  “Haven’t lost your touch,” said the massive man with a feckless grin. “You could flip a quarter on this mo-fo.”

  Suddenly nervous, Remy hesitated as she stepped over the threshold . . . then pushed on. This could be her last night sleeping easy—at least as easy as she could, knowing what was on the horizon for tomorrow—for a while. She wouldn’t feel safer with anyone other than Wyatt. There wasn’t anywhere else she wanted to be other than here.

  She was safe here.

  “Holy shit, dude. Where the hell’d you get this? A whole motherfucking box of Trojans?” Fence had a huge smile on his face as he swept down to pick it up from the pile on the floor. “Dang! Unopened? What the hell—”

  “Get the fuck out of here,” Wyatt said, shoving the man toward the door. “Take the damn things with you.”

  “Hell, bro, I think you’re fixin’ to need ’em more than me,” laughed Fence, throwing the box back at Wyatt as he spun out into the hall. “Do you some—”

  “Christ, Fence, shut the hell up—”

  “Might want to actually open the—”

  The door slammed shut, obliterating whatever Fence was saying. But Remy heard his giddy, high-pitched laugh even through the door, fading as he walked off.

  At least someone was having a good time.

  Wyatt turned from the door. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he looked almost flustered. He snatched up the purple box from the floor and slammed it into one of the dresser drawers. “Don’t ask.”

  Okay, then.

  “I’m going to sleep on the floor in front of the door,” he said, grabbing a pillow off the bed. “In case anyone tries to come in.”

  “We could get Dantès. He’d be a good guard,” she suggested.

  “He’s down in the computer lab, safe. And guarding the crystal. I think I can handle this,” he said, his voice wry.

  “Right.” Remy looked around, suddenly, acutely, uncomfortable. She hadn’t thought about putting him out of his bed. She hadn’t really thought about this at all. “Vaughn’s got an extra bedroom—”

  “You want to sleep with Vaughn tonight?” he snapped back. “Is that it?”

  “Uh—”

  “I can arrange it if that’s what you want.”

  “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” she ventured.

  “Maybe you’d feel safer in the mayor’s private suite,” he shot back.

  They stared at each other from across the room. Remy was aware that her heart was racing, that her insides were all out of sorts. Shaking her head, she turned away. Listlessly, she picked up the remaining pillow and hugged it to her chest.

  “No,” she managed to say, closing her eyes as she buried her face in the cotton. Of course it smelled like him. “Strangely enough, I feel safest with you.”

  Wyatt gave a muffled curse and she heard a dull, hard thump. “You don’t have to do this,” he said. His voice was still hard. Cold as ice. “We can find another way.”

  “There is no other way,” she replied wearily. “I’ve thought about it and thought about it. I suppose I always knew this day would come—the day I’d have to make a decision about the crystal, the day of truth, I guess. The day it all came clear. Maybe I’ve been preparing for it for the last twenty years. But at least it’ll be over.”

  She looked up, still hugging the pillow, just able to see above its snowy white case. He was across the room, remote and distant, figuratively as well as literally. This was a mistake.

  She didn’t know what she’d been thinking. That maybe her last safe night might be . . . pleasant? Comforting?

  “Don’t look at me . . . like that,” he said. She could see his jaw moving, the shadows beneath his cheekbones shifting, but his eyes were hidden.

  Remy turned away, lifting her head proudly. Definitely a mistake. But what had she expected? She was aware of the stiffness of her movements as she returned the pillow to its place on the bed, walked to the bathroom, closed the door, splashed cold—very cold—water on her face, wiped away what could have been a few tears if she actually let them come.

  Remington Truth. I’m Remington Truth. I can get through this.

  If I can get through what Seattle did to me, I can get through this.

  When she opened the door, he was standing there. Tall, dark, tense. Present.

  “Remy.”

  She looked up at him, everything inside her cascading into a messy heap, and she walked into his arms. They came around her, slowly and with control. Her face pressed against his throat. He was warm and damp, his skin smelling of comfort and familiarity. His heart thumped beneath her, matching her own racing one.

  He moved his cheek and jaw, caressing the top of her head. She was aware of the subtlest of tremors in the arms that held her. Her eyelashes caught against his skin as she closed her eyes, and drawing in a deep breath, she pressed a kiss on the madly pumping vein at the side of his throat. Her tongue slipped out just for a moment, tasting salt and heat and man, and he shuddered a little. His arms tightened, then eased.

  Remy was prepared for him to push her away, but instead one hand moved, sliding up beneath her braid, as the other pulled off its tie. His fingers, warm at the nape of her neck, combed into her hair, loosening the plait, spreading its three parts into one wavy fall. He rubbed it between the pads of his fingers, pulling gently as if to test its texture, then tenderly massaged her skull as she sagged into him.

  She kissed him again, with more boldness this time . . . burrowing into the warmth at the juncture of neck and shoulder, sliding her lips and tongue over smooth, sensitive skin. His breathing changed, his muscles went rigid, and she kept at it, moving to his earlobe, flickering her tongue in the hot, secret place behind it.

  The fact that he wanted her was starkly evident; their bodies were pressed together, separated only by clothing and whatever other baggage they each carried. Acutely aware of this, she nuzzled him on the jaw, glad he’d shaved earlier, enjoying the taste of his skin. At last, Wyatt dipped his head to meet her lips, loosening his arms just enough to angle in. During that brief moment, before she sagged into the kiss, she saw his eyes closed, his brows drawn tightly together.

  Hot, slick, and deep, the kiss went on like a long, slow ride. Tangled and sensual, easy . . . as if they could go forever. There was care and tenderness in his touch, and Remy felt a well of emotion starting to rise inside. Oh, yes. This. This.

  His hands moved up along her hips, sliding under her tank top. Warm fingers brushed her bare skin and she shivered, pleasure rushing along beneath his touch. Her bra tightened and released, then his palms covered her bare back, pulling her tight against him, traveling along the curve of her spine and back up to settle below her shoulder blades.

  It was then she realized he’d eased himself against the wall, gathering her up to his broad, solid torso. One of her feet slid between his, and she felt the pressure of his thigh between her legs as she melted against him. He buried his face in her neck, that sensitive place beyond her throat, his lips and tongue sleek and warm. She vibrated gently as the bolt of pleasure caught her by surprise, rushing south to her belly a
nd beyond.

  After a moment he eased back and looked down. His dark eyes delved into hers. “Remy . . . I’m not sure this is a good idea.” His voice was gritty and low, but he didn’t release her.

  She laid her hand flat on his chest. His heart thudded like crazy, matching her own, and when he remained silent, she said, “Tell me why.”

  Wyatt shook his head, tipping it back to lean against the wall, and held her, still gathered up against him, one of her legs embraced by his, the other straddling his thigh. His hands still covered her back, warm beneath her tank top. She admired his throat, long and tanned and strong; saw the pulse beating where she’d kissed him. A smattering of hair poked from the collar of his T-shirt, more thick dark hair brushed his neck.

  His throat moved as he swallowed, his jaw shifted as he seemed to grope for words. “Tomorrow . . . we don’t know what’s going to happen. We should be thinking about other things. Finding another way, another option. Planning, preparing, doing something. This isn’t what you should be doing . . . tonight. Tomorrow could be—”

  “This is exactly what I want to be doing tonight, Wyatt. Do you really think I want to go to . . . whatever will be tomorrow—captivity, death—”

  “Christ, Remy—” He lifted his head, his arms tightening, feet shifting, moving her.

  “—I want to have something good to take with me.”

  “—there’s got to be another way. I—”

  “But it’s really not about me,” she went on doggedly, and he fell silent. “It’s you. It’s the guilt. The pain. Wyatt, I understand that, oh God, I really do—and I don’t take it personally. I don’t think I’d be ready either, if I went through what you have. I didn’t think I’d be ready so soon.” Memories of Seattle flickered at the corner of her mind, and she closed them off sharply. No. Easing out of his embrace, Remy let her hand fall from his chest. “It’s all right, Wyatt. I’m truly not upset.”

  She wasn’t. She wanted comfort, she wanted affection, she wanted him. But not if he wasn’t ready. Not if he couldn’t move on, just a little. Pain and anguish took time to work through. She understood that better than most.

  And she was used to being solo. And tomorrow she would be, once again, having to live by her own bravery and wits.

  “That’s the problem,” he said, his voice gritty. “It’s too easy. After everything . . . it’s too easy. How can it be so easy, to be—to want you?” The last part came out in a low, pained accusation. “And at the same time . . . it’s so fucking hard.”

  He drew in a deep breath and reached out, touching the ends of her hair. The backs of his fingers brushed against her collarbone as he filtered through the heavy waves. It was all she could do to keep from leaning back into him. “Most of all, Remy . . . I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured.

  “You won’t. You couldn’t.” Not after what I’ve been through. Those horrific memories hovered, always ready to surge into her consciousness at any opportunity. She battled them back the way Selena had taught her and steadied herself firmly into here. With him. “Now, will you please take off your shirt?”

  Her command drew a short, surprised huff of laughter from him. But it was gone almost immediately and his eyes remained uncertain. “You’re sure?” Concern eclipsed the pain and indecision that had been in his expression.

  A little flicker of darkness stopped her from a flippant reply, but Wyatt’s sensitivity to that made her even more certain. “Yes. But . . .”

  “I’ll take it slow.” And now she saw a lick of heat and promise in his eyes. It sent a delicious shiver through her belly. “Very slow.” She smiled back, relief and promise of her own blazing there, and his eyes flared in response. Then he sobered again. “But stop me . . . tell me . . . if you’re not okay.”

  She nodded. “Now can we stop talking? I think I liked you better when you were grumpy and didn’t want to talk.”

  “I was never grumpy,” he said, and slid his hands beneath her tank top again. This time they curved around to the front of her, covering her breasts, pressing gently into the tight points of her nipples. He gave a soft whuff of breath and slid his arms around to bring her back to him, covering her mouth with his. She closed her eyes and sank in.

  “Your shirt,” she murmured when he moved to her neck again, his mouth hot and demanding against her sensitive skin. She gave a shiver as he found that most delicate of places. One hand slid down beneath the waistband of her jeans, pulling her up against his hips . . . and then she was off the ground . . . then the bed appeared beneath her.

  He settled her there gently, then yanked off his shirt as he walked over to the dresser and dropped it in a wad on top. Opening a drawer, he fumbled around in it. When he turned back, he wore an odd, almost bashful expression. He was holding something small and flat in his hand, but Remy hardly noticed. She was openly admiring the rest of him: the tight, sleek muscles of his pecs, covered with dark hair that narrowed down over a flat belly, the squared-off edges of broad shoulders, the delicious golden color of his skin, the swell of biceps. The loose shorts rode low on his hips, his arousal ruining their shape but making her heart skip a beat nevertheless; and long, muscular legs extended below, morphing into the elegant feet she remembered from the truck.

  She swore she stopped breathing for a minute—he was just so gorgeous—and then, biting her lip to keep from gawking openmouthed, she kicked off her shoes and lay back on the bed, watching him. He put the small packet on the table next to them and eased down next to her.

  “Did you know when you walked back to camp without your shirt on, I was pretty much drooling?” Remy said, feeling a little self-conscious. “I didn’t dare look at you for fear you’d notice.”

  His lips moved in something like a smile, and even the corners of his eyes crinkled a little. “Did you know I hated that white tank top, for the same reason? But I kind of like this one,” he said, helping her out of it, and then her loosened bra as well. He made a soft sound of appreciation that pinged deliciously in her belly and made her throb down low.

  She flushed as he looked down at her, his tanned hand moving over her lighter skin, cupping one of her breasts. He was gentle, lifting it, using a thumb to trace over its sensitive point . . . sending a shiver of heat licking through her. She watched his elegant fingers, dark against light, hard against soft . . . There was a moment, a brief flash, when one of those ugly images—brutal hands, rough and invasive—tried to usurp the moment.

  “Remy?” he stilled, looking up and into her eyes.

  She allowed herself to be caught by his gaze, and her tension eased . . . the dark memory fading. She smiled, reaching up to curve her fingers around his warm neck. “I’m okay.” And then she did something she’d been wanting to do for more than a week: smoothed her hand down over his chest.

  She loved it: the heat of his skin, the crisp roughness of the hair, the firm muscle beneath . . . the delicate goose bumps that rose on him in the wake of her touch. He gave a little shiver of his own then bent to kiss her: her lips, her chin, her breast. When his hot mouth closed over her tight, ready nipple, she arched up, giving a soft gasp, her fingers curling into his shoulder. His eyes flickered toward her, but his lips and tongue were busy: swirling, sucking, teasing.

  Pleasure rolled through her, hot and liquid leaving little throbbing teases in its wake. They settled prone onto the bed, warm skin sliding against warm skin, legs entwined, his mouth doing crazy things to her, his hand finding its way between her legs. The pressure through her jeans was just enough to have her rolling her hips, pushing back, wanting more.

  “Let’s see,” he murmured, sliding her somehow unfastened jeans down from her hips, “which of your new things you’re wearing.”

  If the low, growling sound he made was any indication, the black lace panties had been a good choice. She reached for him, groping for the ties to his loose shorts, but he stopped her, pressing her hand to his warm, flat belly. “Not a good idea,” he said, his mouth quirking oddly. “N
ot yet.”

  Before she had the chance to protest, he moved again, shifting alongside her, sliding his hand down beneath the black lace. Remy stilled, drawing in a surprised breath when he touched her . . . gently at first, lightly . . . and all the time she felt him watching her. Watching for any sign that she might slip away.

  She didn’t. He was next to her, she could see and breathe and was free. And there was too much heat and pleasure, too much need pounding gently between her legs. His fingers were deft and delicate but very sure, and his breath became rougher as she vibrated and shivered and sighed. He kissed her, covering her mouth, taking in the low, husky gasp of pleasure as she grew tighter and readier.

  Everything dissolved but him: the smell and taste, the unsteady pitch of his breathing, the slow, insistent tease of his hand between her legs. He murmured something soft and throaty in her ear, but she felt only the heat of his words, smelled the delicious scent of this man . . . then she forgot everything but the sharp, spiral of pleasure.

  It exploded, trammeling through her in undulating waves of heat and brightness . . . and she smiled in relief and triumph. A moment later, still hot and rolling with pleasure, she opened her eyes to find Wyatt watching her.

  “Now,” he said, his eyes burning, his face tight, his breath rough.

  “Yes,” she said, a pang of anticipation shocking her so close on the heels of complete bliss. She reached for his shorts, pulling at the tie; and when it wouldn’t loosen, he pushed her hands away with characteristic impatience.

  Moments later he was there, long and lean and naked, more beautiful than she’d imagined, sliding alongside her. She could tell, in the back of her pleasure-fogged brain, that he was taking care, still, not to be rough or demanding, not to do anything that would tip her into those dark memories.

  But she saw the hunger in his face—pure and good rather than malevolent—and she recognized the price of his restraint . . . and so she set him free. And herself.

  Chapter 22

  One moment Remy was sprawled in a sensual bundle next to Wyatt, her dark blue eyes heavy-lidded with pleasure, an arm thrown up over her head, lifting her breast into a perfect orb . . . and the next, she was all over him.