She strained around him, against him, digging her nails into his a.s.s as she held him to her. And that was it. He followed her straight over the edge, pouring himself into her, pumping and thrusting and coming harder than he'd ever come before. And in that moment, as they hurtled over the brink together, he experienced the kind of rapture that managed to create an entire universe out of two intertwined bodies. The kind of rapture that only happened once in a lifetime...

He didn't know how long he lay atop her afterward, his heart thundering like he'd just cut the leads on an IED, his breath sawing from him in ragged gulps. But eventually, he became aware of her sweet softness beneath him, of the smell of her-and s.e.x-all around him, of the sound of her gently breathing in his ear.

He reveled in it. In her. And then her inner muscles spasmed around him again, and he pushed up on one elbow to find her eyes half-closed and sleepy. Spent.

He knew just how she felt. Wonderfully, completely, fantastically spent.

"Eve?" he whispered her name as he bent to nuzzle her neck before opening his mouth over the bruises circling her throat. He gently pressed kisses there, until he moved back to suck on the soft spot just beneath her ear. She rewarded him by sliding her hands up his sweat-slicked back.

"Mmm?" she mumbled, that little purr sounding at the back of her throat.

"I'm going to want to take you again in about five minutes," he told her, nipping at her deliciously naked shoulder. The sweat from her skin had mixed with her lotion until she tasted salty-sweet.

"Mmm," she sighed dreamily, lifting her legs to hook her ankles together just above his a.s.s. "I approve of this plan."

And right then he realized he'd been fooling himself. Having s.e.x with Eve hadn't brought him any closer to some sort of closure where she was concerned. It hadn't taken the mystery or angst out of their history together. It certainly hadn't sated his hunger-because, if anything, he wanted her more now that he'd had her, and he wasn't sure that would go away even if he had her a thousand times again. And it definitely, most definitely, hadn't clarified his yo-yoing feelings about her.

s.h.i.t. What've I gotten myself into?

Although when her inner muscles squeezed his semi-erect p.e.n.i.s, causing it to twitch as it once more filled with blood, he knew what he'd gotten himself into. He'd gotten himself into Eve. Into smart, beautiful, s.e.xy Eve. And right at that moment, that's all that mattered. That's all he would allow to matter...

Somewhere on Lake Sh.o.r.e Drive 2:51 a.m.

He was leaning against the wall of his condo, sweating like some sort of blue-collar cretin as he listened to Devon Price's cultured voice ask, "Tell me, what do the police have on you?"

Sometimes it amazed him how unlike the stereotypical g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger Devon was. The man had a degree in finance from Northwestern University, for Christ's sake. Yet instead of going to work on Wall Street or down at Chicago's Board of Trade, he'd taken his education back to the streets where he'd been raised. He'd taken his degree, combined it with his criminal genius, and built the most well-funded, well-disciplined, and well-insulated gang in Chicago.

The Black Apostles were untouchable, unbreakable, and...unrelenting. Which should've been enough to keep him from throwing in his lot with them. But he'd needed the money. d.a.m.nit! He still needed the money. Only now, he needed it to pay Devon back...

What a G.o.d-awful, unimaginable mess.

"Nothing," he a.s.sured Devon. "They don't have anything. And they won't have anything."

"Hmm," Devon murmured, a huge amount of skepticism evident in that one small utterance. He lifted a hand to wipe at his perspiring brow. It should've never come to this. It should've never- "You may be right," Devon cut into his rapid-fire thoughts. "But that doesn't solve our little problem now, does it? Eve Edens is still alive. You still owe me two million dollars. And I'm running out of patience."

The seed of fear that'd been planted in his belly when his last big gamble failed to pay off grew into a redwood of terror. "You c-can't kill me, Devon," he insisted, hating the fact that his voice sounded weak. He wasn't supposed to be weak. He was supposed to be a man of power. "You'll never get your money if you kill me."

"Yes," Devon hissed out the end of the word like a snake. "But it'll send a strong message to others that they shouldn't cross me unless they want to find themselves encased in a cement block at the bottom of Lake Michigan. And I find that scenario increasingly appealing."

"I didn't cross you, Devon," he insisted, his pulse racing out of control. "The deal went south and I-"

"I'm tired of listening to your excuses. This arrangement of ours has reached its conclusion, I think. And I-"

"No. No, I-I know where she is," he panted, sliding down the wall until his a.s.s landed on the cold marble tiles. "I know how you can finally get her. I know how you can end this thing once and for all."

And thank G.o.d he'd managed to overhear that tidbit of conversation about the sailing trip to Ludington. If he hadn't, he had no doubt he'd be a dead man.

Silence on the other end of the line had his stomach jumping up to lodge in his throat. Then, finally, "I'm listening."

"She and one of those thick-necked bikers she hangs out with are sailing her boat to Ludington, Michigan. Tonight." That last part was a guess. He hadn't overheard exactly when she planned to make the trip, but he didn't want to give Devon a reason not to believe him. "You can send a couple of your men to meet them at the dock there. Then...then..." The plan was formulating in his head at the same time he was laying it all out. "If your guys have a second boat, like a rental, or h.e.l.l they could just hotwire a boat there at the marina that they could tow behind the sailboat until they were in the middle of the lake, then they could kill Eve and the biker, sink the sailboat, and motor back to sh.o.r.e." And even though it was an on-the-spot plan, he figured it might just work. "No one need be the wiser. Ships go down on the Great Lakes all the time. I mean all the time, so it'd be just like we discussed. An accident. It'll be-"

"Shut up," Devon interrupted, his tone as sharp as a rapier. "I've heard enough."

He swallowed, licking his lips, looking with longing toward the decanter of scotch sitting by his favorite armchair. This fiasco was turning him into a G.o.dd.a.m.ned drunk. And he hated drunks. His mother had been a drunk. And just look where that'd gotten her. And him, come to think of it...

"I agree with your plan," Devon said, and his heart leapt with hope.

"Good. That's good," he wheezed. "And you'll see, Devon. This will still work out."

"You're going to ensure it works out," Devon said, his tone just this side of malicious. "Because you're going to be the one to do it."

"What? But-"

"This scheme started out as yours, and you're going to be the one to finish it."

"But, the police...They may want to question me some more, and-"

"I'll supply you with a believable alibi," Devon said. "Chartreuse just loves to spin tales of her Johns. She'll come up with a great one for you."

Chartreuse...One of Devon's many gap-toothed wh.o.r.es. She was always meant to be his alibi if he came to need one. But he hadn't really thought he'd ever need one until now. Because the police were likely to demand another interview, and when they couldn't find him, he'd have to rely on Chartreuse to tell them he'd been with her the entire time. And considering the woman was about as s.k.a.n.ky and rundown as the Southside project where she peddled her trade, it would absolutely ruin his reputation to be known as one of her clients.

Then again, if Devon killed him, he wouldn't have a reputation to ruin...

"Fine," he said through gritted teeth. "But I can't very well take my own car. I can't have traffic cameras catching me exiting the city."

"I'll supply you with a vehicle whose plates aren't in the system." Devon said and gave him the address where he could pick up the car. "It'll be there in thirty minutes."

He consulted the Rolex on his wrist; he had just enough time for one drink. So, he'd make it a big one.

"And one more thing," Devon said.

"Yeah?"

"This is your last chance. You f.u.c.k this up, and you're dead."

Lake Michigan 3:10 a.m.

Well, if this wasn't the s.e.xiest, dirtiest, craziest thing she'd ever done-s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g Billy's brains out-she didn't know what was. And you know what? It felt divine. It was divinity. Like consecrated by the G.o.ds or something...

Oh, sweet Lord in heaven...

She arched her back, biting the pillow beneath her cheek as Billy pumped into her from behind. His strokes were smooth and deep, his thighs rock hard against the backs of hers, his fingers doing something magical at the top of her s.e.x where he had an arm wrapped around her.

The temperature inside the little cabin had jumped at least fifteen degrees since they'd started...well...going at each other she supposed was the best way to describe it. And, boy, oh boy, they should've done this years ago. She'd been an idiot to hold off. Because Billy was...well, he was Billy. s.e.xier, manlier, more physically inventive and more naturally talented than anybody she'd ever known. Yes, they should've done this...Oh, G.o.d.

She could no longer think. Because he was so deep inside her, pressing into her, now working her with short, hard thrusts, his middle and index fingers slipping over the bud of nerves at the top of her s.e.x, and she was pushed up higher, pulled closer to the edge of the abyss. Then he lengthened his thrusts, stilled his fingers, and she moaned in frustration, shoving her b.u.t.t back at him.

"Patience, sweetheart," he growled, reaching up to feather his fingers across her nipple. "I'll get you there."

Oh, would he ever. She had no doubt of that. He'd get her there and then he'd get her there again. And again. And again. And...

"Billy," she moaned his name when he leaned forward, his sweaty chest against her back, his hot breath whispering across her cheek as he murmured deliciously naughty things in her ear.

Billy...She glanced over her shoulder at the image of their bodies pressed together. His skin was deeply tanned compared to her fair complexion, the hairs on his legs and arms black and crinkly. And he looked big. Compared to her, he was big. His muscles huge and bulging, the side of his wonderfully perfect b.u.t.t hollowing slightly each time he thrust into her. And with each long, lazy stroke she sank deeper into the infinite gulf of sensation. Her fingers tightened on the pillow, her teeth sinking into the weave of the fabric.

And suddenly, her release was rushing toward her. Her breath hitched in her throat as she waited for it, shamelessly reveling in it when it rushed over her in a huge swell of pulsing, aching climax.

"Ah, h.e.l.l," Billy cursed when her body clamped down on his. And it was obviously too much for him. He grabbed her hips, pumping into her violently until his own o.r.g.a.s.m hit him, until he throbbed inside her. And then, together, they rode out the storm...

"You were supposed to wait," he breathed in her ear once they'd both stopped blowing like a couple of winded racehorses.

"Did you," she rasped, licking her lips and smiling at the weight of him along her back, pressing her into the mattress, "or did you not hear me when I said I'd stopped doing what other people tell me to do."

"Mmm." He rolled off her, and she muttered her disapproval as she heard the little snap as he pulled off the condom. She wasn't looking, but she a.s.sumed he tossed it toward the small metal trashcan to join its compatriot.

"Come here," he said, snaking an arm around her waist, forcing her to roll onto her side and face him. She threw a thigh over his legs, an arm over his chest, and buried her nose against his neck, just under his ear, inhaling deeply.

"Are you...sniffing me?" he asked, his chest rumbling beneath her arm and against her breast.

"Mmm-hmm," she murmured. "Because you smell good."

"I do?" he chuckled. "What do I smell like?"

She inhaled again, nipping his earlobe this time. He responded by rubbing a hand over her shoulder and down her arm, entwining their fingers. "You smell like Irish Spring soap. And leather. And s.e.x. And...you." Then she added, "And maybe a little bit like me."

He growled, playing with her fingers. "I like the sound of that. Because that means you probably smell a little bit like me."

"I'm sure you're right," she agreed. "We've marked each other without all that pesky lifting of a leg and urinating business."

He snorted a laugh. "Well, whatever floats your boat, I guess."

"That does not float my boat," she a.s.sured him. "But speaking of markings," she released his fingers to trace one of the star tattoos on his arm, "what do your tattoos mean? If they mean anything at all," she was quick to add. "I totally understand if you got them just because they're pretty or-"

"First of all," he interrupted her, "my tattoos are not pretty." She begged to differ. In her eyes, they were very pretty. But she a.s.sumed that description might've p.r.i.c.ked his male ego. "They're bada.s.s," he finished. And, yep, a.s.sumption proved. "And secondly, they do have a meaning. But now that I know you think they're...pretty," his nose wrinkled when he said the word, "I'm not sure you want to hear what they stand for."

"But I do," she a.s.sured him, moving her finger to trace another star. "I do want to know."

"The tale isn't pretty," he stressed the word.

"Oh, for Pete's sake," she huffed, slapping playfully at his shoulder. "I take it back. They're not pretty. They're hardcore, gangsta-hot, straight-up dope. Is that better?"

A laugh burst from him, all low and throaty. It sent a frisson of pleasure through her chest down to her belly. "Did you just utter the phrase straight-up dope? Where are we?" He glanced around the cabin. "1990?"

"Get to the point, Billy," she huffed.

"Yes, ma'am." He grinned at her when she pressed up on her elbow in order to scowl down at him. Too soon her expression smoothed. Because when Billy grinned like that, all playful and teasing, she could see remnants of that young petty officer she'd fallen in love with. She nipped his stubbled jaw for good measure before re-tucking her head beneath his chin so she could resume tracing his tattoos.

"Each of these tattoos represents an explosive device I successfully disarmed," he told her. Which only had her pressing up again, her eyes skimming over his right arm where at least twenty-five colorful, multi-sized star tattoos ran from his shoulder to just beneath his elbow. The opposite arm sported what appeared to be the same amount.

Holy moly. Fifty times...at least fifty times, Billy put himself in the middle of an armed bomb...er explosive device, or whatever he calls them. Her mouth dried at the thought, at the magnitude of the danger he'd lived through, at the extent of what he'd accomplished, and the untold lives he'd undoubtedly saved.

"Geez Louise, Billy," she breathed, searching his half-lidded, lazy eyes. "Were you-" She stopped herself, because the question she thought to pose sounded silly, even in her own head.

"Go ahead," he encouraged her. "Ask whatever you want."

"It's stupid," she a.s.sured him, shaking her head. "I already know the answer."

"The answer to what?" he smiled, c.o.c.king his head on the pillow.

"To whether or not you were scared."

"And was I?"

"Well, of course!" She threw a hand in the air. "You disarmed bombs for a living. A lot of bombs!" Her eyes flew over the myriad tattoos on his arms.

He grabbed her hand and flattened it against his chest. She could feel the steady beat of his heart. "You might be the only one who believes I was scared," he told her, and she frowned at him.

"How is that possible?"

"Well, I've been told that when I'm in the middle of a mission, or a bomb, or anything particularly hair-raising, I get really still. And really, really calm."

"Well, that just means you're internalizing your fear," she told him. "Which is undoubtedly why you're so good at what you do, steady hands and all, but it's also probably why you swill Pepto-Bismol like it's going out of style."

He barked a laugh. "Is that your official diagnosis, Dr. Phil?"

"Is it the wrong one?" she asked, lifting a brow.

"No," he admitted, a half-smile playing at his wonderful lips.

"Hmm." She nodded, once again tucking her head beneath his chin, reveling in the comforting sound of his heavy heartbeat. "And is that how you got your nickname? Wild Bill? Because you were crazy to have gone up against all those explosives?"

"Nah." The word rasped in his chest and in her ear. "I got that name before ever shipping out. It was a hold-over from my last few months of SEAL training."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I went a little crazy there for a while. Drinking too much. Driving too fast. Pushing the boundaries with my superior officers. I was living on the wild side of life. Hence, the nickname."

"But why?" she asked, wondering if, perhaps, he'd started to regret his decision to be a Navy SEAL. If he'd started to second-guess- "Why do you think, Eve?" His voice was suddenly quiet, subdued, and her breath hitched in her lungs like she'd run out of oxygen on a deep dive.

"B-because of me?" she asked, pressing up to stare down at him. But she already knew the truth in her heart. And it killed her to think of the pain she'd caused him, to think of the career she might have caused him to lose had he ever stepped over the line as opposed to simply pushing it.

Well, that was just one more reason for her to hate herself for what she'd done...

When he opened his mouth to answer, she slapped her palm over his lips, shaking her head, tears pressing behind her eyes. "Don't answer that," she said. "I already know what you'll say. And I'm sorry, Billy. I'm so-"