ONE LAST CHANCE Read online

  He moved back to draw the taut crest of one breast into his mouth again, suckling first gently, then fiercely, and she cried out at the sudden rush of an even more intense heat. She clutched at him, her nails digging into his shoulders as she lifted herself to him.

  She'd never felt so hot, so swollen, so utterly ready, and when she felt the huge, throbbing heat of him against her thigh, she knew she had to have him now. She wanted him inside her, moving, wanted him to be part of her, so deeply the boundaries between them were lost.

  "Please," she gasped, "now, please, Chance."

  He lifted himself over her, his earlier fantasy coming true as she eagerly parted her thighs so he could slip between them. He took her mouth in a crushing kiss, plunging his tongue into her mouth as his thick, pulsing flesh probed for entry to her body.

  At the last second, with a shuddering effort, he paused, lifting his head to look at her.

  "Are we all right?" he asked thickly.

  All right? Lord, Shea thought dazedly, she'd never felt more all right in her life. Why was he waiting? Why wasn't he giving her what she needed, had to have? Why wasn't he filling this horrible emptiness with that wonderful gift of himself? And then the real meaning of his question struck her.

  "Oh, no," she moaned. "I don't … I didn't … there was no reason…"

  He groaned, a low, gravelly sound of pure, heartfelt frustration, but he pulled away from her.

  "Maybe it will be all right," she urged, thinking she would die if he stopped now.

  "Maybe's not good enough," he said hoarsely, trying to convince a body that was screaming for her soft heat. "I'm not taking any chances. Not with you."

  "Chance, no—"

  "Don't put any pressure on my nobility here," Chance growled, "it's on shaky ground to begin with."

  "Oh, Chance, I'm sorry."

  "So am I." He fought to control his rapid breathing as he looked down at her with a face still drawn taut with passion and need. "Later, I might tell you how good it makes me feel to know that there wasn't any reason before now. But right now I think I'll just curl up and die."

  Shea smothered another little moan. "At least I know you didn't plan this."

  "No," he agreed wryly, "or I would have been prepared. I guess there hasn't been much reason for me, either. If I—"

  "What?" she asked as he broke off, looking at the nightstand beside the bed. Shea hadn't noticed it before, but she stared at it now.

  "Quisto gave it to me," he explained at her look. "As a joke. At least, I think it was a joke."

  In spite of her aching body, she smothered a laugh. It was a crate turned on end, a drawer added at the top. It was clearly labeled "Ammunition" on one side, and "80 mm shells" on the other.

  "Eighty millimeters?"

  He grimaced. "I think he kept the 100 millimeters for himself."

  She tried to smile as Chance muttered "I wonder," and reached for the drawer of the whimsical piece. He opened it, and came up with a small flat, square package and a grin.

  "Quisto said it came fully equipped. I should have realized that for him, that included these."

  "Always prepared, huh?" She tried to cover her self-consciousness with a light tone, but she blushed as she eyed what he held. "Is he a Boy Scout gone bad?"

  "Maybe in a past life. Now he's just the one who's always telling me I've been alone too long."

  "You don't think so?"

  He let his gaze skim over her slender body, then come to rest with tenderness on her flushed face. "I didn't. Until now."

  She lowered her eyes shyly. "I'm glad," she whispered. Then her gaze came up to fasten on the small packet he held. "And I'm glad you found that."

  "So am I," he agreed fervently, then his mouth twitched wryly. "You're not the only new experience waiting for me, it seems."

  Her brows shot up. "You mean you've never…?"

  He shook his head. "Just happened that way, I guess. Hope I can figure the thing out."

  "Let me try," she said softly, taking the packet from him.

  The heat that had merely ebbed a little at the interruption flared to life again at the thought of her hands on him. He knelt on the bed, then sat back on his heels as if offering himself to her. She felt the throbbing pulse begin in her again as she reached for him.

  She took her time sheathing him, and somehow made it the most erotic thing that had ever been done to him. She paused between each minute movement for a stroking, teasing caress, until he had to lean back with his hands propped behind him to keep from grabbing her and driving into her right now.

  "You're beautiful," she whispered, cupping him in her palm when she was done. His body arched forward like a bow at the tender, intimate caress, his hips thrusting against her hand. Then he came up off his hands and engulfed her with his heat and strength, driving into her with one fierce thrust, a hoarse cry breaking from deep in his chest as his name tumbled hotly from her lips.

  The shock of having the aching emptiness filled so completely, so swiftly, wrenched gasps of stunned pleasure from her. Fired by the sounds, he withdrew and drove deep again, and she cried out once more. She was careening out of control on some crazy ride over tumbling rapids, each rise and fall bringing a sensation she knew she couldn't bear, and each successive one showing her she had only begun to know what her body could do under his touch.

  "Oh, Shea," he gasped out as he pushed into her again, "you're so tight … it's so good…"

  She couldn't speak, couldn't find words, only knew she wanted more, and more, and then more. Her hands slid down his back to grasp his hips and add what strength she had left to his pounding thrusts. She raised her legs to wrap around him, as if she feared he would leave her, and found to her joy it let him drive even deeper. The tumbling current she was riding became a boiling, reckless cascade, plunging, surging wildly.

  "Chance! Please, I can't!"

  "Yes," he gasped, "you can, with me, now."

  She knew he wanted her to let go and go tumbling over the cataract that awaited her. She couldn't; it would be the end of her, she knew it. And then he drove into her one last time and she knew she didn't care. All thoughts of holding back were seared away by the driving heat of his body in hers, and instead of hanging on she released her grip on reality and threw herself over the drop, his name echoing from her throat as she went.

  A harsh, gasping shout blended with her cry. "Yes … oh, Shea, I can feel … you squeezing me … I can't…"

  The rest of his words were an unintelligible ragged sound as his body arched against hers and his head went back, every corded muscle in his body standing out in sharp relief as the last fragment of his control shattered and he erupted into her hot, sweet depths.

  He jerked convulsively, grinding his body into hers as the pulsing waves of release took him; she received gladly, eagerly, once more thinking him so incredibly beautiful as she looked up at him through the lingering mist of her own pleasure. And when he collapsed atop her, she took his weight with joy, her arms locking around him as her legs had earlier, to hold him close and keep him with her.

  He was gasping for breath, his face buried in the curve of her neck and shoulder. She felt the inner muscles of her body clench around him once more as another tiny echo of that soaring pleasure rippled through her; a hoarse croak of sound came from him as his hips jerked sharply in response.

  She felt his muscles tense, then go slack, as he tried to move and couldn't. She ran her hands up his back, then down to cup the tight curve of his buttocks, savoring the expanse of sleek, smooth skin stretched over lean, fit muscle. A little shiver rippled through him at the sliding caress.

  She made a small sound of protest when he tried to move again. "Don't."

  A low, husky chuckle rumbled up from him. "You like holding up two hundred pounds of dead weight?"

  "Every ounce."

  The chuckle became a long, shaky sigh. He locked his arms around her and slid to one side, taking her with him, slipping one muscled thigh be
tween hers to hold her. He moved his leg upward until it pressed against the soft warmth that had welcomed him, like a safe harbor only dreamed of on a long, hard journey.

  For a few minutes he just held her tight against him, staring up at the ceiling as he had so many nights before. The rain pattered on the roof, rain that before had seemed cold and isolating but now added a sense of cozy privacy. Everything was so different now.

  "You don't know how many times I've lain here, thinking about you," he whispered. "Even after that first day on the street, when all I knew was you had the greatest pair of legs I'd ever seen. After I heard you sing, heard you tearing me apart with your words, I was thinking about you here, like this, until I was so hot and hard I couldn't stand it." He gave a rueful little laugh. "I've been taking a lot of late night swims these past few days. But I had to shut off the pool heater. Damn thing wasn't cold enough."

  She giggled, a pleased, feminine little sound that sent a feathery wave of delight down his spine.

  "Easy for you to laugh," he said gruffly. "I was the one who woke up in the same damned condition because when I finally did get to sleep all I did was dream about you."

  "You think I haven't done my share of dreaming? I knew I was in trouble the first night at the club, when I saw that you were hearing, really hearing my music. Then when you showed up with that white rose, I was really a goner."

  Chance nearly quivered with satisfaction. Not one old, tired word about his hair, his eyes or his shoulders. Or his derriere, although her hand was resting rather intimately on that particular part of him, as if she liked it. And she'd certainly seemed to find it to her liking a few minutes ago…

  The memory had potent results, and when Shea felt the sudden resurgence against her thigh, she looked at him with a spark of devilry lighting eager gray eyes.

  "Chance?"

  "Yes?"

  "I think you got the wrong nightstand."

  He laughed, deep and easy, an unfettered sound she'd never heard from him, free of the awkwardness, the restraint, she'd always sensed before. And when he began to touch her, she knew that that wasn't the only restraint that had slipped.

  Much later, in the early hours of morning, Shea awoke from a hotly erotic dream in which Chance was somehow managing to caress both her breasts and that newly awakened, throbbing place between her thighs all at the same time. She blinked to clear away the heated fog of the dream, but it wouldn't go, and she realized with a little shock it hadn't been a dream at all.

  He had propped himself up on one elbow, and was using that hand to tease the begging peak nearest it. His mouth was laying the other, tugging with his lips and flicking the responsive flesh with his tongue. His free hand was cupping the dark curls, his fingers stroking the soft, feminine folds, then returning to a slow, circular caress of the tiny bud of flesh he'd aroused.

  It was a startling feeling, to realize he had aroused her so thoroughly as she slept. She felt the muscles of her abdomen ripple before the continuous waves of beat and sensation, and she knew by the way his fingers slid so easily over her flesh that she was ready, more than ready for him.

  And then he stopped. Suddenly, abruptly, painfully. Her eyes fluttered open, a tiny whimper rising from her.

  "Chance?"

  "I just wanted you to know what it was like to wake up like that," he teased gruffly, "like I have for days now."

  "Oh." She squirmed restlessly. "Okay, okay, I feel sorry for you." He laughed and leaned down to give her a soft, gentle kiss. "Does this mean I have to go swimming?" she asked plaintively.

  He laughed again; it was becoming almost easy now. "Only if you want to."

  "The only thing I want is you."

  "Then take me," he said, his voice suddenly thick and hoarse. She did.

  * * *

  A sharp, rapping noise pushed its way into his consciousness, but he ignored it. It couldn't be someone at his door. Nobody could get past the gates without the combination known by only a handful of people, none of whom would be here at this hour.

  He fought waking up, not wanting to surrender the delight of this dream. She seemed more real than ever, cuddled close against his side, and he knew that if he surrendered and opened his eyes he'd have the bleak emptiness of this room and the aching tightness of a frustrated body to deal with.

  Then, as a soft murmur tickled his ear, reality flooded back with a joyous rush, hardening his body with a fierceness that made those other awakenings a pale shadow. He looked down at the slender hand that was curled so trustingly in his, remembering with heat how that hand had been curled around him as she had awakened him in the dawn hour the same way he had awakened her before. The same way he wanted to again, right now.

  The rapping came again, and he shook his head in annoyance. A quick glance at the clock brought him abruptly awake; it also gave him the identity of the persistent knocker at his door. Quisto. One of that handful of people.

  With exquisite care and tearing regret, he extricated himself from the tangle of sheets and long, silken legs, hoping she wouldn't wake up. He pulled the sheet over that too-tempting body, then looked for something to put on that wouldn't strangle his urgently demanding body. He glanced down at himself, at the part of him that had much more pleasant ideas about what it should be doing, and decided there wasn't an article of clothing in the world that wouldn't cause the swollen flesh pain. He settled for grabbing a bath towel and knotting it around his hips as he went to open the door.

  "Hey, partner, you get drunk and pass out or something?"

  Quisto's cheer was as bright as the sun that had dawned after the rain, but a little less welcome.

  "No," Chance said gruffly.

  "Well, you sure don't look like a guy ready to go out and take on the evil forces of the world here, buddy."

  "I'm not."

  Quisto's brows rose at his tone as he held out a thick manila envelope. "Here's your stuff from Records."

  Chance took it and tossed it onto the desk in the corner as if it were junk mail instead of something he'd been waiting for for nearly a week.

  "Hey, you sick or something? I mean, I know you've been pretty grim lately— Uh-oh."

  Quisto's quick eyes had spotted an irregular splash of color on the pale blue carpet. Chance followed his gaze to see the pair of bright red high heels Shea had taken off last night. Chance saw the dark eyes flick to his closed bedroom door, and he let out a tight compressed breath as he closed his eyes to avoid the look of discovery, the look of censure he was sure would be in his partner's face.

  "I hope you know what you're doing, my friend."

  Chance opened his eyes to find only understanding and compassion there. "I don't. I only know I couldn't do anything else."

  "Then congratulations."

  Chance looked startled.

  "Welcome back to the world, amigo."

  "Kicking and screaming," he muttered under his breath.

  "But back, nevertheless." A grin creased Quisto's face. "Never thought I'd get to say this to you instead of the other way around, but I'll cover for you, partner."

  "Thanks."

  "See you later, then."

  Chance nodded as Quisto turned to go. Then, as a vivid memory came to him, he spoke again. "Hey, partner."

  Quisto looked back over his shoulder, eyebrows lifted, and at last, Chance matched his friend's grin. "Thanks for the nightstand."

  There was a second's pause, then a delighted chuckle. "Came in handy, did it?"

  "Saved my life." It was light but heartfelt. Quisto laughed.

  "That good, huh?"

  "I only hope you find out for yourself someday."

  "Oh, no, not me. I leave the fireworks and trumpets to the serious guys like you. I believe in pure recreation."

  "And I didn't believe in fireworks and trumpets."

  Quisto paused. "You wouldn't lie to your partner, now would you? It's really … like that?"

  Chance's expression gave him his answer.

  "Oh, boy,
" he breathed. "I hope I don't find one like that for another twenty years or so."

  "I don't think you have much say in the timing," Chance said wryly. "I sure as hell didn't."

  When Quisto had gone, Chance stood for a long moment in front of the desk, staring at the brown envelope as if it had a life of its own, and a malevolent intent to destroy his. He heard a noise from the bedroom, and hastily shoved it into the desk drawer that already held the documents from the recorder's office and the copies of all the local and federal files he'd brought home. He'd intended to read them, to force his mind back into professional channels, but instead had wound up staring into space, hearing a song, seeing a pair of gray eyes.

  "Chance?"

  Her voice was soft, husky with sleep, and so incredibly sexy his body snapped to attention as if she'd touched him. He looked toward the bedroom door, and that crazy, consuming fire kindled inside him, pouring downward to add its heat and pressure to already hardening flesh. She had done as he had, wrapping herself in a towel, and it left her long, golden legs bare and beckoning.

  Memories of them wrapped around his waist, of them hugging his hips as she straddled him, riding him with wild abandon, surged through him, and he found it a little hard to walk as he crossed the room to take her in his arms.

  "Sorry, songbird. I had to shoo away a pesky Cuban."

  "Quisto?" Her fingers came up to her lips. "Oh! Are you supposed to be working? What time is it? Are you late?"

  "Yes, yes, almost eight, and not now, because Quisto's going to cover for me." He lowered his head to take her mouth in a gentle kiss of greeting. "Good morning," he said softly.

  "Yes,' she answered, lifting her hands to cup the sides of his face, "it is, isn't it?"

  He nodded slowly. "Are you hungry?"

  "Yes."

  In that one syllable she managed to make it quite clear that food was the absolute last thing on her mind. Chance laughed, tugged away the towel that encased her, then sent his own flying after it. He picked her up and strode back into the bedroom.

  * * *

  "I was hungrier than I thought," Shea said as she fed Chance another forkful of the massive batch of scrambled eggs they'd made when their protesting stomachs had driven them into the kitchen.