Burned (Vanessa Pierson series Book 2) by Valerie Plame, Sarah Lovett

because it was unusually quiet. She startled at the loud and sudden clang of the ancient pipes of the ornate radiators.
    She heard the echo of a question from Dr. P:
Are you happy with the life you’ve chosen, Vanessa?
    No time to debate the answer with herself.
    The soft complaint of old wood put her body on alert. Had Hays come back for something? A follow-up noise—the barely audible weight of feet on the floor—confirmed that she wasn’t alone. She’d left the bedroom door ajar, lights off, and now she shifted toward the door just as it opened. She’d already assumed a ready stance when a shadowy form filled the frame.
    “You going to kill me?” He stood, arms by his sides, voice low and familiar.
    “Damn it!” Surprise punched out the first word. She breathed, “Khoury.” And softer now. “
Damn
you.”
    “I’m glad to see you, too.”
    David Khoury stepped into the light and the sight of him softened her, leaving her startled by the depth of longing she felt.
    Three months had passed since the last time they’d been together. And then it had been only for minutes as they said good-bye, not knowing when they’d see each other again.
    He moved toward her, reaching for her hand almost the way she’d reached for him those months ago. But he waited, leaving the space until she reached out, too.
    When she did, her fingers curled under the collar of his blue shirt, pulling roughly so his body pressed hers back and they both toppled to the bed.
    “I was so afraid when I heard about the bomb,” he said.
    “But you heard I was okay,” she whispered, knowing how agonizing minutes—even seconds—of uncertainty could be.
    He took a deep breath. “I’ve missed you so much,” he said, mirroring her thoughts. He nuzzled her, breathing in her scent, and she felt the ground giving way—giving in to the warmth and the sensuality and the chance to lose herself.
    She dug her fingers into his back ribs. He was already pulling her T-shirt up over her head, and he stopped and caught her, her wrists trapped in her shirt and in the grip of his hand. His mouth already on one of her breasts, his lips gentle on her nipple. The warmth and heaviness of desire coursed through her and she felt the heat deep in her belly and the wetness between her legs.
    When he relaxed his grip on her wrists she shifted—moaning even as she made a halfhearted attempt to distance herself. But he wouldn’t release her and he slid his mouth to her other breast, biting her nipple a little harder this time.
    She cried out, wrapping her legs around him so it felt as if they were bound together.
    A rough, feral growl rose from deep in his throat. His tongue parted her lips, while his fingers slid between her thighs. Touching her tenderly, but she could feel the driving intensity.
    And when she guided him inside her, they let go—fucking because they were alive and together.

16
     
    She slept deeply, as if his arms around her kept the world’s darkness at bay, at least for these hours. She drifted up to awareness just enough to feel lucky and grateful for his warmth, his strength.
    It was different when she woke to the gentle yet persistent nudge of him against her thigh. She thought he was drifting, too, half awake and aroused. She drew out the minutes until she turned her face to his and met his mouth with hers.
    “Habibti,”
he said, burying his face against the hollow of her neck, lips warm and wet on her skin. An Arabic term of endearment—for a lover or for a child.
    He rarely said more than that—partly his natural wariness, a quality she could match in spades, and partly because of the covert nature of their jobs, the complexity of their lives.
    But now he surprised her. “God, I’ve missed you . . . I can’t stand being away from you . . .”
    She melted, falling into the heat and the sensuality and the chance to forget the horrible events of the previous day.
    But just then Chris flashed through her thoughts. “Wait,