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“Be with me…love me,” she whispered.
He rose up and then over her, parted her legs with a knee and then slid inside. She was hot and wet, and he came close to losing control before they even began.
Nola locked her legs around his waist as he braced himself above her, and when he began to move, she began to cry.
“Don’t,” he whispered, kissing the tears running down the sides of her face.
“Don’t talk,” she said, and kissed him long and hard until he forgot about words.
Nola closed her eyes, and just like that, the eight years without him were gone. She remembered it all: the catch in his breath, the beat of his heart, the play of muscles across his back. The blood rush in her body was almost frightening in its intensity. Making love with Tate meant relinquishing control, and she’d done it. With every thrust of his body, he took her closer to the edge. It felt good to play with fire when he was the one fanning the flames.
Tate had long since lost his ability to focus. He was just riding out the madness that was dragging him ever closer to the little death. When the climax hit him, she was already coming. All he could do was hold her, because he was beyond thought.
Nola moaned as the last ripples of her climax rolled through her.
“Oh, sweet Lord,” she whispered.
Tate kissed her chin, then her lips.
“I missed you, baby.”
“I missed you, too,” she said.
“I can’t move.”
She sighed. “And I don’t want to.”
Just as Tate closed his eyes, his cell phone began to ring.
“Oh, man,” he groaned, then rolled over and got the phone out of a pocket in his jeans.
“Is the television on?” Cameron asked.
“No, why?”
“Turn it on…pick a channel…any channel. Nola is front-page news.”
“Damn it,” Tate muttered, and grabbed his jeans as he headed for the living room.
Nola flew out of bed, dressing quickly as she followed him up the hall. She was still trying to wrestle her sore arm into her shirtsleeve when she heard her name on TV.
“What the hell?”
Tate upped the volume as they stared at the picture on the screen and listened to the newsreader.
“This is a still shot of well-known regional artist Nola Landry coming out of the doctor’s office. Miss Landry has just been identified as the only witness to the serial killer known as the Stormchaser. Although she says she was never close enough to see his face, she did witness the cold-blooded murder of three people who were stranded on the roof of their house just outside Queens Crossing, Louisiana. Landry herself was clinging to the branches of a tree she had climbed to escape the water’s wrath, hanging on for her life when the murders happened. Hours later she was rescued by members of the Louisiana National Guard in one of their choppers. Just two days ago the Stormchaser, in an effort to silence his only witness, made an attempt on her life at a local Red Cross shelter, where she, along with dozens of other locals, had taken refuge after losing their homes. She has since been moved to an unknown location. Federal agents are on the scene, following the killer’s trail, but as yet have been unable to name a suspect. Landry has garnered a reputation as a talented painter, and people in the art world are praying for her safety. These are examples of some of her work hanging in a gallery in Savannah, Georgia.”
Nola dropped onto the sofa, her eyes wide with disbelief.
“Oh. My. God. They pretty much told everything about me but my current address and dress size.”
Tate sighed. “We knew this would happen when they got the pictures, remember?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know what I thought would happen, but it wasn’t this.”
“Your paintings are amazing.”
She shoved a shaky hand through her hair. “Thank you for pointing out the silver lining in the storm cloud.”
