Page 255 of Five Brothers
I suck in a breath.Oh God.
That’s what I’d been afraid of.
I understand that these black-market deals to get lumber, steel, cement, and pipes—which all the local suppliers were either withholding or were overcharging for, thanks to Garrett Ames—could be dangerous, but I always hope Macon’s reputation will precede him.
But every once in while we run into a dealer who would just rather take the money, try to kill them, and sell the items they already sold again. It’s bad business, but when they’re coming from overseas, they don’t care. They’ll never see you again anyway.
“We took their boat instead,” he tells me. “I marooned them on Coral Cay. For now.”
Coral Cay is a small island with about one tree for shade, but otherwise it’s pretty barren. There’s nothing and no one, and if a ship or a Cessna does pass by—which is likely, given that it’s only a few miles off the coast—they’d hide. Anyone Macon sticks there doesn’t want to be caught anyway. There’s food and water, and he’ll go back in a few days once he’s found a cargo ship that he can stash them on to get rid of them.
It could’ve easily turned bad, though. It’s only a matter of time. What would happen to us if Trace had been lost? Or Army? It’s not just Macon I worry about. Losing anyone would devastate him.
He presses his lips into my thigh. “This is all I thought about out there in that black water,” he whispers. “Guns pointing at us … The depths below … I had to get back to you.”
A tear drops to the floor, and I wipe my eye.
“Still not talking to me?” he goads.
He puts me back on my feet, drops to his knee, and unbuttons my jeans, pulling them down below my ass. Yanking my underwear to the side, he sweeps his tongue up my flesh, and I gasp, gripping the dresser at my back. My clit starts to throb.
“Do you think I’m going anywhere?” he asks.
Tears fill my eyes.
He bites and plays with me. “You think that I’m going to widow my young bride and let another man have this?”
He tugs off my clothes, stands up, and then yanks my shirt over my head as well as his.
“Talk,” he growls in a low voice, pressing himself into me.
I press my lips together.
He takes my jaw in one hand, lightly squeezing both sides. “Your husband told you to open your mouth.”
He squeezes and squeezes until I have fish lips, and I’m almost laughing.
But I don’t. I’ve lived with four years of close calls like this. I’m entitled to a little pouting.
“Or maybe you weren’t worried at all.” He releases me. “Maybe you think I was with another woman the whole time.”
My eyes flare. That wasn’t even a thought, but now the image is in my head. Son of a bitch.
He grinds himself into me, holding my waist. “Feel what you do to me, Krisjen.”
I feel it.
The hard ridge in his jeans that just appears every time I’m naked. Or when I walk around in his clothes, or reach into a high cabinet and my stomach shows. Or bend over and my thong shows. Or sit in his lap or help him in the garage. He loves seeing grease on my face.
“You don’t think everyone knows Macon Jaeger’s little Saint has him wrapped around her little finger?”
I flex my jaw, my heart swimming.
He leans in. “Tell me what I need to hear,” he whispers.
No.
“Say it,” he demands.