Chosen (Second Sight) Read online

  Isabelle was intoxicating, irresistible, and Mac knew he hadn’t just counted the days or even the final hours. He’d waited his entire life for someone like her.

  His mouth devoured her as his fingers grasped her skirt and quickly drew it up to her waist. Her hips pulsed into him as he found the light fabric of her panties. He dragged them down, over her curved hips, past her thighs and let them fall. Slowly but deliberately, he backed toward the couch. He sensed her stepping out of the panties and, as the back of his calves hit the cushion, he quickly unbuckled his belt, unzipped the fly, and released his straining member. The bed could wait. Their clothes could wait. But what couldn’t was the need to be with Isabelle.

  • • • • •

  As Mac sat down on the couch, Isabelle steadied herself, hands on his broad shoulders. She straddled his thighs as his hands firmly guided her hips forward. Breathing hard, her heart pounding in her chest, she tried not to rush. But it wasn’t just her body that ached for him. Until she’d seen him sitting on the landing, she hadn’t realized how low she’d been. Everything in her said how right it was to be with him, especially like this.

  As she lowered herself, she felt the tip of his rigid flesh press at her entrance. She sucked in a quick breath and closed her eyes at the incredible sensation. Even though he’d barely nudged inside, a deep shudder vibrated up through her core. The warmth that had already flooded between her legs spread higher. Whether she slid down or he pushed up, Isabelle didn’t know, but as his hot shaft moved deeper, Isabelle gasped and widened her stance to take him in.

  Inch by inch, he began to fill her. The sweet, familiar pressure began to build inside as his thickness spread her ever wider. His molten member rose higher as she bunched his jacket in her fists. Her thighs began to tremble as she struggled against her own resistant flesh, the tightness at her entrance, and her breath came in short, harsh gasps. Her downward glide faltered but, rather than push upward, Mac’s fingers found the button at the top of her blouse.

  She tensed as his fingers grazed her skin and her nipples pushed hard against her bra. As the first button came undone, a coil of anticipation wound tighter in her abdomen. Mac’s fingers quickly moved to the second button and, as he unbuttoned it, her hips pulsed forward and, balancing on her toes, she slid a little lower. His penetration seared into her, the pressure rising, her blood pounding in her ears. Her blouse tugged across her breasts as Mac worked on the third button. Her nipples ached as the fabric teased them and as the third button finally let go, her entire body quivered in anticipation and a low moan escaped her lips. Mac made quick work of the rest of the buttons and spread her shirt open.

  “Yes,” Mac hissed, as the shirt fell from her shoulders to her elbows.

  He pushed the bra straps down but, rather than unfasten the clasp in back, he peeled the cups down her breasts and bared them.

  Without warning, a deep pang erupted in her sweet spot. Her hips bucked violently, her feet slipped from the floor, and she sank down on him.

  An anguished groan was ripped from her at the sharp penetration–a sensation that veered between pain and a pleasure so intense it took her breath away. Though the shock of it threatened to overwhelm her, her hips moved of their own accord. They ground out a circular rhythm, as her sweet spot panged again and she groaned. In answer, Mac’s hips gyrated with hers. She felt him move inside her, the fullness pushing at her walls, as he immediately matched her movements. In some primal rhythm that neither of them seemed to control, they quickly moved together.

  He surged deeper into her, his hands gripping her hips now. The moist warmth of his labored breaths caressed the burning tips of her breasts. His fingers dug into her and kept their bodies connected. With every revolution, she crushed her sweet spot on him–scraping against the V of exposed flesh above his shaft. Round and round her pelvis circled, moved by his hips or moving him, she didn’t know. The only thing she knew was it couldn’t stop, moving faster with each gyration. Mac not only kept pace but his hips also began to thrust. Down his hips sank as she circled hers back. Up they thrust as she circled to the front. He lifted her with each upward plunge and she rubbed hard against him. She rode the hypnotic beat, as pleasure flowed into her sweet spot, ecstasy built in her mound, and tension wound tighter in her abdomen. Breathless and frenzied, her body was not hers to control. And just as their rhythm crescendoed and couldn’t go any higher, Mac’s hands found her breasts.

  • • • • •

  Mac could no longer resist the creamy, proffered flesh. It softly filled his palms, plumped beneath his fingers, and he squeezed.

  “Oh god,” Isabelle groaned.

  The voluptuous undulating of her body suddenly erupted into writhing. With their rhythm broken, his pelvis flew into a savage beat of its own. As he slammed upward, her shuddering body squirmed atop him. Her back arched as he drove upward only to curve wickedly forward as he released. His hands ravished her breasts, kneading and massaging, as she struggled to hold on to the sleeves of his jacket. He surged upward repeatedly, the speed of the strokes increasing even as their length shortened.

  “Mac,” she gasped. “Mac!”

  She thrashed on top of him. The heated core of her vibrated around him, tugged on his stiff flesh, stroked it and swelled it to the brink of torture.

  Suddenly, her abdomen convulsed as a deep grunt flew from her lips and the center of her clamped down hard.

  “Isabelle,” he hissed as his climax exploded inside her.

  As her glistening body swayed and shuddered in his hands, he plunged over the crest with her and gave up control. His release came hot and fast, spewing upward in an incredible rush. He closed his eyes to the white heat of it and felt her climax spasm along his entire length. Wave after wild wave of crushing clenches bore down on him as his flesh leapt inside her. The convulsive release robbed him of air as his lungs refused to work. His breath caught with each constricting clench and she forced him to erupt again. He groaned loudly, jackknifing up under her, just as she pitched forward against his chest.

  They both sucked in a convulsive lungful of air and, as he wrapped his arms around her, her abdomen spasmed yet again. Mac’s hips pulsed up under her in answer, his thighs easily lifting her along his chest. Her clench quickly ebbed as her arms tightened around his neck. Her entire body trembled with her release, her lungs heaving. Her breasts vibrated against his chest and his pelvis jumped back to life, pushing upward once more, before he was finally able to settle down. At last, an enormous rush of relief flooded through him and he hugged her tight.

  Together they pulled in one harsh breath after another, Isabelle’s head resting against his shoulder, his hands pressed against her back. Minutes passed as their labored breathing eventually subsided and finally ended in shuddering gasps. Neither of them moved a muscle, until he rested his head on the edge of the couch, closed his eyes, and slowly smiled.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Though Mac had expressed misgivings about the high-crime Rampart district, Isabelle had insisted that the original Tommy burger was only original if it came from the first restaurant in the chain. Besides, it was a quick drive. And now that they had their burgers and stood at the narrow wooden shelf that served as the establishment’s table, Isabelle watched Mac polish off the last of the chili cheeseburger.

  Normally, she’d grocery shop before Mac came into town but, with the surprise of his arrival, there’d been no time–and Isabelle wasn’t complaining.

  The last rays of the evening sun gleamed off the high-rise towers of downtown to the east. Like watchful sentinels, their reflected, eye-watering stares dotted the city, catching unsuspecting motorists and maybe a few diners at Tommy’s.

  “So, who was the woman in the Tercel?” Mac asked.

  Isabelle was using a plastic fork to dip a french fry into the little, paper cup of catsup and paused.

  “Tercel?”

  “The red Toyota that dropped you off,” Mac said, dipping a fry and popping it into h
is mouth.

  “Oh, Yolanda,” Isabelle said. “A psychic friend of mine.”

  “A psychic friend,” he said, smiling. “I don’t think you’ve mentioned her before. Someone you met through…work?”

  Isabelle frowned a little as it occurred to her how little she and Mac actually knew about each other. For a moment, she was reminded of Yolanda’s advice.

  Psychics and non-psychics. They were from two different worlds.

  “Something like that,” Isabelle said, setting down the fork.

  “Have you known her long?”

  Isabelle recounted her history with Yolanda, from that first day to the present. It hadn’t taken long since there really wasn’t that much to tell. All they really had in common was psychic ability.

  “In a way,” Isabelle said. “We’re opposites. She sees the future and I see the past.” She paused for a second. “In fact, this morning, she offered to read my future.”

  It was the tiniest of movements but Mac’s eyebrows went up for an instant and his smile dimmed. Now he stared down at the can of soda in his hand.

  “And did she?” he asked.

  Does he look worried?

  Isabelle watched Mac and, for an instant, she visualized reading him–just a quick one, like when they’d first met. Though she looked down at her gloved hands, it wasn’t a reading she remembered. It was her and Mac together in her apartment earlier. She’d forgotten to take off the gloves. Of course there’d hardly been time but… She glanced up at him. Not long ago, he would have insisted. His gaze met hers, waiting for an answer.

  “No,” Isabelle finally said. “She didn’t do a reading.”

  She watched the tension in his lips relax even as the tension in her stomach tightened.

  He was worried.

  “And this…eco-commune in…” Mac said.

  “Topanga Canyon,” Isabelle said, trying to focus on the conversation. “It’s up in the hills. I haven’t been there in years.”

  “And an eco-commune? Is that common here?”

  Isabelle shook her head.

  “Not that I know of. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Well, it should be interesting,” Mac said lightly.

  But Isabelle could care less now.

  Is he hiding something? And what if he is? Isn’t he entitled to his privacy? How could she even think of reading him without his knowing?

  For a moment, Isabelle felt nauseous.

  Maybe Yolanda is right. Maybe psychic and non-psychic aren’t meant to be.

  Mac raised his eyebrows as he dipped a french fry.

  “You knew Susan’s daughter?” he said.

  Isabelle took a deep breath and tried to concentrate.

  “Kayla,” she said. “We were friends.”

  “Were,” Mac said.

  The memory of how that friendship had ended brought her fully back to the moment. She picked up her fork.

  “My boyfriend,” Isabelle said quietly, “became Kayla’s boyfriend.”

  “I see,” Mac said, not missing a beat. “And does this fool have a name?”

  Isabelle couldn’t help but smile a little.

  “Daniel,” she said. “His name is Daniel.” She paused. “You know, I didn’t even think to ask Yolanda if she saw him.” She shrugged. “Not that it matters. Susan will pick me up tomorrow morning and we’re going to pay a visit.”

  “Just be careful,” Mac said, all seriousness now.

  He took her hand in his and she gazed up into his eyes. The intensity there startled her.

  “It’s just a bunch of hippies,” Isabelle said. “I’m not sure there’s anything to be worried about.”

  “Not the commune,” Mac said. “I mean Kayla. It sounds like maybe there are some old wounds there.”

  She shook her head a little.

  “All in the past,” she said.

  And it was. She hadn’t thought of Daniel or Kayla in years.

  “Okay,” Mac said quietly. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  That’s what Yolanda had said.

  • • • • •

  Though Mac hadn’t been entirely sure of his welcome, Ben clapped him on the back as they shook hands.

  “Mac,” Ben said, smiling. “Good to see you.”

  Mac gave him a hug.

  “I’m glad you think so,” Mac said. “It’s good to see you too.”

  Ben Olivos, Assistant Director of the Los Angeles FBI headquarters, was in his late fifties, balding, and carrying a spare tire around his middle that stretched his long-sleeve, white shirt.

  “About that,” Ben said, letting him go and motioning to one of the chairs in front of his desk.

  Mac took a seat and waited.

  There’d obviously been no formal charges.

  Otherwise I’d be looking for an entirely new line of work instead of a transfer.

  When Isabelle had been abducted by the serial killer, Mac had not only pulled in every favor owed to him but he’d also pulled every string he could find–not all of which were his to pull. He’d used Ben’s name to prioritize lab tests in Quantico without asking Ben.

  “I signed the lab order,” Ben said, plopping down in the rolling chair.

  “Look Ben,” Mac said. “I want to apologize for that–”

  “I don’t want your apology,” Ben said, but then he smiled. “I owed you that much. At least that much.”

  Mac and Isabelle had been key in finding Ben’s daughter Esme before the serial killer had enacted his deadly ritual.

  “Thank you, Ben,” Mac said, as he exhaled with relief. “And you didn’t owe me anything.”

  But it wasn’t the fact that Ben had covered for him that let Mac relax a bit. He was just glad their relationship was still solid. Ben was more than just the guy in charge in L.A. He was also Mac’s mentor and the man who’d steered him toward profiling early in his career. Ben and his wife Anita had been like parents to him.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Ben warned.

  Ben wasn’t through, Mac thought. And rightly so. I should never have abused our friendship the way I did.

  “I know you don’t want to hear it,” Ben said, “but she’s not good for you. Not for you or your career.”

  Mac stiffened and jerked his head back.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “What?”

  “You heard me,” Ben said, leaning forward. “She’s not good for you and this is a bad move.”

  Mac clenched his jaw and felt his shoulders tighten.

  “By she I assume you mean Isabelle,” Mac said.

  “You know very well who I mean.”

  “Well she has a name.”

  “Stop,” Ben said. “Stop for just one second and look at yourself.”

  “If you–”

  “Stop!” Ben said as he held out his hand and stood up behind his desk. “Just be quiet for ten seconds.”

  Mac shut his mouth and stared at Ben. This was something Ben had done in their early days in profiling. Often the profiler’s dilemma wasn’t having enough information, it was being inundated with too much–data that wasn’t relevant and yet took up your time. The key was separating out what was important and what wasn’t. Mac had learned from Ben that the subconscious mind could sort it out, if you could just give it room to breathe. Ben did that with a ten second silence.

  But it wasn’t working for Mac. Not this time.

  From the beginning, Ben had been antagonistic toward Isabelle, his wife Anita’s psychic. He was a skeptic and Mac understood that. Mac had been a skeptic too once. But Ben never seemed to get past it.

  “Look–” Mac started.

  Ben threw his hands in the air and sat down.

  “Do you see?” he said, slowly shaking his head. “You can’t even do that.”

  “I’m not here to practice profiling,” Mac said.

  “No, you’re here to ruin your career,” Ben said, glaring at him.

  “Is that how you see it?”

  �
��It’s been coming for some time,” Ben said. “I’ve been watching this train wreck from day one.”

  Train wreck?

  Mac didn’t trust his own voice, ready to shout with every decibel his chest would muster.

  “Before Isabelle,” Ben said. “You’d have got your head into the serial killer’s mind during Esme’s case, not Isabelle’s.” Mac stared hard at him. Ben had skipped Angela, the young medical student who’d been killed. Was Ben blaming him for that? “You’d have been digging deep, casting wide, and not depending on some…supposed psychic ability.” Ben sat back. “Then, you go off the rails. I know what Sharon did for you. You risked her career as well as yours.” He shook his head again. “Analyzing security videos with the Homeland Security computer network? Are you insane?” Mac froze for a moment. He had put Sharon’s career at risk. “You put your fist through my wall. You used my name,” Ben continued. “And now this.” Ben pushed a piece of paper forward on his desk. Mac already knew what it had to be. “You want to interview here.” Ben pursed his lips. “In L.A. You want to leave Quantico, give up an elite position, one that you’re ideally suited for, and come here.” Though Mac ground his teeth, he could hardly argue. It wasn’t a good career move. He already knew that. “I get it,” Ben said, softening his tone. “You’re young. She’s pretty. But we’re talking about your career here. Years in the making. The higher-ups have their eye on you. And this,” Ben moved the piece of paper sideways on his desk, pushing it to the left edge. “This is a move backwards. Backwards and down.” He left the paper. “Have her move to Quantico.”

  Mac slowly inhaled through his nose.

  It sounded so simple.

  But Isabelle’s apartment, everything she’d accumulated, had been years in the making. Everything there had been factory made, untouched by human hands, or handled by people with gloves. It was her refuge, built slowly and carefully over time. Objects with readings had been discarded. Fixtures and handles had been replaced. It only took one touch to know what she could live with and what she couldn’t.