Dead After Dark Page 12

  "Have you had many lovers?" he asked.

  So he knew what she wanted, too. And she had a feeling he had come to her because he was seeking it as well. Still, she wasn't sure how to answer the question without making him feel insecure.

  "Have you?" he prompted.

  "A few. Not many." She'd been much more interested in winning at the negotiation table than sex.

  "Your first time, what was it like? Were you scared?"

  "No."

  "Oh."

  "I wanted to get it over with. I was twenty-three. I started late."

  "Is that late?" he murmured. "How old are you now?"

  "Thirty-two."

  "How many." Now, there was a masculine demand in his voice, an edge. And she liked the contrast with his essentially gentle disposition.

  "Only three."

  "Did they . . . please you?"

  "Sometimes."

  "When was the last time?" The words came fast and low.

  He was jealous and it shouldn't have pleased her, but it did. She wanted him to feel possessive, because she wanted to have him.

  "A year ago." He exhaled as if relieved, and in the silence that followed, she became curious. "And when was the last time you . . . relieved yourself?"

  He cleared his throat and she was damn sure he was blushing. "In the shower."

  "Just now?" she asked with surprise.

  "It was hours ago. Or at least it feels that way." He coughed a little. "After I came to you--well, during the time that I came to you, I became . . . needful. To resist, I had to leave you and that is why I didn't finish you properly. I was afraid I would . . . touch you."

  "What if I wanted that?"

  "I will not have sex with you."

  She sat up on her elbow. "Light a candle. I need to see your face while we talk like this."

  Candles flared on both sides of the bed.

  He was on his back, his lids closed, his red and black hair a great sea of waves over the white pillows.

  "Why won't you look at me?" she asked. "Damn it, Michael. Look at me."

  "I look at you all the time. When the lights are off, I watch you. I stare at you."

  "So meet me in the eye now."

  "I cannot."

  "Why?"

  "It hurts."

  Claire ran her hand up his arm. The muscles underneath strained, his biceps thick and well defined, his triceps cut.

  "It shouldn't hurt to look at a person," she said.

  "It is too close for me."

  She stayed silent for a moment. "Michael, I'm going to kiss you. Now." When she heard the demand in her voice she throttled back a little. She didn't want to force him. "That is, if it's okay with you? You can absolutely say no."

  She could feel his body tremble, the subtle quakes transmitted through the mattress. "I want you to. Until I think I will suffocate from the wanting. But then you know that, don't you. You know that's why I came to you."

  "Yes, I do."

  He laughed a little. "That is why I am as needful of you as I am. You see everything about me and you are unafraid. And you are the only one who has ever thought of getting me out."

  She moved over to him and those burning blue eyes shifted to hers.

  "Raise your head," she told him. When he did, she reached out and freed his hair from the leather tie. Splaying it out fully, she marveled at the glory and the weight and the incredible colors. Then she made eye contact and started to lower her mouth to his.

  His lids pulled back, his stare bursting.

  She stopped.

  "Why are you frightened?" she asked, smoothing his widow's peak.

  He shook his head impatiently. "Just kiss me."

  "Tell me why."

  "What if you don't like me?"

  "I will. I do." To reassure him, she dipped her head down and pressed her lips to his softly; then she stroked over his mouth. God, he was velvet. And warmth. And anxious heat.

  Especially as he groaned. The sound was all male and all about sex and her body responded by going loose between her legs.

  To get his mouth parted, she licked at him, becoming lost in the sensation of soft on soft, breath on breath. When he opened up, she pressed inside, meeting the hard polish of his front teeth, then sinking in. She stroked his tongue and felt his chest rise sharply.

  Worried that she'd gone too far, too fast, she pulled back. "Do you want to stop--"

  The growl came out of nowhere. And he moved so fast, she couldn't track him.

  The room spun as he flipped her over onto her back and then straddled her, a huge male animal who didn't frighten her in the slightest. He leaned down, the weight of his chest compressing hers, his legs bracketing her hips. He was breathing hard as he put their faces together, his eyes positively glowing.

  "I need more," he demanded. "Do that more. Harder. Now."

  Claire recovered quickly and lifted her head off the pillow, fusing their mouths. He pushed back, forcing her down, deepening the contact. And he learned fast. In a slick penetration, his tongue shot into her mouth and she surged under him.

  With his legs straddling her, she couldn't feel his erection. And she wanted that, needed that.

  She yanked her mouth away from his. "Put yourself between my legs. Lie between my thighs."

  He lifted up and looked down at their bodies; then he used his knee to part her and fused them together.

  "Oh, God," Claire moaned as he gasped. His arousal was hot and hard through the thin layers of silk they wore. And he was massive.

  "Tell me what to do," he said. "Tell me . . ."

  She raised her knees up and tilted her pelvis, cradling him into her sex. "Rub yourself against me. Your hips. Move them."

  He did until they were both panting and groaning and his head was buried in her neck. The silk was a conductor, an enhancement, hardly any barrier at all. And maybe because of their circumstances, because this was like a fantasy, Claire let herself go, giving herself permission for once just to feel. She didn't think of anything but the contours of his body against her own and the way his surging motion was absorbed by her core and the incredible smell of him and the heat of the sex.

  When he pulled back, she was ready to have him inside. Especially as he said, "I want to see you."

  "Then take off my robe."

  As he reared up, he took her breath away. His hair spilled all around him in glorious waves that caught and magnified the candlelight. His face was too beautiful to be real. And at his hips, a hungry, proud length was straining behind red silk.

  "You are a dream," she said.

  His hands shook as they gripped the tie that was around her waist and slowly slid the two pieces apart. He took the lapels and pulled them back, revealing her breasts.

  As he looked at her, she became aware that he was making a strange sound, like the deep purr of a cat.

  "You are . . . resplendent," he said, his eyes wide with wonder and awe. "May I touch you?"

  When she nodded, one of his long-fingered hands came out. He brushed the underside of one breast and then traveled up to the pink, tight crown. The instant he made contact with her nipple, she arched and closed her eyes. His touch was like a flame, weighing nothing and burning her.

  "Kiss me," she said, reaching for his shoulders so she could pull him down to her breast. When he went for her mouth instead, she stopped him. "On my breasts this time. Kiss me on them. All over them. Take them into your mouth and roll the nipples with your tongue."

  Michael eased himself down her body until he was eye level with one of her nipples. His expression was part animalistic lust, like he wanted to devour her, and part winsome, aching gratitude.

  He nuzzled at her and then covered her with his lips. As she shuddered and linked her legs around the middle of his back, he sucked gently, learning her body, taking his time. Impatient, needing more, she threaded her hands through his hair and urged him on so he'd work her with power.

  He didn't need much encouragement.

&
nbsp; Sexually speaking, his natural inclination was to dominate. She might have started out as the teacher, but he was taking things from there, driving the sex, taking them both higher. He watched her as he suckled on her, his eyes greedy and hot, all male satisfaction as she writhed under him. And then he was kissing her again and his hands were grabbing on to her hips so he could rub his arousal into her.

  They had reached the point of no return as far as she was concerned and she was about to say so when he pulled back.

  His mouth was open, his fangs showing.

  That was when she came.

  She convulsed under his body, her thighs clamping around his hips, her core pressing upward, seeking more even as it released.

  She was vaguely aware as his expression changed to one of shock. Which made sense because she was shouting something incoherent and digging her nails into him.

  When she'd settled down, her eyes focused.

  "Are you all right?" he asked.

  "God . . . yes." Her voice was haggard.

  "Are you sure? What happened?"

  "You made me orgasm." He frowned as if he were trying to figure out whether that was a good thing. "It felt fabulous."

  "Can you do that again?"

  God, she couldn't wait. "With you? Absolutely."

  His smile was guileless, nothing but a generous, kind lift to that amazing mouth of his. "I want you to do that again. You're beautiful when that happens."

  "Then touch me between my legs," she whispered against his lips. "And I will."

  Michael rolled off her while pressing kisses to her breasts as if he hated leaving them. Then he took his hand and moved it down over her stomach, pushing the robe completely aside.

  She had a passing moment of worry. She had no idea how he'd react to her naked.

  He tilted his head to one side as the silk fell off her body. "You have hair there."

  "Don't you?"

  He shook his head. "I like yours," he murmured, running his fingers back and forth ever so lightly. "It's so soft."

  "There's something even softer."

  "There is?"

  She spread her legs and guided him where she wanted him to go. At the first surge of contact, she bit her lip and torqued--

  Michael moaned. "You're . . . slick."

  "I'm ready for you."

  He took his hand up and stared at his fingers, then rubbed them together. "It's like silk." Before she could say another thing, he slipped them into his mouth. Closing his eyes, he sucked at what had touched her.

  Which brought her right to the edge again. "Michael . . ."

  And that was when breakfast arrived.

  5

  As the sound of a metal gate slamming shut ricocheted around the stone walls, the smell of bacon wafted over. Michael looked torn.

  "Later," she said.

  "You need to eat."

  "Later."

  "No, now. I am . . . very hungry for you. I will come to you when you are finished." With that, he went over for the tray, which had arrived in that bread box thing by the door. He brought the food over by the bed, then dissolved into the darkness.

  As the sounds of the chains ceased, Claire pulled the robe around her. It was hard to imagine that she could be frustrated after the release he'd just given her. But she was. She wanted him inside of her.

  Claire lifted the lid, looked at the food, and went cold. "This is lunch."

  The bacon was in a quiche and there was a glass of wine as well as a fruit tart.

  "You slept through breakfast and I didn't want you to eat cold food."

  Jesus, she had only a day and a half left. Under normal circumstances that would be cause for celebration, assuming she was going to make it out alive so she could come back for him. But the fact that she had to leave him, even if she was returning to free him, made her anxious as hell.

  "Michael, I'm going to get you out of here." When there was no answer, she leapt off the bed with an urgency grounded in her fear of the future. "Did you hear me?"

  She started to walk in the direction of the black corner.

  "Stop," he commanded.

  "No." She grabbed the candleholder that was flickering on the bedside table and held it in front of herself as she marched straight across the room.

  "Come no closer--"

  As the light penetrated the dark corner, she gasped. Four lengths of chain hung from the wall with shackles on the ends, two about five feet up from the bottom, two right at floor level.

  "What is this?" she hissed. "Michael . . . what do they do to you here?"

  "It is where I must go when my rooms are cleaned. Or when my visitors come and depart. I must lock myself in and I am released later after Fletcher makes me sleep."

  "He drugs you?" Although it wasn't like she didn't believe the butler was capable of that shit. "Have you ever tried to escape?"

  "Enough. You will eat now."

  "To hell with food. Answer me." Her sharp voice came from the desperation in her chest. She couldn't bear the idea of him suffering. "Have you tried to get out?"

  "It was long ago. And only once. Never again."

  "Why?"

  He walked away from her, the chain on his ankle seething over the stone floor.

  "Why, Michael?"

  "I was punished."

  Oh, God. "How."

  "They tried to take something from me. In the end, I prevailed, but someone got hurt. So never more do I protest. Now, eat. I must come to you soon." He sat down in front of his drawings, picked up a pencil, and got to work. As quiet as he was, she knew he'd shut her out until she did what he'd asked.

  He might be shy and modest, but he was not a pushover. That was for sure.

  The only reason she went back to the bed and started to eat was because her mind was scheming and it was a way to pass the time. As she thought about freeing him, and worried about what had been done to him, she looked over at the dark corner, then around the room.

  "Please turn on all the lights."

  He did so immediately and the place was flooded with illumination.

  Claire shifted her eyes back to the dark corner where the chains hung from the wall. She feared retribution for him. She really did. If she left, and they knew she was coming back . . .

  She couldn't leave him here. It was too dangerous if they'd already tried to hurt him once.

  Back to plan A. She was taking him with her.

  As she put down the fork, she knew what she had to do. Michael would have to play a small role; she would take care of everything else. But he was coming with her. There was no way she would risk leaving him here.

  She was wiping her mouth when she realized there was only one plate.

  "Was this for both of us?" she asked, suddenly horrified. She'd finished a good half of the quiche.

  "No. Just for you." He looked over his shoulder. "Please, don't stop. I want you to be full."

  As she started in again with the food, he seemed to take a disproportionate happiness in her eating, practically glowing with satisfaction. And it was a strange, freeing joy to be encouraged like that. Accepted like that. So much of the dating scene in Manhattan was about staying sharp and keeping tight: being thin and in fashion while sitting across from a professional suit and tie. Keeping the conversation going through talk about Broadway plays and what was in the Times and who you knew. One-upping each other in a sophisticated way.

  When Claire put the plate back on the tray, she was full. Satisfied. Relaxed in spite of the horrible situation. Sleep tugged at her like a child on a pant leg, wanting to embrace her.

  She closed her eyes, and shortly thereafter all but one of the candles went out and she felt the bed moving.

  Michael's voice was in her ear. "I need to take from you."

  She offered her neck without reservation and urged him on top of her. With a groan, he sank his fangs into her throat and positioned himself as she'd taught him to--between her thighs, his erection pushing against her core. She shifted beneat
h him, loosened her robe, and he took to the invitation with greed. His hands traveled over her skin, working downward in strokes with his warm, male palm.

  As he slipped his fingers between her legs, he nursed at her throat.

  Her orgasms shattered her, the combination of the bite and the sexual power of him too much to bear and how glorious that was.

  When he finally released her neck, he licked at her for some time and she wanted more. So did he. His mouth went to her breasts and she shamelessly pushed him lower, down the smooth skin of her stomach. She was delirious, blissed out, coasting on the heat between them.

  She heard him gasp and knew he was looking at her core.

  "You are delicate," he whispered. "And you glisten."

  "Because of you."

  "Where would a man . . . go?"

  She couldn't believe he didn't have a clue, but then how would he? The kind of books he read couldn't have included female sexual anatomy.

  She guided one of his fingers inside herself, arching as he penetrated her. "Here . . ." Her breath pumped harder. "Deep. In here."

  He groaned and shut his eyes as if overwhelmed. In a very good way. "But you are small. You hold me so tightly now and yet I am much . . . larger where I am most male."

  "Believe me, you would fit." She moved against his hand, pleasuring herself, wondering when the last time her inner harlot had come out.

  Never.

  He watched her body, her face, his eyes everywhere. His awe and fascination made it new for her, too.

  "I find I want . . ." He cleared his throat. "I fear I have a . . . perversion."

  "What is it?"

  "I want to kiss you here," he said, running his thumb around her. "Because I want to swallow you."

  "Then do it."

  His eyes flared. "You would let me?"

  "Oh, yes." She laid her knees wide, undulating her hips. "And it's not perverse."

  His hands smoothed the insides of her thighs, holding her in place as his mouth dipped in for a kiss. He moaned into her flesh at the first contact of their lips, and his huge body shuddered, the bed magnifying the shimmying movement so that his erotic anticipation added to hers. He was slow at first, learning carefully, his eyes looking up over her mound and past her belly and breasts to her face. He was watching her to make sure he was doing it right.

  And was he ever.

  "Yes . . ." she said hoarsely. "God, yes, I love it."

  He lifted his head and smiled at her; then he slipped his arms under her legs and lapped at her gently, slowly. At first. Soon, he was driving her hard, taking over until that purring sound he made became wild and cut through the darkness, the rhythmic pump paralleling the rush of her blood. There was no end to pleasure, no end to that swirling, darting tongue of his or his pliant lips or his hot breath against her or the orgasms she had.