CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

He rose, and Beth watched him, wondering for a brief moment whether this was some new game he was playing, whether he was going to walk away. He went to one door and locked it, then closed the adjoining door and locked that one as well. Then he turned and leaned against it, watching her.

Suddenly she was nervous. “I’m really surprised you still want me, considering how bad I was the other night.”

“You thought you were bad the other night?” His voice was mild. “You didn’t enjoy yourself? I didn’t realize you were that good an actress.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It was … a revelation. It just couldn’t have been much fun for you. I’m not really used to sex.”

“I know.” His slight smile took the sting out of the words. “It’s not performance art, Beth. It’s just bodies. Touching.” He reached for the snap on his jeans, and she forced herself not to look away.

She needed to say this, to get it out in the open. “Yes, but some people are better at touching than others. Like you. And some people aren’t comfortable …” she swallowed as he shoved his jeans down his legs and kicked them away. “… aren’t comfortable with other people’s bodies.”

“Come on, Beth. The worst is over. You’ve already had me and you liked it. Stop worrying.”

He lifted the covers and she scooted over quickly as he climbed into the bed. It was no longer nearly as wide as she’d thought it was, and he lay on his side, watching her out of eyes that would haunt her until she was an old, old woman. “I want to give you pleasure,” she said in a whisper. “I know I can’t give you as much pleasure as you gave me, but I want to …” He stopped her mouth with his, a slow, leisurely kiss, his lips soft, warm, touching hers lightly, and then harder, so that her mouth opened, and she took his tongue inside her. She could feel the last of her fears and doubt slip away beneath the slide of his tongue, and he was seducing her, teasing her with his kiss. She felt as if she were melting into the bed, and she kissed him back, letting him taste her, losing track of where and who she was, all that existed was their mouths.

When he lifted his head she was on her back in the bed, and he was over her. “Did anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?” he whispered.

“You have. Many times.”

He smiled at her, and she felt something inside her lurch. There was no darkness in his smile, no hidden thoughts, no danger. He was looking at her the way he would look at someone he cared about, someone he loved, and she wanted to cry.

“You can talk all you want when I’m inside you,” he said against her ear, only a breath of sound. “In the meantime, stop trying to talk me out of this. You couldn’t.”

He moved off her then, and she realized she’d been holding her breath. She felt his eyes run over her. “Are you going to take off all those clothes, or am I going to have to?”

She hadn’t even thought about it. She stripped the sundress over her head, threw it on the floor, and then her bra and panties followed. She needed to be naked, in every way.

Except then she didn’t know what to do. He lay on the pillow, all delicious skin and muscle, the firelight illuminating each scar, each wound, flickering in his eyes. She realized with shock that she’d barely seen him, barely touched him the other night.

She forgot he had the inconvenient habit of reading her mind. “You can do anything you want, darlin’,” he whispered. “It’s up to you.”

For a moment she didn’t move, uncertain. And then she put out her hand to touch his arm, getting used to the warmth of him, the feel of his skin, the muscle and bone beneath it. She could see the healing wound of the knife cut, and on instinct she leaned over and let her lips touch it.

He lifted his arm to let her move closer, and she let go of the last of her fears. She moved over him, kissing each scar, each terrible wound, her lips soft and gentle, as if she were bestowing some kind of healing touch. His heart was sure and steady beneath her mouth, and she pressed her forehead against its reassuring beat as she let her hand move across his stomach.

He made a soft sound of approval, and she smiled against him. She lifted her head, and brushed her tongue across his nipple.

He jerked, and for a moment she thought she’d made a mistake. “Jesus, Beth,” he whispered. “Do that again.”

She did, watching with fascination as his nipple hardened just as hers did. She touched the other one, lightly, liking the way his body moved when she did, and then she fastened her mouth on him and sucked, the way he had sucked at her.

She’d been letting her hand brush his stomach, but his body arched at that, and she felt his cock push against her hand, insistent. She lifted her head to look into his eyes for a moment, and then moved down, kissing his stomach as her hand wrapped around him.

He swore again, and she wanted to laugh. She never would have thought touching him would give her such pleasure. Not just in the obvious pleasure of giving. But a deep, sexual response in concert with his, that was making her wet, making her tremble, making her want the darkness.

She slid her hand down to cup his balls, watching his cock jerk in response. It really was beautiful, the soft, silken skin over such astonishing hardness, the blue veins that danced across it, the head of it, suddenly looking like something she had to taste.

She leaned forward and licked him, just a taste, to see if she liked it. She did. She looked up at his face. He almost looked as if he were being tortured. His hands were fisted beside him, and his eyes were glowing.

“How do I do this?” she whispered.

“You don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do. I want to. So tell me.”

He lifted a hand to sift through her still damp hair. “Do anything you like,” he said. “Just don’t bite.”

She laughed. “You’re no fun.” And she moved back, letting her tongue run up the side of it, like licking an ice cream cone, tracing the heavy vein. She moved around it, licking, touching, until he finally broke.

“And you can’t kill me by teasing me to death,” he said in a rough voice. “I need you to suck me.”

Another shiver of response, and she didn’t wait any longer, closing her mouth over him, drawing him in deep.

It was .. astonishing. Wonderful. Like taking him inside her body, and yet she could focus on his reactions, how she was making him feel, what she was doing to him, and it was electrifying. She wanted more, sinking her mouth down, taking as much as she could, but there was too much of him, and she wanted that too. She wanted it, she wanted him to fill her mouth, to give her everything. She was lost in the taste, the scent of him, and she wanted nothing more than to take it all, have him lose control and give himself to her. She felt him shudder, felt his control start to give as his hands came up to hold her head, to guide her, up and down, and then, just as she felt him about to come he pulled her away.

“No,” she cried, fighting against him, but he pulled her under him, stilling her. “You were ready … I wanted it …”

“The trick, sweetheart, is to get to that place over and over again, pulling back just in time, so that when you get there it knocks you to your knees. I want to be inside you when I come. I want you coming around me, squeezing me, holding me while I fill you. Your mouth is just the beginning. So is mine.”

Before she knew what he planned he’d moved down, between her legs, kissing her, open-mouth, sucking at her, and she climaxed immediately, a fierce response that racked her body. She felt his mouth against her belly, his laugh. “You’re too easy.”

She tried to fight the wave of sensual lassitude that was sweeping over her. “Did I ruin it? You said we should wait …”

He laughed again. “You didn’t ruin it. I’ll show you.”

He moved away from her, and she reached for him, needing the anchor of his body, but his hard, strong hands were on her, and a moment later he’d turned her over on her stomach, pulling her up on her hands and knees He positioned himself behind her, his hands between her legs, touching the wetness, opening her, so that she pushed back against him, and then it wasn’t his fingers, it was the head of his cock, the head that she’d sucked on, and it was sliding into her, spreading the wetness around, pushing, deeper and deeper, and this time she knew she could have all of it, deep inside her.

She sank her head down on the bed with a pleasured moan as his hands caught her hips, and he began to move, sliding deep, moving back out, and each time he pushed he went deeper still, and each time she took him, when she thought she could take no more.

She was shaking, clutching the sheets, letting the sensations wash over her. She could do nothing but let him have her, thrusting again and again, each push making her go deeper into the dark, wonderful place, and she couldn’t get enough.

“Am I hurting you?” he whispered against the back of her neck.

“More,” she said dreamily.

He bit her then, gently, and her response rippled through her body. “More,” she said again. “Bite me harder.”

He did, his hips moving, thrusting into her, holding her, and she could feel something open up, something beyond sex and pleasure, a dark, wicked place that frightened her, but she wouldn’t say anything, wouldn’t stop him, pushing her face into the sheets as he took her. His hand slid down her stomach, between her curls, touching her clitoris, pushing her over the edge, and it was too much. She shattered, and she screamed her response, shuddering, as he exploded inside her, holding her against him as he climaxed.

She didn’t want him to withdraw, but he did, pulling her down beside him, cradling her against him, his mouth at her ear, kissing her neck, biting her earlobe gently. His heart was pounding against her back, and he whispered in her ear. “And then, when you get carried away and come sooner than you planned, you just wait a little while and then start again.”

She was still shaking from the aftermath, her body covered with sweat. She caught his arms and drew them tight around her, keeping herself snug in the safety of his hard, hot body. “Again?” she murmured sleepily, her body still tingling.

“And again and again and again.”

He woke her three times that night, trying to work off the insatiable longing she seemed to bring out in him. She was as aroused as he was, as hungry, and each time she drove him further, until the last, at dawn, when they’d made love almost sweetly, a slow, tender mating as the first light came through the closed shutters and danced across the bed. It was cold then, and he hadn’t wanted to get up and stoke the fire, but she decided she needed to, and he caught her halfway across the room and tossed her back on the bed, covering her, the two of them laughing.

When had he laughed in bed? He couldn’t remember. When had he been with a woman, slept with a woman, fucked a woman who felt so perfectly right for him? When in his entire goddamned life had he ever made love before?

He looked at her, curled up in his arms, her hand beneath her chin as always. The bruise on her face stood out, and he wished there were some way to make it disappear. There wasn’t. All he could do was hold her, all he could do was love her.

For now.

“Hungry now,” Dylan announced. He was sprawled on one of the sofas in the great room of the farmhouse, watching a movie on the portable DVD player he’d managed to find. He had the earphones on, so his voice came out as a gentle shout, and Beth didn’t bother answering. She was already in the kitchen, cutting up leeks. She’d found some frozen chicken and defrosted it in the microwave, and she was busy sautéing it, drinking a glass of the wine that MacGowan had brought her, his hand brushing against her when Dylan wasn’t looking.

She’d smiled at him, and he’d started to move closer, then glanced at their chaperone and laughed. Later, his eyes said. Soon.

They hadn’t gotten out of bed until midday, and it was now getting dark, the night closing in around the old farmhouse. MacGowan had a fire roaring in the huge old fireplace, and she was dressed in his clothes, warm socks and sweatpants and sweatshirt. She liked them. She liked wearing his clothes, wearing him around her. When he sent her away she wasn’t going to give them back.

The kitchen was open to the great room, and MacGowan slid back in, rubbing up against her, moving her long hair out of the way so that he could kiss her on the back of the neck, the same place where he’d bitten her, and she felt a shimmer run through her body. She started to lean back, when she felt him freeze.

There were three sets of doors leading out from the great room. One of them opened, and a tall, blonde man walked in, the faintest trace of a limp barely slowing him, and his gaze went directly to MacGowan.

She knew who he was. He had the same, deadly look to his eyes that MacGowan had, carried himself the same way, but he came in without a gun. This could only be Finn’s boss, the man he’d sworn to kill.

“MacGowan,” the man said in a cultured British accent.

“Madsen,” Finn acknowledged. And a second later one of the kitchen knives was hurtling through the air toward the newcomer with deadly accuracy.