Into the Fire

by Anne Stuart

  “Now, climb on top of me.”

  She couldn’t help it—she looked at his crotch in sudden panic. There was no mistaking the way his erection pressed against his zipper, but he hadn’t even unsnapped the button of his jeans.

  “No, we’re not going there yet,” he said, reading her mind. “Since I’m taking the role of your sex therapist you’re going to have to go at my pace and do what I tell you to do.”

  “And if I don’t want to?”

  “Then you can leave. I won’t stop you. But if you’re staying you need to climb on top of me.”

  Point of no return. She bit her lip and straddled his hips very carefully, arranging her skirt around her. And she looked into his deep blue eyes.

  He slid his hands under her skirt, up to her hips, settling her back, so that now she rested against his erection. He felt harder, bigger than she’d realized.

  He slid his hands down her thighs, then up the backs of them. “This is how we’ll do it,” he said in a low, silky voice. “You can be in control, go as fast or as slow as you want. It’s all up to you. Hell, you can even tie me up if it makes you feel safer. I have nothing against a little friendly bondage.”

  “You’re disgusting.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  She bit her lip. “I don’t know.”

  “I do. You want to be here. Or you’d be long gone into the Wisconsin night, running straight back to the Duchess with your tail between your legs. Except that’s not what you want between your legs.”

  She wasn’t expecting his sudden move. In one moment she was nervously straddling him, staring down into his eyes. The next she was lying on her back on the rumpled bed and he was on top of her, her legs pulled around him. In the darkened room the flickers from the muted television played across his face, making him look almost brutal.

  And then he kissed her. Put his mouth on hers, and she opened for him, so that she tasted his tongue and his desire, kissing him back.

  There was a stifled moan of pleasure, and she realized that it had come from her. It shouldn’t have shocked her. It was past time to admit that kissing Dillon had been the central fantasy of her teenage years. And the hidden, unacknowledged fantasy of her twenties. The only carnal one she’d ever had.

  His hands cupped her face, and he seemed ready to take all the time in the world, nibbling on her lower lip, brushing his mouth across her eyelids before he returned to her mouth. She was almost afraid to touch him, but she slid her arms up around him, anyway, against his hot, sleek skin, her fingers running across the shape of his back, the sinew and muscle, bone and flesh of him.

  He broke the kiss, his blue eyes almost black in the darkness. “I got ahead of you earlier today. Time to catch up.” He pulled out of her arms, moving down on her body, pushing her skirt out of the way as he put his hand between her legs.

  She let out a muffled cry, but he ignored it, pushing her skirt up higher. “Come on, Jamie, you remember this. You liked it. You can’t tell me you didn’t.” And he let his long fingers slide against her, so that her body arched instinctively, wanting his touch. He did it again, a little harder this time, and she made a small whimpering sound of need.

  “See, I told you you liked this,” he said, and he leaned down and kissed her stomach, his mouth hot against her flesh. “You’ll like this even better.” And he put his mouth between her legs.

  She panicked, pushing at his shoulders, but he ignored her, cradling her hips in his hands as he used his mouth, his tongue, even his teeth on her. She began to shake, but this time it wasn’t fear. The heat began between her legs and spread outward, upward, in a spiral of pleasure that almost shamed her.

  It was too fast, too much. She tried to pull back from that dangerous place, but she was already too far gone. She could feel her body begin to convulse, and she panicked, afraid, only to have Dillon slide his fingers deep inside her at the last moment, and she was lost. Wave after wave of hot, wild pleasure suffused her body, and she had no choice but to let go, surrender to it, and he moved up her body, covering her cry with his mouth.

  Slowly, slowly her heart began to slow its pace, and she opened her eyes to see him leaning over her, a smug expression on his face. She would have slapped it if she’d had any strength left in her body.

  “That’s better,” he murmured. “Now, let’s get this dress off you. Sexy as it is, it’s ready to go. Or I might rip it off you.”

  She was beyond the point of making any protest, and she let him pull the dress over her head. She didn’t bother to look where he tossed it—it no longer mattered.

  She lay back on the bed, naked, and he looked down at her out of sober eyes. “Damn,” he said in a soft voice.

  “Damn what?” Her own voice was no more than a cracked whisper, something that shouldn’t have surprised her.

  “Just damn.” He kissed her mouth, hard and deep, and she could taste herself on his lips. He pulled her into his arms so that her bare breasts were up against his hot skin. “Time to get bolder,” he murmured against her mouth, and taking her hand, he put it on his zipper. On the steel-hard rod of flesh beneath it.

  She didn’t pull away. The feel, the shape of him beneath the jeans was something mysterious and powerful, and his quiet sound of pleasure made her burn hotter.

  He rolled onto his back. “That’s right, baby girl,” he said. “Go ahead,” And he took her hand again and put it inside his jeans, to touch him.

  She tried to pull away at that, but he was too strong, holding her hand against his silken skin as he unzipped his jeans with the other, shoving them down his hips and kicking them out of the way.

  He reached for something from the table beside him, and she realized it was a condom. She was getting used to the feel of him, the silky skin, the hardness beneath, the dampness, but he took her hand away and she heard the ripping of foil.

  “Playtime’s over, baby girl. Time to get serious.”

  “We weren’t serious before?” she murmured dazedly.

  “I want to make you come when I’m inside you.”

  His words burned her, but she shook her head. “It won’t work—”

  “It did before, and this time you’re wet.” He lifted her up, seemingly effortlessly, back to her position astride his body. Except that this time they were both naked, and he held her by her hips, just above his body.

  She could feel him between her legs, hard and solid, just waiting. “It’s up to you now, Jamie,” he said in a tight voice. “If you want me there you have to take me.”

  She could feel him, the head of his sheathed erection pressing against her. Waiting for her to make her move. She held her breath, and then began to take him, feeling him slowly fill her, inch by inch, until she had all of him deep inside her.

  She was shaking, covered with sweat. It made no sense that the invasion of his body would have such a powerful effect on her. He was big inside her, thick and hard, but there was no pain, and she rocked forward a little, then back again, and the pleasure was astonishing. And she needed more.

  “I can’t,” she said in a strangled voice.

  He put his hands on her hips, cradling them. “Let me get you started,” he whispered, and he moved her, up and down, a slow, steady pace of advance, retreat, empty and fulfilled. But there was nothing relaxed about it—each time she took him inside her she wanted more, needed more, and she unconsciously quickened her pace.

  “Are we in a hurry?” His voice sounded almost lazy, but she could feel the tension in his body, the feel of him inside her, and she knew he was feeling it, too, that inner trembling that shook her.

  Faster, harder, and she was sliding against him, her body slick with sweat, and she shook, frustrated, pleading. “No,” she said in a choked voice. “I can’t do this. Help me.”

  “You just have to ask.” He rolled her beneath him, and all she could do was wrap her legs tight around him, feeling the fierce knot of pleasure expand and build.

  “Me inside you,” he w
hispered in her ear. He put his hand between their sweat-damp bodies and touched her, hard, as he slammed his body deep inside her.

  She could feel him. Feel his sheathed cock begin to expand and jerk as his orgasm hit him, and then she couldn’t think or feel anything but the dark, unspeakable pleasure that felt somehow like death.

  It was a long time before he pulled away from her, and she was too dazed to do anything but lie still as stray shivers danced across her body.

  She felt his fingers on her cheek, brushing the tears away, but she didn’t open her eyes. “Poor baby girl,” he murmured, his voice slightly shaken. “I should have just dumped Nate at that party and driven off with you. That’s what I wanted to do, you know. Take you back to my place and fuck your brains out. I knew the Duchess would have my ass in jail, but I was going to end up there sooner or later. It would have been worth it if I’d gone for this.”

  He let his hand slide down her neck, her throat, to brush against her breast, and she let out a gasp.

  He laughed. “We haven’t even gotten to your breasts yet,” he said, his fingers glancing against the tip of her breast, and her nipples tightened with almost painful longing. “Or your ass, or your mouth. I wonder how long it’s going to take to convince you to go down on me.”

  She let out a little whimper.

  “Thirteen years, Jamie,” he whispered. “And we’ve only just gotten started.”

  He was gone then, the door closing behind him, and Jamie lay in the dark, her body leaden, unable to move.

  And she shivered.

  Nate could smell it. The sex, permeating the building, reeking of it. Could ghosts smell? Could ghosts see through walls? He only knew that he could. His hearing was just as acute—he’d listened to Jamie’s soft little whimpers, the sound of skin against skin, the slap of flesh, the muffled grunt. He knew when Dillon came. He’d watched him often enough over the years, so that he knew him better than the women he fucked. He knew the sound he made, a growling choke in the back of his throat. And he knew the climax he had inside his cousin’s little pussy was one of the best he’d ever had.

  It should have annoyed him. He never liked it when Dillon took lovers. Dillon didn’t like to hurt them, and sex without pain was boring. It didn’t matter. None of them mattered—he didn’t care about anyone. He didn’t really care about anyone but his best friend Nate.

  Until he’d sent him to his death.

  Revenge was a bitch. But watching Dillon Gaynor fuck his sweet little cousin almost made it worthwhile. Especially since he knew he was going to kill Jamie for it.

  And the best thing about it was how it was going to make Killer suffer the torments of the damned. Before the ghost of Nate Kincaid killed him, too.

  14

  Dillon stood in the shower a long time, so long that his usually abundant supply of hot water turned cold. He pressed his hands up against the wall of the stall and let the water beat down on him, and he closed his eyes, turning his face up to the pelting stream. He didn’t feel guilty. There was nothing to feel guilty about. He’d just done what she’d asked, and this time he’d done it well. And he was going to do it again, as soon as he thought she was up to it. Again and again and again, until they’d had enough of each other.

  Jamie was absolutely clueless about what was between them, he thought, ducking his head under the rapidly cooling water. The poor fragile semivirgin, whose only experience with sex was at the hands of a punk kid who’d raped her. She didn’t realize how unexpected her response to him was. He thought it would take days to get her to come, and in the end it had been simple enough. It shouldn’t have surprised him—she’d always had a crush on him, and getting a teenage fantasy fulfilled went a long way. And he knew more than his share about sex—he knew how to do it, and do it well, and never had any doubt he could bring her off eventually. In the end it hadn’t taken much at all.

  He was trying to kill some time. She needed sleep, she needed time to recover. Hell, he was hard as a rock just thinking about her, ready to go again, but he knew she’d probably be uncomfortable. If he went back in there there was no way he wouldn’t be inside her, and he didn’t want to hurt her. He needed her to keep liking it. For as long as he wanted her.

  It wouldn’t be forever. It never was—sooner or later even the most adept of his lovers began to pall, and he didn’t like emotional demands. Jamie used to think she was in love with him—one good orgasm and she’d probably be convinced again. And he’d given her at least two.

  She’d be disillusioned after a while. He was still Dillon, still the Killer. A man whose one gift had been for friendship, and he’d turned around and betrayed the man who’d been closest to him for most of his life.

  No, there wasn’t any future for the two of them—there wasn’t any future for him with anyone. But who gave a rat’s ass about the future? Right now was what mattered, and right now a woman lay in his bed. A woman he needed. And in the end, that was the only thing that was important.

  He finally turned off the water and dressed. He shaved—he usually didn’t bother, but he didn’t like the idea of his evening stubble abrading Jamie’s face. Or her thighs, he thought with a grin. He didn’t meet his eyes in the mirror as he concentrated on shaving. He wasn’t a man to lie to himself, and he didn’t want to risk seeing something in his face that he didn’t want to see.

  He dressed quickly, then peeked in the bedroom door before heading downstairs. She was asleep, lying facedown on his bed, her pale hair tangled around her face, his white sheets tangled around her hips. He closed the door silently and headed down to the garage.

  He had no idea whether or not she’d try to run again. There was a good chance she would—she’d have a hard time looking him in the face after the last few hours they’d spent. But the snow was piling up, and her venerable Volvo didn’t have snow tires, only slightly balding all-season radials, which weren’t worth a damn in a Wisconsin winter. He headed out into the snowy night, turning the ignition of the old car and listened to it purr to life. He backed it up, then drove it into the garage, closing the door behind him. There was a patch of dark in the snow where the Volvo had sat parked, and he paused for a moment. Nothing should be leaking—not the oil or antifreeze or anything else—he’d gone over the engine with his usual obsessive attention to detail. At least, when it came to cars he was obsessive. He couldn’t give a damn about the rest of his life.

  He parked the car in the middle of the garage and opened the hood. Everything seemed to be fine—no leaking hoses, every reservoir safely filled. He glanced at the back, but if whatever had darkened the snow had come from the Volvo, it was no longer draining.

  He’d check the underside in the morning, just to make certain. But in the meantime he had the perfect excuse to keep her longer. Not that he needed an excuse. But she would. She couldn’t very well admit that she wanted to blow off her controlling mother, her job and her neatly ordered life for a few days, a few weeks, a few months of hot sex. Even if she did. He’d given her a taste, and she’d want more. But his instincts told him she’d still want to run.

  At least the car would give her an excuse to stay. And he could always continue to make it an excuse easily enough. But he didn’t think he would. In the end, she was going to have to admit it. That for some reason, some twisted trick of fate, she wanted him just as much as he wanted her. And it was going to take a hell of a long time to burn that wanting out.

  Jamie forced herself to relax as she listened to his footsteps outside the bedroom door. Her head was turned away, and she heard the door open. She held her breath, wondering if he was going to come back in there, if he was going to touch her again. And how she was going to say no when saying no was the last thing she wanted.

  She had her purse back, with all her money and identification and credit cards. He told her she had her car back, but even if she didn’t, she now had the wherewithal to rent a new one and get the hell out of there. He wouldn’t try to stop her. Her question was, did she
really want to run?

  The door closed, and she heard him move down the stairs, and she let out a deep sigh of relief that had nothing to do with disappointment.

  There was no hot water in the shower, but she was past caring. It was one way to punish herself for her stupidity, and it should certainly wipe away any lingering, errant lust. That’s what it had been, pure and simple, right? Except she never would have thought herself capable of such a primal emotion.

  It sure as hell wasn’t love.

  She wrapped the towel around her and ran down the darkened hallway to her room, closing the door quietly behind her. If he wanted to keep her old dress she was more than welcome to it, as well as the ill-advised racy underwear. She just needed her clothes and shoes to get the hell out of there.

  She dressed quickly, throwing the rest of her clothes in her suitcase and slamming it shut. Her sneakers didn’t really go with the sedate dress that her mother had bought for her, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was escape.

  She couldn’t find her watch. Not that the stupid thing would tell her what time it was—she hadn’t wound it since she arrived. But it was an heirloom, given to her by her father when she was sixteen, and she treasured it.

  It wasn’t in her suitcase, wasn’t anywhere around. Had Dillon taken that, as well, and then neglected to return it? It was the most valuable thing she’d brought with her, and if Dillon was the man she’d always thought him to be, he would have made off with it, looking for a fast buck.

  But Dillon wasn’t the man she’d always thought him to be. And she didn’t want to consider exactly what kind of man he really was. All she wanted to do was escape.

  She didn’t know why she had to run, just that it was a deep moral imperative. She was over her head here, drowning, and her only hope was to get out before it was too late. She still had enough self-preservation to know that going into his room last night had been the most stupid thing she’d ever done, even worse than getting into the back seat of Dillon’s Cadillac with Paul Jameson. In retrospect that had been nothing more than a physical assault. Dillon was fucking her body and her soul.