by Anne Stuart
“Is it getting worse?” she asked quietly.
He leaned back against the wall, taking deep breaths. His rumpled white shirt was unbuttoned, hanging loose around him. She’d felt that skin against her when he kissed her, wondered what he’d been wearing. Now she could see it, see his lean, muscled chest, the faded, tight jeans that clung to his long legs, his bare feet on the polished wood floor. His hair was tied back, his face looked severe, remote, and she wanted to cross the room and taste his mouth again, now that she could see it.
“Eight o’clock on the dot,” he said, glancing at the thin gold watch he wore on one tanned wrist. He looked up at her, and there was a dark, haunted expression in his eyes. “I’m getting tired of this.”
“Superpowers aren’t all they’re cracked up to be?” she said, deliberately keeping her distance, when she felt the pull, as strongly as a magnet on a piece of steel.
“What do you think, oh swami mind reader?” he countered.
“I like being able to see without my glasses.”
He shrugged. “I imagine I could come in handy on a camping trip, if someone forgot the matches.”
“I’d do well on television game shows.”
“I could get a job moving pianos for a living.”
She smiled. She couldn’t help it. She didn’t want to, but somehow the ludicrousness of the situation got to her. “We make a ridiculous pair,” she said wryly.
The silence, the heat in the room, was palpable. “I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “Come here, Suzanna.”
The wariness in her body flared into a moment of outright panic. It had been leading to this for a long time. Longer ago than the moment he’d come back to his lab and found her there. It had started with their very first confrontation, at one of Beebe’s unctuous public relations efforts. She’d clashed with him then, and she thought he’d dismissed her with his typical scientific arrogance. She knew otherwise now. He remembered that first clash. He was remembering it now.
“Don’t,” she said, trying to shut it off.
“Come here, Suzanna.”
It was her choice. It always had been. She stood by the balcony, and the chill of the autumn night radiated through the glass door, sinking into her bones. It was cold and dark and lonely there. And safe, but was it a safety worth the price?
She looked at him, trying to gauge how much he wanted her, and the longing was so strong, so fiery, it warmed her from across the room. I burn for you, his mind said, his eyes dark and haunted. And the choice was made.
She walked across the room slowly, her eyes never leaving his. She felt strange, disoriented, vulnerable when she stopped in front of him, for the first time allowing herself to just look at him in the stillness.
She was a tall woman, five feet nine in her bare feet, but he was far taller, six feet plus several inches. He still shouldn’t have been intimidating. He wasn’t bulky and bloated like a bodybuilder—his frame had the sleek, well-muscled grace of a long-distance runner. And he was hot, so very, very hot. And she’d been cold for so long.
He made no move to touch her. “Why do I frighten you, Molloy?” he asked, his voice low, enticing.
“What makes you think you do?”
His smile was slight, self-deprecatory. “Maybe I can read minds, as well.”
It was a horrifying thought, one she dismissed almost immediately. If he knew even a fraction of the confused, downright lustful thoughts that had invaded her mind, he wouldn’t be standing there, watching her, not touching her. If he could read her mind he’d have her down on the hardwood floor, her clothes scattered around them.
“You don’t frighten me,” she said.
“Don’t lie.” It was softly spoken, edged in steel.
“I’ll do anything I please.”
Again that faint, taunting smile. “Go right ahead,” he murmured. “I dare you.” And there was a glimmer of devilry in his dark eyes.
She was a tough woman. Not the sort to back down from a challenge. And Lord, the man was challenge personified. He was wrong—it wasn’t him she was afraid of. It was herself, her reaction to him. Her undeniable vulnerability, when she’d spent so much time fighting any sign of weakness.
She tried to read his thoughts, but all she came up with was a frustrating blank. There was no safety net. The next move was up to her. Entirely.
She lifted her hands and touched him. She rested her fingertips against his shoulders for a moment, feeling him through the soft white cotton of his shirt.
The heat was a palpable thing, running through her fingertips, down her veins, burning like a glass of neat whiskey on a frosty afternoon. She broke the contact, stepping back, and she felt his cry of denial. But he didn’t move, didn’t say a word. He just waited. For her.
She wondered how long his patience would last. Not much longer than hers. She took a step back, toward him, and she knew that this time she wouldn’t run.
“I don’t want…” she began, then stopped.
“Don’t want what? This?”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to need you.”
“Can you stop?”
“No.” She reached up and put her hand against his mouth, and his lips were warm, burning. She wanted that mouth on her body.
He kissed her hand, gently. He reached out and took her other hand, bringing it slowly toward him, giving her plenty of chance to pull back. He placed it on his chest, over his heart, against his skin.
She could feel the beat of his pulse, heavy, sensual, slightly fast against her hand. Outside, the rain had begun once more, but inside they were safe and warm and dry.
She crossed the final step, coming up against his larger, hotter body, trapping their clasped hands between them. She moved her hand away from his lips and slid her fingers through his long dark hair, looking for answers in his dark, fathomless eyes.
But the answers weren’t there to see, and she could either run or trust. And she’d decided she wasn’t going to run.
He leaned down and kissed her then, very gently, a wordless reassurance that it was going to be all right. And she realized that, conscious decision or not, she trusted him. With her life. With her body. With her soul.
With her love.
She opened her mouth beneath his, deliberately inviting him. And then there was no gentle wooing. The heat that had been slumbering in his body flared up, and his mouth slanted across hers, drinking deep.
She could hear his thoughts then, a jumble of them, rioting through both their minds—dark, erotic, untamed, so fierce and so explicit in their demands that Suzanna felt her own response ignite. He slid his hands under her T-shirt, cupping her bare breasts, and she arched against him, needing his touch, needing his heat, needing his mouth.
He pulled the T-shirt over her head and sent it sailing across the room, and she was standing within his arms, wearing nothing but her jeans. She was no longer cold, she was burning up, and she wanted more, and more, and more.
He bent down and scooped her up effortlessly, holding her tight against him. You don’t have to be tough all the time, his mind said, and she melted back against him, giving up the struggle for independence. He was right—she didn’t have to fight anymore.
He took her over to the wide couch, lowering her down, following her, and she pushed the white shirt from his shoulders, her hands lingering, touching, learning him.
There were no words, no whispered assurances, no tiny jokes to set her at ease. In utter, absorbed silence he unfastened her jeans and pulled them down her legs, tossing them away. In silence he touched her, his long fingers sliding between her legs, coaxing them apart, and he leaned forward and put his mouth on her breast.
The sensation was fierce, burning, exquisite, and she heard her breathless cry of longing as she arched back against the soft cushions of the huge sofa. Her entire life centered between her legs and in her breast, and he was drawing the life from her, setting her on fire.
He moved his mouth to her other breast,
suckling deeply, and she felt hot tears of longing and confusion fill her eyes, as she reached down for him, not sure of what she wanted, only certain that she did.
Her breast felt damp and cool when he moved his mouth away, trailing hot, biting kisses down her torso.
And then he put his mouth between her legs, unexpectedly soon, and she put her hands on his shoulders, unsure. He simply covered her hands with his, the heat of them soothing her doubts, and she let herself slip, slide into a dark and wonderful place, full of brazen images and unspoken desires, lost, whirling in a kind of mad splendor that sharpened into a blinding clarity as she climaxed against his mouth.
She was only vaguely aware of him moving up and over her, shucking his jeans, kneeling between her trembling legs. She waited, watching as he protected her, wanting to reach out and touch him, to do it for him, still too shaky and shy to move. And then he was pressing against her, sliding deep, filling her with one sure thrust, and he was so burning hot that she was burning with him, pushing her body against his, her long legs right around his hips, wanting more, wanting all of him, everything he was willing to give, resenting anything that came between them, even the thin barrier of latex.
His hands cupped her hips, pulling her more tightly against him. His mouth crushed hers, and she heard him, the words, sifting through his mind, love and lust and longing, striving for an end that was only a beginning. She clutched at him, shivering, building, shattering once more as she felt him explode in her arms, a white hot flame of passion that seemed to last an eternity.
When she opened her eyes, she found him collapsed on top of her, his long hair in her face, his heart still pounding furiously against her. He was heavy, and she didn’t mind for even a moment.
She felt better than she had in her entire life. Her body was hot, nerveless, completely sated, her mind at ease. And her heart—her heart was full of an indescribable feeling that had a very simple definition.
And that was love.
She heard the word shift through his mind, unconsciously before it was pushed away in sudden fear. If she asked him for those words, he might give them to her, but it was no good asking. Those words had to be freely given, out of his need, not hers.
He lifted his head and looked at her, and she could feel his doubt. But she couldn’t sense where that doubt had come from.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
He was worried he might have hurt her, that much was clear. She couldn’t resist. There was no way she could stop the wide, smug grin that curved her mouth, any more than she could stop the warmth that filled her inside. “I’ll survive,” she said.
He stared at her for a long moment. And then he smiled too, a slow, sensuous grin that temporarily banished the shadows that lingered around them. He put his mouth against hers, offering a slow, lingering kiss. He was still deep inside her, and he was growing hard again, and she was growing damp and hot, and her hands slid around him as she kissed him back, losing herself in the sheer heaven of his mouth.
When he finally pulled away from her, she let him go reluctantly. “No,” she said.
He paused, staring down at her. “No?” he echoed.
“No, you can’t use a condom twice. At least, I don’t think so,” she added truthfully.
“I forgot you could read my mind.”
“Not all the time.”
“What else have I been thinking?”
She found, to her amazement, that she could blush. Lying beneath him in the shadowy living room, his aroused body still tight within hers, she could blush.
“I guess that’s answer enough.” He pulled away, slowly, reluctantly. “I’ll be back.” There was an old quilt over the arm of the sofa, and he tossed it around her naked body. “Don’t go anywhere.”
She snuggled down in the cushions, closing her eyes with a sigh. Odd, that temporary resentment of the protection he’d used. She was smart enough, mature enough to understand the necessity of it. But for the first time in her life she’d felt like a lovesick fool, wanting everything from her lover, willing to risk an unplanned pregnancy and worse in her need to be close to him.
He came back to her. She heard an odd sound, and looked up to see him drop a pile of red foil packets on the floor beside the couch before he knelt down beside her. “Second thoughts?” he asked. “Regrets?”
“Should I have?” she answered, trying to read his thoughts. But they were shuttered, impossible to detect.
He simply shook his head. “No,” he said. “This has been a long time coming.” He brushed her hair away from her face, then frowned. “You were crying.”
“I suppose so.”
“Did I hurt you? I’m not certain of my strength. You should have said something—”
She stopped his mouth, sitting up and letting the cover drop to her waist, putting her lips against his. She let her mouth rest gently against his, touching, tasting, her tongue sliding against his firm lips, letting his mouth open against hers so she could kiss him fully. When she pulled back, she managed a shaky smile. “I always cry when I’m happy,” she said.
“And you were happy?”
“Very.”
“How are you right now?”
“I could be happier.”
His smile was slow, sensual, as he picked up her hand in his, his thumb stroking the back of it. “I have a few ideas,” he murmured, and he put her hand on him, the silky strength of him, already hard for her.
Her fingers wrapped around him, gently, learning him, her fingertips soft and questing. “I have a few of my own, Dr. Crompton,” she replied.
“I’m sure you do, Molloy,” he said as his breath caught in reaction. “I imagine you can be extremely inventive.”
“Try me.”
“I have every intention of doing just that.” And pulling the cover away from her, he pulled her body up against his, heat against heat, and his mouth covered hers.
THE RAIN STOPPED. The sky was still cloudy, and Suzanna rolled onto her back, looking out the roof window into the gathering dawn. She was still mostly asleep, her body floating in some wonderful daze of exhausted pleasure. She wondered where Daniel was. And then she knew.
She reached over and touched him. He was closer than she’d realized, but she didn’t waken him. Or, at least, she could only assume she didn’t. He made a snoring sort of grunt, and she felt the futon shift beneath them, and then she was wrapped in his arms once more, her cheek pressed up against his chest. A chest she couldn’t see.
More’s the pity, she thought idly, reaching her hand up to gently stroke his arm. He had a truly beautiful chest. She’d always thought she liked lots of hair on a man. He had very little, just bone and muscle and golden skin.
He’d carried her upstairs at one point during the night, and she couldn’t be quite sure when. She’d been clinging to him, legs wrapped around his waist, and he’d been buried deep inside her as he mounted the stairs. They’d collapsed at the top, finishing there on the bare wood, and just managed to crawl to the bed. At some point they’d even ended up in the hot tub together, before collapsing into a deep, exhausted sleep.
She pressed her face against him, inhaling the scent of his skin, the lingering smell of the soap they’d used with erotic abandon. Outside, the world was a dark, threatening place. Inside, in this magical little house, everything was just wonderful.
She could smell a faint trace of gasoline. An odd scent, one she hadn’t noticed before, and she wondered if it had anything to do with Daniel’s peculiar powers. Was he somehow able to project something inflammable?
Her body had tensed, and he was awake beside her, his arms tightening around her. “What’s wrong?” His voice was sleepy, just becoming alert.
“I thought I smelled gas. I wasn’t sure….”
“I smell it, too,” he said, and she found herself released. “Someone’s here.”
He was already off the bed, and she had the eerie sensation of watching clothes fl
oat through the air as he grabbed them, then watched them disappear as he pulled them over his body. “Stay put,” he ordered. “I’m going to check on things.”
“The hell I will,” she said, sitting up.
An invisible hand shoved her back against the pillows. “Don’t be an idiot, Molloy. If someone’s out there, they won’t see me. They sure as hell will see you. Use your brain for once.”
“You mean, as opposed to last night,” she countered, stung.
She couldn’t see him, but she could hear his thoughts. Feel his cool, angry withdrawal. “That’s your decision,” he said finally. “You can occupy your time figuring it out. But if you try to follow me, I swear I’ll punch you.”
“I always wanted an abusive lover.”
“Suzanna…”
“Go away, Daniel. I’ll be a good little girl and stay put.”
She could feel his reluctant smile. “I thought no one was supposed to call you girl.”
She found she could smile, as well, despite her bad mood. “So I’m feeling a little girlish today. Go out and save the world, Cinderman. The little woman will be waiting with a hot meal.”
She felt the air rush beside her, and then he kissed her, hard. She closed her eyes—it was too disorienting, being kissed by an invisible man. His kisses were shattering enough. She reached up to clutch his shoulders, but he slipped away from her.
“I knew I could count on you.”
She leaned back on the mattress, unable to watch him leave. The bottom sheet was pulled halfway off, the duvet was on the floor, and she reached and pulled it over her. It was already cooler without him in the room. The temperature had dropped, and her inner warmth had turned to ice.
He was enjoying himself, damn it. She felt the excitement blazing through him as he went in search of the intruder. He was looking forward to this, a superhero confronting evil. She wanted to slap him. She wanted to clutch him and tell him to be careful, for God’s sake. She wanted to lie in bed with the covers over her head and pray for him to return safely.