Oh yeah.
God, please make her come out now or he was going to spill all over her bed and wouldn’t that be fucking embarrassing? The sheets were soft and crisp at the same time. He’d read somewhere that sheets were graded on a thread count, the higher the count the higher the quality. These sheets probably had a billion thread count. And covering the bed was a huge thick comforter patterned with rosebuds, feminine overkill.
It was certainly killing him.
He waited and waited and waited. Though the clock in his head said that about a quarter of an hour had gone by, it felt like days, weeks, months. He had to clench his abdomen a couple of times to keep from ejaculating. He recited the Ranger Creed in his head. He wasn’t a Ranger but they had the coolest creed of all the armed services.
He was running through the driest of the SEAL exams—mechanical comprehension—when the bathroom door opened and all thoughts flew out of his head. Straight out of his head. He was reduced to a sack of oversensitive skin, an aching dick and a hammering heart.
Look at her. She didn’t have on that pretty woolly nightgown that had been secretly sexy. Now she had on a nightgown that was openly sexy. Full-length. Cream-colored, thin straps, showing every outline of her body. The full breasts with the hard nipples, the tiny waist, the gently curving hips...
She wasn’t wearing anything at all underneath.
Joe blew out a breath, hard.
She was swaying as she walked, eyes on his, smiling. She knew the effect she was having on him. Though she couldn’t see his dick, he was sure it was sending out signals.
He held his hand up. “Stop.”
She stopped, pretty feet gripping the floor. She cocked her head. “Joe?” Her voice was low and husky. She could see how worked up he was. Her stopping wasn’t in the program.
“Pull your nightgown up.” His voice was hoarse, strangled.
Her eyebrows shot up, but she obeyed, bunching that soft, creamy material in her fists and raising the hem to her shins.
Fuck. Those feet and ankles were so damn pretty. He was going to suck her toes...his cock surged, grew slick. He couldn’t afford to think of sucking her toes.
“Higher.”
Isabel studied him, trying to figure out what his deal was.
Well, tell her.
“I’m...a little worked up. As you can probably tell.” Joe manfully refrained from looking down at his lap. “So this is about the only foreplay you’re going to get. You’re going to have to do it yourself.”
“DIY foreplay?”
“Yep.” He was glad she seemed to have a sense of humor about this because it was actually not in the seduction playbook—to tell the lady that she wasn’t going to get any foreplay, she was going to have to do it herself. But he didn’t have a choice here. “When I get my hands on you it won’t be slow and it won’t be gentle.”
Her eyes opened wider.
“So pull that nightgown up.”
Isabel didn’t feel his urgency, otherwise she would have pulled that fucking nightgown over her head in a flash and run to the bed. But she didn’t. She was having fun. The hem of the gown inched up a little higher. Not much.
“More.” Joe was reduced to words of one syllable.
Isabel smiled. Raised the hem another inch.
“More.” Joe rubbed a hand over his chest. He was sweating slightly.
Another inch.
“More.”
Isabel swayed slightly, tilting her head, studying him. She gave that Mona Lisa smile only beautiful women manage, because she had his number. He was dead meat here, fragged, bagged and tagged. She lifted her hem higher, to the tops of her long smooth thighs.
Ah Jesus...
“What are you feeling?” He hoped against hope she felt a fraction of what he did. Like jumping out of his skin. Like being radioactive.
“Hot,” she whispered. “In every sense.”
“Show me.” Joe’s voice was urgent.
“What?”
“Show me you’re hot. Show me you’re ready. Show me now.”
Goddamn, why was he pushing this?
Because he was hanging on to control with two shaking hands and it was slipping from his grasp by the second.
With one hand, Isabel bunched the nightgown in her fist, lifting the folds of material up and to the side, baring her body from the waist down, pubic hair neatly shaped around her sex. The hair on her mound was a light ash brown, the same color as her eyebrows, a shade darker than the hair on her head. Her skin was so pale it looked silvery in the light from the bathroom.
She looked for a moment almost otherworldly, a dream of a woman instead of flesh and blood. Insubstantial, as if she could float right away at any moment. But she wasn’t insubstantial. Joe had been inside her. He’d kissed almost every inch of her and if there were a few square inches left unkissed he had every intention of making up for it tonight.
“Show me,” he said again, his voice insistent.
“How?”
He took in a deep breath. “Open your legs.”
Watching him, she widened her stance. At some point in her life she must have taken ballet lessons because she lifted one foot, pointed her toes, then gracefully placed it back on the ground.
“I know how to show you,” she said, her voice a breathless whisper in the quiet darkness. With her free hand, she reached down and opened herself, to show how she glistened. She was wet. For him.
Reaching with her index finger, she slid it between the folds, then lifted it so he could see. Even in the semidarkness, he could see that her finger was coated with moisture.
The hand that held her bunched nightgown moved upward and she pulled the gown over her head and tossed it to one side. The gesture lifted her honey hair and it settled back down around her shoulders, crackling with electricity.
It was time. Isabel recognized that as she stepped to the bed. At the last minute, when she was ready to climb in beside him, Joe lifted her up and over him, settling her down on top of him.
He’d run out of time.
Feeling her against him nearly set him off. She smelled and felt so damned good. Instinctively she’d opened her legs, kneeling along his thighs, her sex open and hot over his cock.
Joe groaned. He brought her face down to his with a hand cupped over the back of her head and opened her up with the fingers of his other hand. Feeling himself at her rim was simply too much. He kissed her hard as he thrust up into her, seating himself fully inside her with a grunt.
He felt her cry against his mouth and pulled her head back half an inch. “Did I hurt you?” he said, his voice guttural. It seemed to come from his stomach instead of his throat.
Isabel opened her eyes, stared down into his. She was panting, her breath washing across his face in hot waves. Her face—he couldn’t read that expression. It was pained, but not pain. All of a sudden it was as if she turned inward, frowning, her shoulders turned inward and he was about to pull out when she gave a cry and fell forward onto his chest, fingers digging in deep, writhing around him.
She was coming.
Her sex was milking him hard. There was absolutely nothing in him that could resist her. Lunging upward hard, he came, too, in long painful spurts so intense they almost made him black out. He didn’t even thrust, just kept himself deep inside her as she moved against him, clutching him with her arms and thighs.
Finally, finally he stopped, completely wrung out, holding her tightly to him. He was breathing hard, bathed in sweat that plastered them together. Isabel’s hair fell in tumbling curls over his shoulder, caught on his stubble, a lock crossed his forehead. He shifted it away, savoring the softness, that subtle smell of a sweet shampoo.
Was he hurting her? Was he holding on to her too tightly? Probably. He gave his arms the command to let go but there was a kind of communications breakdown and his arms remained tightly wound around her. He had to give himself orders, like an instructor to a trainee, a newb.
Right arm, pull away.
Except his right arm was comfortable and happy where it was, arm crossing Isabel’s back, hand resting lightly on her firm butt.
Right arm, pull away NOW!!
With a sigh, Joe obeyed himself. He didn’t exactly pull it away so much as loosen his grip. Because not being in touch with all that soft satiny skin seemed insane. Why would he do that?
Because you might be hurting Isabel, fuckhead, was the reply.
He loosened his left arm, too, just a little. He was embracing her now, not clutching her. He wanted to be on her good side because, well...he tested her. Moving his dick in her gently, thrusting maybe an inch in and out.
Oh man. His juices and hers. She was soft and completely welcoming. Oh yeah. Because in a minute or two, Joe was going to be ready for round two. Or, considering that round one hadn’t exactly been a masterwork of style, technique and stamina, round one and a half. At the thought of sex with her again, he hardened.
This was going to be better than the last time. She was a little less tight, softer, wetter. Joe nudged inside her again. Oh man...
But she wasn’t responding. She was lying on him, breathing calmly. Joe couldn’t breathe calmly, not while in Isabel. Then he heard a weird sound coming from her. He pulled his head back, swiped her hair away from her face and grinned.
She was fast asleep. Out cold, actually. Not even a flicker of those thick eyelashes. That luscious mouth was slightly open and a ladylike little snore escaped from it.
So. No more sex. Not right now, anyway. He couldn’t bear the thought of disturbing her sleep. She’d often said that she had trouble sleeping.
Carefully, carefully, Joe withdrew from her body, edged her gently over so she was nestled against him, head on his shoulder, and pulled the covers up over her shoulders.
He lay back and studied the dark ceiling, wondering how far gone he was when lying in bed next to a woman he wanted more than his next breath, with a hard-on that could hammer nails, developing blue balls—and just holding her was better than sex with any other woman.
* * *
An air of evil in the room, so strong it was almost a stench. People all around, happy, popping with joy, dancing to the celebratory music. Smiling, smiling. Couldn’t they feel it? Couldn’t they feel the darkness like smoke swirling around the room?
She looked around, trying to warn everyone. Most of them were familiar faces though she couldn’t put any names to them. They didn’t stick around long enough for her to identify them. They’d dance close to her then twirl away. She’d reach out but they swirled out of her grasp the instant she opened her hand.
Everybody moving, moving. Only she stood stock-still in the room as the shadows in the corners filled it. Wisps of darkness coalescing, wrapping itself around the clueless partygoers.
She screamed and no one listened. They were having too good a time.
The music was so loud she couldn’t hear herself think, couldn’t make herself heard by anyone, not even those close by.
Someone danced close to her, grabbed her by the waist, twirled her. It made her dizzy and unsteady. She had to watch her feet so she wouldn’t fall over. When she lifted her eyes she saw HIM.
Always him, always watching her, always just out of reach.
She caught a glimpse of his face but then he disappeared again. He was somewhere in the room, elusive and mocking. A viper in human form and oh so dangerous. Why couldn’t anyone else see it, feel it? She could feel him so vividly, though she couldn’t see him.
She saw him every night in her dreams. In her nightmares. No matter how the dream started, it ended as a nightmare. Always lots of happy people, celebrating, with a hidden monster lurking at the edges. And yet nobody noticed, nobody cared.
Every night she struggled to make her voice heard above the noise, to warn the happy people what was coming.
Every night she failed.
She tried to scream but no sound came, a huffing of breath, no more. She clutched at jackets and dresses and they removed her hand and moved on.
Right now she could see the bare outlines of his face, staring at her from a podium. The light came from behind and his eyes were in utter darkness, only cheekbones, mouth and chin visible.
That skull-like head with no eyes, watching her.
And, just as she had known, monsters came out from the walls, an army of them. Bearing guns, swords, in a killing rage. They wore black masks and seemed inhuman as they shot and cut their way through the happy throng, happy no more. Trying to flee the monsters.
Men and women, shot and stabbed, dying.
And still no one heard her scream. The breath in her lungs wasn’t enough. The black-suited minions continued killing and killing. And yet she was spared.
She looked again to the podium and he hadn’t moved. Dark voids where his eyes should be but somehow she knew he was staring at her, watching her as all around her people died.
Then, he smiled. A horrible rictus of a grin, the empty holes where the eyes should be, the mouth lifting in an unnaturally wide smile, mouth another dark hole.
That horrendous face filled her horizon, coming closer, ready for the kill, closer, closer. Though he hadn’t moved, she was suddenly shackled, immobilized. Utter prey as he came closer.
She tried to scream, scrabbled with her feet, fought for her life...
“Jesus, honey, calm down. It’s a dream.” A deep voice. Calm. She knew that voice. Her nightmares didn’t have voices, nobody spoke. They were like silent movies from hell. No deep, calm voices. Something was stroking her face. “Open your eyes, honey. You were having a bad dream. See for yourself where you are.”
Something that had shackled her released, just as she opened her eyes and saw she was in her bedroom. With Joe. Who was looking calm, but with deep brackets around his mouth. “It’s okay,” he said.
She hadn’t been shackled. Joe had put his arms around her. They were still around her, only not so tightly.
“I’m going to let go of you.” His dark eyes bored into hers. “Do you understand that you were having a nightmare?”
She nodded, throat too tight to talk.
“Good,” he grunted, and stroked her hair.
She was with Joe, in her bedroom. She was safe. It was like something had been squeezing her, stopping her from breathing. Isabel took in a huge wheezing breath. Another.
“That’s right,” Joe said. “That’s my girl. What were you having?”
“Nightmare,” she gasped. “Not real.”
But it had felt real. The evil, the killing, the man with empty eyes staring at her—it had all felt as real as anything. Her heart was still triphammering.
“No, not real,” Joe said. “Here.” She always kept a glass of water on her bedside table. He pressed it into her hand and she sipped. “See if you can get it all down,” he urged and she did.
“Better?” Isabel started shaking her head no, when she stopped. Actually, she did feel better. She nodded.
But his face didn’t clear, it still looked tight.
“You scared me.” He closed his eyes, then opened them again. “Scared the shit out of me, as a matter of fact.”
“You should have seen it from my point of view,” she said and gave a little laugh that might have been hysteria.
“No, thanks.” Joe put pillows behind him, sat up and coaxed her to sit between his legs, her back against his chest. He grunted with satisfaction when his arms went around her. She was surrounded by warm, hard man. Warm, hard, reassuring man. “It was bad enough being beside you. I couldn’t get you to wake up. It sounded like someone was torturing you but you were gagged. And your legs were running, like you wanted to run away.”
This, this was the reason she hadn’t slept with anyone since the Massacre. The nightmares. It wouldn’t be any fun at all for a man to sleep with someone who went crazy every night. No wonder she hadn’t had a love life. Too scary, too creepy.
“Sorry. I’m so sorry.” Isabel pushed her hair out of her eyes. She
felt washed-out, as if she’d run a thousand miles. Maybe she could convince Joe to go back to his house. And then avoid him until he got the message. It was too humiliating for words being exposed like this. What had she looked like while in the nightmare? Not pretty, that would be her guess. She hadn’t been pretty since the Massacre but in the light of day she could at least put up a front. Or if not a brave front, she could at least put on lipstick. But at night, when having nightmares? The rawest part of her was exposed.
Luckily, she wasn’t facing him. She didn’t know if she could face him right now.
Joe’s arms tightened briefly. “Good God, don’t apologize! I was just terrified that I couldn’t wake you up. What was the nightmare? Do you remember?”
“What it always is, the Massacre,” she said wearily, looking down at her hands. He’d clasped them in his warm fists. Where she touched him—all along her back, along the sides of her thighs, her arms and hands—she was warm.
The rest of her was deathly cold.
“The Massacre? In detail?”
“No. And it’s not really the Massacre itself, I shouldn’t have said that. I have retrograde amnesia and my memory so far is not coming back. I don’t have memories of much of anything beyond Friday afternoon, the day before the Massacre. What I’m dreaming of—what’s in the nightmares—is more like—like a metaphor. A metaphor of the Massacre.”
Joe rested his cheek against the top of her head. Her head was now warm, too. “Tell me,” he said gently. “Tell me everything before you forget it. And do you have these nightmares often?”
“Every night,” she blurted, then covered her mouth. She’d wanted to say never because only crazy people had constant nightmares. But the truth had simply fallen out of her mouth, like poison her body wanted to expel. “I have them every night. Except last night.” She twisted her head briefly to see if that sparked a smug smile. Fabulous sex that kept the little lady from her nightmares. He could be proud of that.
“I’m glad.” Joe didn’t have a smug smile. He just looked worried. He nudged her with his shoulder. “So, tell me. Is it always the same nightmare?”
Isabel blew out a breath. “This is going to sound weird, possibly cowardly, but I am so terrified when I wake up that my only thought is to get the images out of my head as quickly as possible.”
Midnight Secrets Page 17