William stroked Brittany’s naked flesh, sinking his fingers into her damp, silky heat. Brittany moaned and arched against his touch, urging him deeper. He slowly sank a second finger into her, his own arousal reaching the point of pain...
Mike leaned back in the chair and stroked his cock as the words from his computer painted pictures in his mind. But the scene he saw was him and Christy, not the characters made from his own imagination.
He felt her soft curves, smelled the spicy scent that clung to her hair and skin. How would her lips feel around his dick? Sucking him? Taking him deep into her heat?
With a groan, he thrust his hips and pressed against his balls.
“Will, my love. I need more,” Brittany said, her voice husky, her words coming out on little puffs of air.
“Tell me what you want, Brit. Tell me.” William leaned over her, pinning her hands above her head, aligning the tip of his cock with her moist center. She was so hot, so ready for him.
“Deep and hard,” Brittany panted as she raised her hips to him as if in sacrifice. “You know how I like it.”
Mike groaned again, envisioning Christy laid out below him. He wanted to kiss her, taste her, feel her tongue tangle with his. He wanted to sink deep into her and hear her cry out his name in ecstasy.
He reached to the far edge of his desk and grabbed a tissue from the box.
William thrust into Brittany, and she cried out, rising to meet him.
“Yes, baby,” William groaned as he sank deeper within her heat than he’d ever done before. His Brittany. His woman. His love. “Mine,” he said, then nipped the side of her neck, marking her.
Brittany rose up again, her fingers gripping his hands, her legs winding around his waist. “Yours. I’m yours.”
William’s thrusting pace quickened, and with each flex of his hips, she tightened around his cock, her slick heat milking him. He pulled one hand from hers, reached between their bodies, and rubbed her clit with the pad of his thumb.
Brittany screamed and tensed, her cunt like a vice around him.
“More,” William demanded. “Do it again.”
Mike threw his head back and came into the tissue with a low groan as he stroked himself and imagined Christy’s heat surrounding him, her body pressed against his, her cries of release echoing in her ears.
A gasp had him turning his head toward the door. And then he heard the sound of nearly silent footsteps moving away on the old hardwood floor.
He reached over and hit the button to shut off the computer’s voice while William and Brittany were in the throws of their own orgasms.
Fuck. Shit. Damn. Hell. Christy had seen him... He grabbed another tissue, cleaned himself up, then put them in the garbage can next to the desk. Tucking himself back into his sweats, he wondered if he should go to her, talk to her. Explain why he’d been jacking off in front of the computer like an adolescent with a Playboy.
She had no business spying on me. None at all. She knows my office is off limits to her.
He pushed up from the chair, hobbled to the door, and slammed it closed.
Stay the fuck away from me!
If she hadn’t been in his house, climbing all over him last night, he wouldn’t have had to do what he just did. Very rarely did he indulge in masturbation. The part of him that made him need to do so was supposed to be dead.
Just like his wife.
* * * * *
As Christy rounded the corner into the kitchen, she flinched as Mike slammed the office door.
Dear Lord, she shouldn’t have watched him do that. She should have kept walking. Not stopped to gawk at the man. Definitely, she shouldn’t be aroused to the point of being uncomfortable because of what she saw.
She went to the counter and stared at the empty coffee pot. He hadn’t made coffee this morning. Why hadn’t he made coffee? He always made coffee first thing.
Crossing her arms, she pressed against her aching breasts and closed her eyes. She hadn’t felt this kind of arousal in ages. Not in months and months. Not since the incident. When her boyfriend decided he couldn’t deal with the mental problems she sustained because of the robbery and left her, she hadn’t thought much about sex or anything else involving men.
A small whimper escaped her, and she leaned over the counter, resting her forehead against the cool granite. How was she ever going to get rid of the image of Mike, head thrown back, mouth slightly open, groaning as he worked himself to orgasm? The sound of his soft groan echoed in her mind.
Go back to his office and talk to him.
That damn voice. Christy pushed up from the counter and scowled at the empty room.
He’s lonely.
“And I’m not?” she whispered then felt foolish for talking to herself...again.
He needs you.
Christy snorted and grabbed the coffee carafe to fill with water. “Looked to me like that man could take care of himself.” She pulled the canister of coffee from the fridge. “So...go away and leave me alone.” She made a shooing motion to the room. She didn’t know who the voice belonged to or why she was hearing it, but it wasn’t in her head. At least, it didn’t seem to be... Oh hell, she was losing her mind.
But the weird thing was, she could pinpoint from where the voice came. Usually near the window. And it wasn’t her voice, not her thinking voice. It was softer, a little lyrical with a slight accent she couldn’t place.
Her hand trembled as she poured a scoop of grounds into the filter. She turned back toward the room. An old, creepy house. A dead wife.
A nearly silent, nervous laugh slipped out of her. No fucking way. No. No, no, no. Christina Smythe did not believe in ghosts or anything else supernatural. She had enough emotional problems without adding that to it.
“Hello?” she whispered. “Are you still here?”
No response.
Either it went away because she told it to, or she was ready to check into the loony bin.
Chailali crossed her arms and frowned at the silly woman. From how pale her face had grown, and the tremble in her fingers, it was obvious she was scared. Scared of Chailali. She refused to answer when the woman called to her. At this point, she assumed, answering would lead Christy to another panic episode, and this time Mike wouldn’t come to her aid because he was in his office being angry.
Why were the living so difficult? Why couldn’t these two people see how much they needed each other? Why had they spent two full weeks together in this house and barely shared a hundred words?
She’d hoped last night would bring them together. When she’d watched Mike be so caring and gentle with Christy, her hopes had soared like never before. She wanted Mike happy. He hadn’t been happy since he arrived home from the hospital, a shell of the man he’d been when he had his wife.
Chailali could understand his heartache. She’d once thought she loved a man more than life itself. She couldn’t go on living when he rejected her, or so she’d thought. But her pain and anger at his dismissal had led her to commit the biggest mistake of her life—and death. Suicide and a curse on her lover’s head made it impossible for her to cross over and find peace in the spirit world. She was stuck here, earthbound, for eternity, it seemed.
The least she could do was help as many of the living find their peace on earth. She saw so much emotional pain poured out of Mike in his writing that it twisted her heart and made her realize that what she’d felt for Jacques over two centuries ago was not real love. It had been infatuation. She’d ruined his life by cursing him to an eternity of loneliness, using the power passed to her from her shaman grandfather. But she’d discovered that revenge was anything but sweet. In cursing Jacques, she’d cursed herself to walking in the shadows.
Jacques, at least, had broken his curse and found the love Chailali had never been able to give him.
She’d thought, once Jacques was free to live again, her own prison as an earthbound spirit would be lifted and she could walk with the spirits.
She’d
been wrong.
The only bit of peace she found now was helping those living spirits she could find happiness. In the last hundred mortal years, she’d helped a dozen couples find each other, including Jacques and his dear, sweet Lilly.
Most had no conscious knowledge of her presence in their lives. But Christy, like a few others, could hear her. It should have made things easier, but Christy was obviously reluctant to believe that the voice she heard was real.
Chailali left Christy to her coffee and floated through the door of Mike’s office to check on him. Mike, like so many, had no idea of her presence. He had such deep pain and anger inside him, it blocked him to anything spiritual or otherworldly.
He sat at his desk, head bowed, hands poised over the keys of his computer, but he did not type. His shoulders were rounded in what looked like defeat.
Chailali took up her post on the window seat and waited for him to begin.
Almost eleven years ago, she’d stumbled across the Hansons by accident. They were friends of another couple she’d been helping. Michael and Caryn had a beautiful marriage. Caryn was a nurse at the local clinic, and Mike had been a struggling author. He worked hard but hadn’t been able to get any of his books published. Not until after Caryn died and his stories grew ominous and disturbing. Then the publishers wanted him.
After Caryn died, darkness enveloped Mike. Sadness and anger. A few times after he’d returned from months in the hospital, his fury was so forceful it had frightened her. He’d raged at the silence of the house. Cried for his wife. Blamed himself for her death.
And then one day he sat down at his computer and began to type. Since that day, he no longer had outbursts of rage, as if he could type away his pain. Maybe it helped, or maybe it didn’t. When he approached the end of each book, Chailali could feel the darkness descend on him. The pain returned. And he killed off the heroine in some painfully tragic way.
She’d heard him tell Christy that he didn’t write happy endings. Chailali had vowed years ago that she’d see that Mike got one. And Christy seemed to be his only chance.
Chailali would have to figure out a way to bring these two living, lonely souls together. She shook her head and settled into the window seat. She never could understand why the living fought attraction so hard. Love should be a simple thing, shouldn’t it?
Chapter Four
Mike’s stomach growled for the umpteenth time in the past hour. He hadn’t had breakfast, hadn’t had any coffee, and now he guessed the time was late afternoon, if he guessed correctly by the amount of light coming in through the window. It was overcast, but afternoon was always brighter here on the west side of the house.
He hadn’t typed a single word all day, and all he could think about was what Christy had seen that morning.
The anger at her spying had abated, leaving him empty. Embarrassed. And guilty that he’d been fantasizing about her while he jacked off like a horny teenager. She’d done nothing to warrant his lust. She obviously had an anxiety disorder and couldn’t help her actions of the night before. He couldn’t blame her for needing someone to cling to if she’d been frightened. How many times over the years had he wished for someone—anyone—to lean on?
What had Beth been thinking to dump her sister out here with him? He was better off being alone. He liked being alone. He needed the solitude to work. Look how horribly last night and this morning had messed with his mind so he couldn’t type a single word now.
He folded his arms across his chest. She had to go. It was the only way he could get back to work. She was too much distraction. He didn’t want distraction. He liked his life just as it had been before she showed up. No more spicy smelling women in his house.
No more gourmet meals, either, but he could live without them.
He swiped his hand over his face as his stomach rumbled again. God damn it, what would he tell Beth if he asked Christy to leave? Beth had been his one constant friend over the last few years. She was the only one in his life he’d ever spoken to about Caryn, and only because she’d pretty much forced it out of him when he’d been in a funk and couldn’t write.
Even then, he hadn’t told her much. Not as much as she’d wanted to know. The guilt was his alone to bear. His punishment.
His stomach rumbled once again, and he decided he couldn’t put it off any longer. He needed to eat, and he had to face Christy. He reached for his cane and levered himself to his feet. Pausing at the door, he sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves.
When he opened the door, the scent of coffee greeted him, making his mouth water.
“Hi,” Christy said as he walked into the kitchen. “I made you a sandwich.”
She sounded rather chipper and unconcerned with the earlier events of the day.
“I was just about to bring it to you. Would you rather eat it in here?”
He tried not to eat at his desk because if he spilled something, well, he couldn’t exactly see to clean it up. He kept his coffee on a side table so there wasn’t a chance of spilling it on his keyboard.
“Here’s fine,” he answered and headed for the coffee.
“I’ll get it for you,” she said, taking from his hand the mug he’d just pulled from the cupboard. “Have a seat.”
The sweet scent of her spicy soap teased his senses, and thoughts of last night rushed back to him. The way her curvaceous little body had curled against his, pressed against his erection. How she’d clung to him as if he were the only person who could alleviate her fears.
Turning away, he tried to push the memories to the far recesses of his mind. Tried to tell himself once again that having her in his house was a bad thing.
He sat down at the table and hooked his cane over the back of his chair.
“There was some leftover prime rib from last night, so I made you a hot sandwich,” she said, and he heard a plate being placed in front of him. “Coffee at twelve o’clock.”
“Thank you,” he mumbled and felt for the sandwich. The bread was warm and toasted crisp.
A gentle hand settled on his shoulder. He paused as electric currents zinged through his body and his dick grew hard in his jeans.
“Mike,” she said, her voice low and soft. Sweetly tentative and insecure.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted out, unable to raise his head. Even though he couldn’t see her, he didn’t want her to witness whatever his expression might reveal. Heat infused his cheeks, and he knew he was blushing like a girl.
Her hand didn’t move, but the silence nearly deafened him.
She moved a bit closer—he could feel her body heat against his forearm. What was she thinking? Why was she hovering over him? He didn’t like it.
She moved her hand from his shoulder to his neck, her fingers cool against his heated skin. He sucked in a breath as his cock jumped. Fucking son of a bitch, he’d just taken care of that problem a couple of hours earlier. Why was it back? His body wasn’t supposed to react this way.
Those gentle fingers skimmed up his neck, over his jaw, and then her palm rested against his cheek. It took all his willpower not to lean into the touch, to take comfort from it. So long he’d gone without human contact of any kind until now when he was needy for it. Desperate.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” Christy whispered, and he realized how close she was to him. Near enough he could feel her warm, sweet breath on his cheek. “I understand.”
Her lips brushed over his, surprising him, making him jerk back a bit.
“Shh,” she whispered. “I’ve been thinking about this all day, and it’s what I want.” She touched her lips to his once again, warm and moist. “I felt you last night. I know you need...” She closed her mouth over his bottom lip and lightly sucked.
He couldn’t take any more. He brought his hands up, speared his fingers through her silky hair, tilted her head, and then he drove his tongue into her mouth and tasted her.
Dear God, she was sweet. And warm. And...heaven.
A whisper of
a moan came from her, and her other hand found purchase on his shoulder as her fingers moved up to his hair, holding him to her.
He explored the recesses of her mouth. Lust strong enough to devour overtook him, pounding through his blood, and he trailed one hand down her back as she leaned over him. He pulled her forward until she tumbled against him, her luscious breasts pressed against his chest.
She groaned and wrapped her arms around his neck as he cradled her in his arms. He’d never wanted anything more than he wanted her. Needed her. Needed the release she could bring him. For ten years his only companion had been his right hand.
She broke the kiss and laid her cheek against his, her breaths coming in hard pants, brushing against his ear, sending spirals of heat through his veins.
“Mike,” she whispered. “Oh, Mike.”
She kissed his scars. He felt the heat against his damaged flesh and jerked back, shoving her away, his embarrassment returning tenfold.
His gut twisted, and he ducked his head to the side, trying to hide his disfigured face from her. “What the fuck are you doing?”
He heard her raspy breaths over his own and the pounding of his heart.
“Answer me.” He struck the table with his balled fist. Dishes clattered. “Why did you kiss me?”
“I...” He heard her take a shaky breath. “We’re both alone here, and there’s no reason... You don’t need to do...”
Gritting his teeth, he waited. If she said what he thought she was leading up to—
Her hand came back to his unscarred cheek, and he flinched.
“If you need sex,” she said, her words coming out slow, as if she were forming them in her mind as she spoke, “I... I’m willing.”
Her declaration cut through him like a dagger. He shoved to his feet, using the table as leverage. His chair crashed to the floor. Turning his face toward her, he let his fury show. Hoping his one eye stared directly at her, keeping his voice low, he said, “Get the fuck out of my house.”
She gasped.
“I don’t know what sick ass game you’re playing, but I want you out by morning.”
Chailali’s Curse Page 4