Body Parts

by Adrianna Dane

  Carefully he lowered her and she felt the firm coldness of a bench brace her. She could smell the lilacs and just beyond see the mammoth outline of the mansion seeming to hover over them. Shivery fingers raced down her spine.

  “You’re cold,” he murmured.

  She tightened her arms around his neck. “No. Oh, Athan, I need you.”

  Slowly, he unbuttoned her blouse and peeled it away, exposing her flesh to the cool night air. She wasn’t in the least cold; the air actually felt wonderful against her overheated skin. He removed her blouse and then unhooked her bra, carefully drawing it from her body.

  Leaning down he nuzzled her breasts, licking a path down across her abdomen as he lowered her slacks and panties, after first removing her shoes. Within moments she was naked. The material of his soft, silky shirt brushed against her skin.

  “Athan.” She ached for him. She yearned for that special electricity that emanated from him. The tiny shocks of pleasure that accompanied his flesh as he filled her completely, fitting so perfectly, the tip of his penis nudging the opening of her cervix.

  He reached over her head and the perfume of lilacs filled her senses. He brushed a small length of fragile fragrance across her closed eyelids, over her lips, and down the exposed column of her throat. Each nerve reached out to embrace the path of the flowering branch as it slowly traversed down her body, swirled over each puckered nipple and down to tease at her labia lips.

  The delicate branch brushed against her thigh, a soft request and she answered by separating her thighs. His thick fingers were at her engorged entrance, delicately spreading her outer folds, delving into her hot, moist depths.

  “You’re wet for me. Your center, so tight and hot.”

  Her body demanded more and she arched up, forcing his fingers deeper. His thumb circled her clit, and she felt herself lifting, her vagina conforming to and welcoming his penetration. Then his fingers left her and he rose, pulling her to her feet, raising her arms above her head, forcing her up on tiptoes.

  “Dance for me, Korrie. When you first arrived I watched you from the shadows when you came out into the garden. And you danced. Dance for me now.”

  She couldn’t refuse him. Stepping away onto the damp stone, she twirled and dipped, flung her arms out, felt the weight of her breasts in unconfined freedom, her hair sifting across her shoulders.

  “Touch yourself, Korrie. Show me your femininity; let me feel your passion.”

  Her lids fluttered closed and she allowed the scents of the garden and his masculine passion to surround her. Dropping her hands in a delicate arc, a fluid movement ingrained from her years of ballet lessons, she separated her outer lips, exposing the sheen of her inner core.

  She balanced on one leg and slowly lifted the other one vertical and straight, a line of motion and flesh. She angled the leg, pressing the sole of one foot to the thigh of the other. She offered him her vulnerability, her femininity, her soul. There in the moonlight, in the garden he had created and nurtured.

  “Look at me, Korrie.”

  Lowering her leg, she opened her eyes. Primal urges rose swiftly. It was a mythical god who rested on the stone bench in front of her, haloed in moonlight, legs splayed, cock stalk-tall, glistening with precum. She glided toward him and halted, gazing down. Reaching out, she gripped his thick shaft and felt the mild electrical impulses pass through her fingers and up her arms.

  Already she had become too needy for his particular brand of passion. She could fully understand how Sheba had become so addicted to this man. His electrical energy was nowhere near the level of last night when he had just stepped out of electrophasm, yet still he was quite potent.

  “Mount me,” he growled.

  Without hesitation she straddled his legs, pressing the tip of his penis against her opening. Slowly, she lowered herself onto him, her soft recesses opening and cleaving to his hard flesh as she embedded him deeper and deeper. He stretched her as he had done the night before, filling her. Wave after undulating wave of tender electrical impulse melded her to him. He gripped her hips, lifted her, and dropped her again and again. She balanced herself against his shoulders, allowed him to set the pace, enjoying the sensations he induced in her.

  She felt his explosion, felt his seed pour into her welcoming body, the vessel she offered him freely. Her own orgasm tumbled her into the electrical storm as it gripped and surged over her. He wrapped his arms around her, steadying her until she landed on earth once again.

  An odd tingle raced up her spine. Someone was watching. Her head shot up, her gaze narrowed as she searched the surrounding area. And then her focus shifted to the house. There was a light on in the library. Her eyes scanned upward and she caught her breath. She saw the shadows of two people in a window on the third floor.

  After reading the journal she realized exactly what she was seeing this time. And she remembered the bench from the night before. They had to be the ghosts of Sheba and Cornelius as they had watched Athan with another lover on this very bench. Sentinels watching and waiting. For what?

  Suddenly the cold night air descended, crawling into her bones. Something was going to happen. Something very bad. And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

  * * * * *

  Paul, get up. We have to go.

  Paul’s eyes snapped open late the next day, his heart pounding. He thought he’d heard his mother’s voice. Not having fallen asleep until the wee hours of the morning, he wanted the last few days to be a dream, none of it real, beginning with the visit from Edward. The reality was that he’d thoroughly burned his bridges and there was no going back.

  Donald and his fucking betrayal burned deeper than he cared to think about, leaving a scorched and blackened trail in his wake. Everything ruined because of a jealous ex-lover. Everything he worked for destroyed. Why hadn’t Donald just done him the favor of going out the way Tom Odell had done? It would have been much easier, and cleaner, for him that way.

  One thing he’d learned from his dear mother before he’d been shoved into the foster home was that great sex and a smooth line could get him anything he wanted if he was good enough at it. If he satisfied his partners enough.

  He’d learned to be a chameleon, changing his colors as often as he needed to achieve what he wanted.

  What was required.

  What he deserved.

  He was very good at becoming what anyone needed at a given time if the prize was right. He’d risen far and fast, passed classes in high school and college on charm alone when the occasion warranted. He bluffed his way in and out of any situation smooth as you like and with no one the wiser.

  Charm won’t get you far this time, my boy. You’re a liability, you always were. That’s why I never came back.

  “Stop it, damn you,” he screamed into the empty room. Would he never be free of her?

  Damn Donald for ruining it all.

  He’d never been forced to kill before. He’d never been angry enough to snuff out a life with his own hands. There had been those who’d done it because of him, but it hadn’t been by his hand. He might have been the reason, but never the ultimate instrument.

  I never killed anyone. If you’d been smarter, it wouldn’t have been necessary.

  He was smart ‑‑ smarter than that bitch, Korrie. Smart enough to fuck her and her father at the same time. Smart enough to get where he was without going to prison.

  He paced the living room floor. It wasn’t the largest apartment in the city, so it didn’t take long to wear a path back and forth. But at least it was in one of the trendiest sections of the city.

  He kept going over it again and again in his mind, retracing his steps. Had he picked everything up? Was anything left behind? He was certain he’d wiped every surface down completely.

  It won’t matter, baby boy. They’ll catch you. It’s only a matter of time.

  God, he hated that smug attitude of Jenna’s. She always thought she knew best. He wheeled around, glaring into the empty corners
of the room. “It’s not my fault. None of this would have happened if hadn’t been for Donald. It’s his own fault he’s a corpse in his living room. It never would have happened if he’d kept his mouth shut.”

  The minute Donald had run that line to Carter, thinking it was just a harmless ruse to get him back in the city, he’d signed his own death warrant. Everything could have been so different. So perfect.

  How could she have done it any better? She’d always been so good at talking her way out of things. Right up until they’d sent her to jail. That last husband, her fourth, the one who’d really acted like he wanted to be a father to Paul when he was fourteen, had been her downfall. Paul could have told her he was too smart for her games. Too principled. She thought she knew it all. And she couldn’t use sex to buy her way out of it that time.

  Embezzling the money from his company, the one he’d built from the ground up, had been the last straw. They’d both been kicked out into the streets after that ‑‑ her to jail and Paul to a foster home. And she’d never tried to find him when she got out. Yeah, he’d learned all about what love did for a person at an early age.

  Love. Not worth a dime if they’re the ones to finish with you first. Cold, hard cash, that’s all they’re worth. So look at you. What’s all that prestige worth now that you’ve got to run? Money, that’s something you can fill your belly with.

  “I was going to have the money. And the prestige. A damn sight more than you ever had. All you had was a body to get you what you wanted,” he yelled back. He needed just one good breakthrough project with his named stamped on it. And the Ransom research was supposed to have been that project.

  He looked up at the clock. Later than he’d expected. He wondered if anyone had found Donald yet. Walking over to the front door, he opened it and picked up the newspaper, then shut the door as he turned away. Slowly he opened the paper.

  “Dammit!” He shouldn’t have been surprised when he looked down at the headlines emblazoned across the front. He studied the news item dispassionately. Donald looked much better in the photo than he had the last time Paul had seen him ‑‑ slumped over on the floor, his head on the sofa, hands tied behind his back with his own necktie.

  Morgan Institute Employee Found Dead! Search on for Murderer the headline screamed up at him in bold black letters.

  He slapped the paper closed and flung it across the room. It hit a vase that shattered when it struck the floor. He wasn’t going to get the time he needed. He’d hoped no one would discover the body for at least a few more days. One last trip to the institute to scrounge something to sell, enough to keep him going for a while. He usually tried to be careful about what he sold so it couldn’t lead back to him, but this time it wouldn’t matter.

  Unfortunately, there was no time to make that mad dash. If it had hit the headlines then that meant the police would be crawling all over the institute grounds. No way could he even consider going to the compound. He couldn’t take the chance. He wasn’t going to prison. Not for falsifying the records on his research and sure as hell not for murdering a young nobody like Donald.

  Time to go, Paulie.

  He stalked into the bedroom, pulled down a suitcase from the closet, and haphazardly jammed shirts, pants, and underwear into it. He’d spent a lot of money obtaining just the right wardrobe to make the best impression and now he’d have to leave most of it behind. When nothing more would fit in the suitcase, he forced it shut and zipped it up.

  He strode into the living room and found his briefcase, then brought it back into the bedroom. Throwing it on the bed, he then flipped it open. Moving back to the dresser, he grabbed the small cherry wood box resting in the middle. Striding back to the bed, he tipped the box and dumped the contents of gold and silver jewelry ‑‑ gifts of watches, rings, and cufflinks ‑‑ into the briefcase. They’d be worth a bit of cash down the road. Tossing the wooden box over his shoulder, he then slammed the briefcase shut and snapped the locks into place.

  There was one final item he couldn’t leave without. Bending to the nightstand next to the bed, he opened the bottom door and pulled out the black leather case containing the Beretta he kept there for emergencies. He’d only ever used it on the firing range, but that didn’t matter right now.

  Athan knew where those records were and Paul was going to make him hand them over. The sex had been great, but now the gloves were off. He’d do what he needed to get them. He already had several international buyers lined up that were interested. All he had to do was give them proof and they’d set him up in his own lab, money no object. They were the type of backers who wouldn’t be squeamish about providing him whatever he demanded as long as he produced results.

  He checked the clip in the gun, made certain the safety was on, and then pocketed it. One last scan of the room told him there wasn’t anything else he couldn’t do without.

  If it’s replaceable, leave it. Never get attached. His mama had taught him well about expediency.

  Unfortunately for him, he’d been on her list of replaceable possessions. He wanted to get her out of his mind. He didn’t need the distraction. As far as he was concerned, she was as good as dead to him.

  Not so dead as you might like, Paulie.

  Dammit. No. He wasn’t going to let her inside his head.

  I’m already there, baby. I’m so much a part of you, and you know it. You can’t ever get rid of me.

  He grabbed his keys and raced out of the apartment. He had to get to the Ransom estate before the investigation pointed a finger at him. He knew it was just a matter of time.

  He got to the parking garage, dropped his suitcase into the trunk, and slammed the lid closed. He threw the briefcase into the back and got in. Just as he was about to turn the ignition, his cell phone rang and he froze.

  Pulling it out of his pocket, he looked at the number. It was Carter’s number at the Morgan Institute. He flipped the phone open.

  “Cathcart.” Play it cool.

  “Paul, it’s Erik Carter. We need you at the institute as soon as possible.”

  He took a deep breath and tried to calm his nerves. “What’s the problem, Erik? I have some errands to attend to and then I was going to head on in.”

  “Something terrible has happened. Have you read the papers?”

  “Ah, no, not yet. I didn’t have time to take a look at it. What’s occurred?”

  “You remember my assistant, Donald? He was found murdered in his apartment late last night. His brother came to town unexpectedly to visit him and discovered his body. A terrible thing. So young.”

  Fuck. No wonder it hit the papers so fast. Luck was sure as hell not with him right now. But he was going to change that.

  “Damn, that’s a shame. He seemed like such a promising kid.”

  “Yes, he was. Anyway, the police are here questioning everyone and we need you to come down here right away.”

  “Let me finish up what I’m doing and then I’ll be right over. Anything else?”

  “No. Just be as quick as you can.”

  Paul flipped the phone shut and tossed it onto the dash. Hell would freeze over before he’d head down to answer any questions. Because of Donald’s big mouth there were several people who worked there that knew of their past association. It wouldn’t take them long to zero in on him. And he wasn’t going to let anything stop him from getting to his destination.

  He shoved a classical CD into the player and the soothing music surrounded him. The farther he got out of the city, the better he breathed.

  His mind then turned to Korrie Odell. He had to wonder what she might have discovered while she was at the estate. Had she already found what he was looking for? Even with his warnings to Athan, had he confided in her?

  His foot pressed down on the accelerator. There was no time to waste. Korrie Odell would not beat him out of what was his due. He reached one hand inside his jacket pocket, his fingers closing around the cool grip of the gun. And if she thought she could…well, he would ju
st need to take care of that little problem. The same as he’d done with Donald.

  Chapter Eleven

  Korrie frowned. The research notes stopped before the next dated entry in Sheba’s journal. There must be other books. After reading the entry, she thought she understood why. And possibly the reason that Athan had only given her the two notebooks. He said he trusted her, but she wasn’t certain he trusted her completely. She had the feeling that the other notes would have eroded into more ravings of a lunatic than the dispassionate scientific findings of a scientist.

  Just her first words in this latest entry were enough to concern her.

  February 1, 1956

  Journal of Dr. Sheba Ransom

  I am worried about Cornelius. Since Adele’s death he has become fanatical about creating another woman for Athan. There have been so many failures. He will not listen. He gets no sleep. I tried to tell him about the elixir ‑‑ that it had made the difference but he just won’t believe me. I am fearful for his sanity.

  He has now enlisted Athan to assist him in these endeavors as I have refused to have anything more to do with it. He has become distant and uncommunicative. We will be discovered if he does not cease. More and more he purchases the services of disreputable people to provide the parts he requires for these experiments. The last one makes me shudder to think about it.

  It, and I must use that term for it certainly was not human in its reincarnation, lived long enough to rise from the table. But there was no soul in its eyes, no spirit remained. It truly was a monstrous creation. It took two steps and then folded, lifeless to the floor.

  It is left for Athan and I to dispose of the remains. He usually goes to the hill alone to dig the grave. I don’t know what thoughts run through his mind when he goes up there alone. He is so silent as we do what must be done. This time he returned to wrap the body in a tarp and carried it to the hill. He took great care to be as gentle as possible and sometimes, like now, I believe I know what he’s thinking. At midnight when the rest of the world sleeps, I follow behind and say a prayer for another soulless life that rests in the grave.