Standing in the Shadows m&f-2

by Shannon McKenna

  "Erin? Is that you, dear?"

  Their heads jerked around in tandem. Mrs. Hathaway, her nosy ground-floor neighbor, was hunched over her cane in the doorway of the stairwell. Her curls glowed in the fluorescent light like a violet halo, and her face was a fierce snarl of wrinkles. She brandished her gold-tipped cane. "Is this fellow giving you trouble? Because if he is, I'll just call the police this minute! Terrorizing a young lady on her stairs. The nerve!"

  Connor's eyes were fierce with challenge. "So, Erin? Am I too scary for you? You want to call the guys in the white coats to come haul me away?"

  "Stop it," she hissed.

  "Better yet, take this." He pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number. He pressed it into her trembling hand. "Call Nick. It's faster than nine-one-one, and he's hot to arrest me anyway. Go on, call him. Put a stop to this whole fucking mess once and for all."

  Her mouth hung open, aghast. He jerked his chin at the phone and took a step back. His Adam's apple bobbed. "Do it," he said savagely. "Just push the green button and make it end."

  The bleak, tight mask of hurt on his face made her heart twist and burn. She snapped the phone shut. "Go to hell," she said.

  "You tell him, missy," Mrs. Hathaway said. "I say call the cops." .

  Erin tried to smile at her. "Don't worry, Mrs. Hathaway. We're just having a disagreement, and we had the bad taste to have it in public instead of in private."

  "He's trouble," Mrs. Hathaway warned. "I can tell."

  "I have the situation under control," Erin soothed. "But I really appreciate your concern. You're a good neighbor."

  Mrs. Hathaway looked disappointed. She rounded on Connor. "I don't like your kind." She punctuated every word with a vicious stab of her cane in Connor's direction. "That long hair and those dangerous eyes, and that filthy dirty mouth on you. Swearing like a stevedore in front of a nice young lady. Men like you are pure trouble and nothing but."

  "Yes, ma'am," Connor said patiently. "That's what they tell me."

  "Think you're so smart, hmm?"

  Connor rolled his eyes. "Hardly," he muttered.

  She jabbed her cane toward Erin. "You watch yourself, missy. He mouths off to you again, you let me know. Don't you ever let a man swear at you. They just think it's a license to take liberties. Every time."

  "Don't worry," Erin said again. "Really. Have a nice evening."

  Mrs. Hathaway stumped back toward her open apartment door, muttering. They waited until the door had shut on the flickering blue TV light and the canned laughter before they dared to look at each other. She held out the phone to him. He shook his head.

  "Keep it," he said. "I don't want to talk to anybody."

  She dropped it into her purse, for lack of anything better to do with it. They stared at each other warily, both afraid to breathe.

  "Want to take this fight upstairs and have it in the privacy of your apartment?" His voice was still hard, but the terrifying edge of his fury was blunted.

  She nodded, and knelt down to gather her things up against her chest. Her clumsy fingers kept dropping things. Six flights were a long journey with Connor seething behind her. She felt his gaze burning into her back. Staring up at her body in that insubstantial dress.

  She fished her keys out of her purse. As usual, he took them from her and pulled out his gun. She waited patiently through the whole familiar ritual until he waved her in, and locked and bolted the door.

  She flipped her floor lamp on as he shrugged off his coat, flung it over a chair. He planted his feet wide and folded his arms over his chest. "So?" His voice was flat. "Let's hear it, Erin."

  She dropped her things on the floor. Covered her breasts with her arms, and dropped them again, in an agony of embarrassment. She gathered up handfuls of her skirt and searched for a starting place.

  "When I got to Mueller's place, Tamara met me at the door," she began. "She showed me a Celtic gold torque, in the shape of two fighting dragons. A new acquisition. Extremely beautiful."

  He nodded for her to continue. "OK. And?"

  "Mueller had requested that I model it for him. I tried to excuse my way out of it, told her I was dressed wrong. She said they had already ordered several gowns to set off the torque for me to choose from. She pressured me and… and so I—"

  "And so you did it. You took off your clothes in that man's house and put on a dress that he bought for you." Fiercely controlled anger vibrated through his words. "Jesus, Erin, What were you thinking?"

  She squeezed her eyes shut against his gaze. "I wasn't," she admitted. "I wish I hadn't done it. It was embarrassing and awful, and I will never, ever do anything so stupid again in my life, I promise. Please don't make such a big thing of it, Connor. It's just… a dress."

  He seized her upper arms, so suddenly that she gasped in alarm, and pulled her over to the standing mirror, the only antique piece that she had allowed herself in the tiny apartment. The rosy light from the basket lampshade painted her body with garish reddish streaks of light and shadow. His arm beneath her breasts pulled the décolletage lower, so that the aureoles of her nipples peeped over it. Her lips were stained red with Tamara's cosmetics. Her eyes looked huge and frightened.

  Connor stared at her in the mirror. His eyes were dilated with dark fascination. "Look at yourself," he said. "Maybe this is just a dress on some other woman, but not on your body. On you, it's something straight out of a hard-core wet dream." He pressed his erection against her bottom. "Last night you said you were my woman." His low voice took on a soft, hypnotic quality. "This morning you said it again. Did you mean it? Or were you lying to me?"

  "I meant it." Her voice was very small.

  He slid his hands down and gripped her waist. "Then I'm going to keep this real simple. We'll just forget our many other complicated issues, and concentrate on basic ground rules. Things that I thought should be obvious."

  "Connor, you don't have to—"

  "It is not OK with me that my woman should go to a strange man's private home unaccompanied," he said. "It is not OK with me that she should model priceless ancient jewelry for his enjoyment. And it is really, really not OK with me that she should strip naked in his house, paint her face, and put on sexy clothes that this other man bought for her. A man makes that kind of move when he means to fuck you, Erin. A woman agrees to it when she's willing."

  She shook her head. "It wasn't like that. I'd never even met the man, Connor, and I—"

  "Bullshit it wasn't. Are you telling me that he didn't come onto you? In that dress? The way you look? Because I'll never believe it."

  She hesitated, and licked her dry, trembling lips. "He didn't force himself on me," she said cautiously.

  That wild, scary look began to burn in his eyes again. His fingers dug painfully into her waist. "Ah. Now there's a nice distinction for me to chew on," he said. "What did he offer for your favors, sweetheart? Ropes of pearls? Paris by moonlight?"

  She gulped at the fiendish, pinpoint accuracy of his guess. He felt it, and yanked her back against him, hard and possessive. "Shit," he hissed. "He did. Didn't he? That fucking bastard. He actually did!"

  "Don't," she pleaded. "It doesn't matter anyway, since I refused."

  "Ah. That's comforting. Must have confused the hell out of the poor guy. Talk about mixed signals."

  She shoved against his implacable grip. "Be reasonable," she snapped. "That's enough of this macho power trip, please."

  "Oh, I have not even begun the macho power trip yet, babe," he said. "This is all just the buildup." He cupped her breasts, tugging the fabric down until her taut brown nipples peeked out.

  His skillful fingers caressed her breasts, and his unexpected gentleness made her vibrate with startled pleasure. She flung her head back, shivering. Completely unprepared for him to seize the neckline of the dress and tear it straight down the front with one vicious wrench.

  She cried out. He held her struggling body fast, and ripped it again, baring her breasts. Another rending rip, a
nd her belly was bare. She twisted against him, frantic. "Good God, Connor! What are you doing?"

  He wrenched until the dress gave way around her waist. "This is called nonverbal communication. I want you to understand how strongly I feel about this. I want you to take me very, very seriously."

  "I get the message, for heaven's sake! There's no need to—"

  "I also want to make absolutely sure that you will never wear this goddamn thing. Ever again. I want"—he tore the skirt wide open—"to be dead certain." He let the ruined thing drop to the ground around her feet and stared at the black lace thong, the thigh-high sheer black stockings. The spike-heeled black shoes.

  He plucked at the sheer lace of the panties. "You don't have lingerie like that in your underwear drawer, Erin," he said. "'You haven't been a bad girl for long enough. This is Mueller's stuff. Right?"

  She pressed her quivering lips together. "I was wearing regular old cotton briefs when I went. Parity lines. A huge fashion don't. Tamara had ordered these for me, along with the dresses, and the stockings. And… the shoes." She braced herself for another explosion.

  It didn't come. She opened her eyes. He was staring at her body.

  "Take them off," he said He let go of her, and stepped back.

  She slid her fingers beneath the strip of lace, tugged it slowly down over her hips, and let it drop to join the discarded heap of golden fabric.

  "Just look at you," he said hoarsely. "I want to fuck you right now. With the stockings and the shoes and the slutty makeup. Turn around, Erin. Slowly. Give me the full treatment."

  Her heart quickened, her breath along with it, with primal female caution. Her body responded to his hunger, no matter how volatile the brew of passion was tonight: a wild alchemy of lust and possessive fury. She wanted to drink deep of that dangerous potion. No matter the cost.

  She straightened her spine, and turned around for him.

  She lifted up her hair over her head, arched her back so that her breasts jutted out. She spun on the balls of her feet in the fragile, sexy shoes, undulating for him. She flung her hair back so that the ends of it tickled her bottom. The air she moved through felt as thick as honey.

  Connor unbuckled his belt. He wrenched the buttons of his jeans open and pulled his stiff, flushed penis loose of the constricting fabric. "Come here," he said.

  Challenge followed escalating challenge. The feverish glow in his eyes sharpened the liquid ache of yearning that started between her thighs, rippling down her legs, up into her belly, her chest. Taking him in her mouth had always made her feel powerful. She started to sink to her knees, but he grabbed her shoulders.

  "Wait." He shifted back so that his thick boots were planted squarely in the middle of the heap of torn golden fabric, and pulled her toward him. "Kneel on top of this dress. And suck on my cock."

  Startled alarm jolted her out of her sensual dream. "Good Lord, Connor. What are you trying to prove by—"

  "You know damn well. Me and my macho power trips." He shoved her down in front of him. The fabric was slippery and insubstantial between her knees and the cold, scarred linoleum. His penis jutted in her face, his hands dug into her hair. Protests formed and dissolved in her mind as she looked up into his ruthless face.

  She'd never taken him into her mouth in this position, him on his feet, her on her knees. She'd never imagined doing this when he was angry with her. This was going too far, beyond the realm of games. This threatened the shining tenderness and trust that they had forged together. He could push her past passion, into fear and shame.

  She was scared of it. It was up to her to put her foot down, to make him stop, but this was too big to stop. Too strong.

  "This is what I want, Erin," His soft voice challenged her. "Prove to me that you're my woman. Show me that you know that I'm your man."

  "But you're angry," she said unsteadily. "You're—you're—"

  "Furious," he agreed. "I'm so angry I think my dick is about to explode. Suck on me, Erin."

  He pushed himself against her lips, made her taste his salty heat.

  She was too aroused to resist him. She clutched his hips and drew his hot, smooth member deep into her mouth. She bathed him with hot, wet, suckling tenderness, with the swirl and flutter of her tongue.

  She forgot the dress, forgot Mueller, forgot everything except this raw, elemental dance of lust and longing, and amazingly, she found her power over him again in his harsh, sobbing breaths, in the desperate way he thrust himself against her. She gripped him in her hands, exulted when she felt his climax gather, tighten, about to burst. He flung his head back, gasping, and pulled her head away from his penis. The pulsations of the orgasm that he had denied himself throbbed heavily against her gripping, sliding hands.

  She looked up at him. "Connor? Why—"

  "No," he said. "I don't want to come yet. I want to fuck you first."

  He jerked her up to her feet and dragged her close to him, sliding his hand beneath the curve of her bottom and into her cleft, seeking out the liquid excitement hidden there. "I won't force you if you don't want me," he said. "But I don't scare you, do I, Erin? You're sopping wet. I want to bend you over and fuck you hard. Do you want it?"

  She had no words, no strength to resist this dark tide of passion. Her thighs clenched around his hand, silently begging for more.

  "Oh, yeah." He set his teeth delicately against her throat and licked away the sheen of sweat on her skin. "I take that as a yes. Tell me if I'm wrong. Tell me quick, because in a few seconds it's going to be too late."

  Her voice was locked in her throat She craved his strength and passion, she craved the savage, conquering warrior behind his mask. She moved against his hand, seized his penis, and gave it a long, slow, swirling caress. A sensual demand he could not misunderstand.

  That was all the answer he needed.

  He exploded into movement. She spun through the dim room, dazzled by hot red streaks of light and darkness. Always before, her rustic basket lamp had struck her as homey and cozy. Now the effect was as voluptuous as an erotic dream set in a Victorian bordello.

  He bent her over, shoving her face down onto the table. The teapot and the vase of dried flowers toppled, rolled, and shattered on the floor. The sugar bowl tipped and spilled sugar across the table. Scattered granules glinted in the reddish light like snow at sunset. Connor shoved her hair out of her face. She saw his shirt fly off behind him out of the corner of her eye. He thrust his legs between hers, kicked them open.

  She was desperate for intimacy with him, but this incoherent, furious sexual energy separated them as much as it aroused them. The room was silent but for their harsh breathing. He pressed against her and thrust inside, too hard. It hurt, deep inside. She let out a sharp cry.

  He stopped moving instantly. She hadn't softened enough yet for such a total invasion. Tension gripped her. An awful, shrinking fear that this could turn really bad. That he might punish her with his body.

  He did not He curved himself over her in mute, trembling apology and petted her, soothing her with his hands. His fingers silently begged her forgiveness as they slid around her hips and into her damp thatch, seeking her clitoris. They coaxed and sought her pleasure with tireless, tender persistence. When she relaxed and moved herself against him, he finally began to rock inside her, gliding in tender, careful thrusts.

  He pressed his face against her throat, an animal gesture, nuzzling its mate. "You are so goddamn beautiful, Erin," he said roughly.

  Her throat began to shake. His thrusts deepened. Tears wet her face, pressed hard against the spilled sugar on the table. Salt and sweet against her open, panting mouth. No matter how angry he was, he could not bear to hurt her.

  Connor sucked in a deep breath, concentrating until the drum roll of impending ejaculation had receded. He didn't want this to finish quickly. He wanted it to be extremely memorable for her. He wanted to lay his claim, put his stamp on her, no matter how futile the effort.

  He stared down at their j
oined bodies. His cock gleamed as it emerged from the slick, clinging recesses of her body. Her delicious scent was a humid, intoxicating cloud. Her flushed face was turned to the side, eyes squeezed shut, hair a dark tangle against the table. Her rosy buttocks quivered, and the tight folds of her cunt clasped around him. She was beautiful and red-hot, and she was his.

  Goddamn it, she was his.

  He'd started out with every intention of being hard and selfish with her, but it happened again, like it always did. She surrounded him with her heat and her scent and her softness, and bam, he'd already coalesced into one writhing entity, totally fused with her. Tuning into her feelings so he could find just the angle, just that perfect pressure that would stoke the hot glow deep inside her that he sensed, like a burning coal in his mind. The table rocked on its wobbly legs with every slap of flesh against flesh, with every gasping pant. She was dripping, whimpering, her sheath so softened that he could finally dare to let go, and fuck her as deep and hard as he longed to without hurting her.

  She convulsed around him, wailing. The clutching pulses of her climax almost pulled him over the top with her, but he dragged himself back. Just barely. The table was about to collapse. He pulled her, stumbling, to the bed, and tumbled her facedown onto the quilt.

  She rolled over to face him before he could pin her down from behind. Not good. He wanted to lose himself in pounding oblivion. What he absolutely did not want was for her to stare up into his face with those big dark eyes that saw so much, that stripped him bare.

  Then he saw her hair tangled over the pillow, her plump breasts heaving, legs splayed open, cunt glistening. A sheen of sweat made her body gleam like a pearl in the red whorehouse light.

  He trembled as he stared down at her. He'd never seen the point of kinky sex props and accoutrements before, but those black stockings, those fuck-me shoes, that smeared mascara, drove him out of his skull, like whips snapping at him, stinging him into a blind red chaos of lust and fury. The goddamn bed was too narrow to push her legs wide. He wrenched it away from the wall. He wrenched off his boots, his jeans.