Still, as he took her coat and hung it up, he imagined what it would have been like had he thoroughly indulged himself in the park. He'd have pierced her, and in the cold she probably wouldn't have even felt it. But he would have, and the cold air that would have numbed her would have increased his pleasure tenfold, for her blood would be that much hotter. He felt himself go hard at the fantasy, thankful he wouldn't have to wait long to gratify himself.
There was no doubt that living on the edge was exciting, and it did increase his sexual pleasure. But it was dangerous. Especially with Cate. He hoped tonight he'd have a grip on his control, at least long enough to bring them both to climax.
He led her to the bedroom, grateful that no small talk was needed. They were there for one thing only, and both of them knew it. He turned on only one small lamp, guessing that Cate would be more comfortable with low light, and programmed a CD into his wall-mounted unit. There had to be music. Always music.
When he finished, Cate had her blouse and skirt off. Against the white lace of her bra and panties, her skin glowed like dark honey. The memory of the taste of her skin was fresh in his mind and on his tongue.
"Go ahead and finish. I do enough undressing.” Actually, he loved undressing his women, but he wanted Cate to get comfortable with the idea of stripping for him. It would be just one more indication of how much she really wanted him. By the time she was naked, so was he.
She stood nervously, not knowing what to do with her hands. They alternately crossed over her chest and hung at her side. Her eyes, though, knew no such indecision. They were locked on him. Or rather his cock. The scent of her arousal hit his nostrils, and he smiled. He held out one arm to her at the same angle his cock stood. “Dance with me."
Her gaze was still focused below his waist. “I can't."
"Sure you can. Come."
She came to him, and he placed her arms in a dance hold, but she stood apart from him. “Closer, Cate. It doesn't bite."
She smiled, and he pulled her as close as he could. His cock pressed against her belly, and the contact with her warm skin made him even more rigid.
"The music's beautiful. What is it? It sounds familiar, but I can't place it."
It was waltz music, but he didn't tell her that. He didn't want to scare her into thinking she had to do steps. “It's Sunrise Sunset.” The music was sweeping, but a little melancholy. He hadn't listened to it for a long time. Lately his beast was all the reminder he needed of what he was. “Just follow my lead and move to the music. It's three beats."
She relaxed a little, and they shuffled around the floor. He bent his head to kiss her and lowered the arm around her waist so he could slide his hand over her rear. Soft and firm, just like her breasts. He inhaled deeply, and her scent flooded his senses. This time there was no incense to mask her odor as there had been in her office. What he smelled was all her—the faint fruity odor of her shampoo mixed with sweat and the scent of her arousal.
His skin burned with a slow fire wherever he touched her, but especially the head of his cock against her belly. He needed more, and he needed it now. He moved the hand that was holding her rear forward and slid it between her legs. She tensed in his embrace as he cupped her mound, but he stroked her and she relaxed a little. He halted his feet, letting his fingers move in time to the music instead.
She shuddered against his chest and lifted both arms to encircle his neck. Her breasts lifted and crushed against his chest, and he felt his own breaths coming fast and hard. He concentrated on the slow, smooth beat of the music for control and probed deeper with his fingers. One-two-three. One-two-three. He stroked her until she went from slick to wet.
"Lift up your right leg,” he whispered in her ear.
She obeyed, and he held her thigh just behind the knee, raising the leg until her knee was almost level with his hip. With his other hand he positioned the head of his cock at her opening and drove into her. Her ragged moan against his skin almost undid the control of the music, but he focused on the slow, fluid tempo. Slow, quick, quick. Slow, quick, quick, thrusting on the slow and pulling out on the quick quick.
Her body trembled in his arms, and suddenly he needed more to do than just listen to the music. He took her head in his hands, lifted her face, and kissed her slow and deep. She moaned into his mouth on every slow beat thrust, and all the control of the music unraveled. This position didn't allow for full penetration, yet she was already in rapture. How would she respond when he was deep inside her?
He couldn't wait to find out. He pulled out of her and led her to the bed. “Lay on your back."
She did, raising her arms over her head and smiling up to him. It wasn't a teasing smile, but the smile of a woman lost in sheer ecstasy. Where had his shy little sensitive gone?
"Arch your back for me, love."
She did, bringing her arms back down to brace herself against the mattress as she lifted her hips. Her breasts rounded enticingly, but he had no more restraint for foreplay. He spread her legs apart and held each thigh to sustain the bridge, then from a kneeling position, plunged into her. A new waltz played on the CD, but he again pumped to the beat of the powerful and sinuous music. This time he had no trouble penetrating her to the max.
Her body shuddered with her effort to maintain the arch, and her hands, braced against the bed for support, balled and grabbed fistfuls of the bedspread like talons clutching prey. The sight of her in the throes of rapture excited him even more, and his own fingers dug into the flesh of her thighs as he held her. He closed his eyes, feeling nothing but their bodies tied to each other and the music.
He drove harder and faster, until he felt her body arch even higher. She tensed, cried out, and sagged to the bed. He groaned as her hot juice washed over him, and he lowered himself on top of her. He pumped once more, hard, and gave in to his own climax. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held him. He decided that if his unnatural existence ended tonight, he'd knock on hell's door a happy man.
* * * *
Cate couldn't move. She didn't want to move. So she stretched out on Garran's bed and replayed in her mind everything that had just happened. It had been better than anything her mind had dreamt or fantasized about. It was better than the first time on her office floor had been, when she didn't know if Garran really knew what he was doing or not. Tonight he definitely knew what he was doing.
She felt him roll over and sit on edge of the bed.
"Cate, I just want to thank you for all you're doing to help me. I know I'm a hard case. I have a gift I want you to have."
What could be better than what he'd just given her? Still she was curious. She propped herself up on one elbow. “No, really, a gift isn't necessary."
"Relax, it's just a poem, but I wrote it myself. It goes like this:
Sweet maid of my soul my future control,
O save it from sorrow and sin.
Until the last role, when the death bell shall toll,
Love ever will triumph and win.
Never will I desert or grieve her,
Sweetest of mortals could I deceive her.
On this page gleams forth her name,
Never to scorn, never to blame.
Well, that's it."
She was stunned. He wrote this for her? No man had ever done anything like this for her. She pushed herself up and flung her arms around his neck.
"I wanted you so much tonight,” he whispered. “And this time there were no excuses. My head is clear. You can believe that what I say and do is how I feel."
Exactly. It was just what she herself had been thinking. That their minds as well as their bodies were in tune made it all perfect. That such a sexy man truly wanted—and needed—her was overwhelming. She tried to open her mouth to answer, but she choked on her words. She swallowed and tried again. “I'm sorry. That poem was so beautiful, I just ... thank you."
"I should take you home. If we're going to try another journey tomorrow, you'll need your rest."
S
he didn't want to leave, but she knew he was right. She wanted to laugh. Here she thought she was the rational one. But she dutifully dressed, and when they left the house, he wrapped a leather clad arm around her and led her back to the car. The temperature outside had dropped, and after the heat of intense lovemaking, she shivered in the cold.
She settled into the car seat, grateful for the heat that flowed when he started the engine, but she couldn't get comfortable. Something hard under her bottom prodded her. She reached down for the offending object. If something hard was going to poke at her, she wanted it to be Garran, not a seat belt, or ... She pulled it out. Where did this come from? Perhaps her coat had knocked it from the console. “This was on my seat. Turn the light on."
He clicked on the overhead light. It was a book, and inside was a sheet of paper. A very old and dirty sheet of paper. She read the brief page. It was the poem he'd recited to her. It was also the paper she'd seen in her dream, for the title was the same. My Lovely.
She looked at him, studying his face, but she saw no malice. All she could read in the tangled hair, raised brows, and smug little smile was the look of a man well pleased with himself.
Still, something was very, very wrong. He hadn't written the poem for her, but the woman she'd seen in the images—the woman who'd died, perhaps by Garran's own hand. “Garran, you wrote this for someone else. A long time ago."
He put his hands on top of the steering wheel and stared out the windshield. “And if I did? Maybe I saw it as a way to have a woman who's out of my league."
She made an unfeminine sound of disbelief—half grunt, half laugh—but she didn't care. “Have you looked in the mirror lately? You can have any woman on this planet. Take me home."
He put the car in gear and drove in silence. It gave her plenty of time to think. He hadn't written the poem for her at all. Suddenly the poem put the evening into a whole new perspective. Drinks. Moonlight. Dancing. He'd seduced her, and she'd fallen for all of it. Not just hard, but with a resounding crash.
When he pulled to a stop in front of her house, she unsnapped her seat belt so fast it recoiled with a whir and a pop. But his hand was quicker, grasping her upper arm so tightly she felt his fingers through the thickness of her wool coat.
"First of all, you're bloody right. I can have any woman I want in the way you meant, including you. If a good fuck is all you want, well, we just had one, didn't we? But I want more, and I know you do, too. Tell me I'm wrong."
A good fuck? Is that all he thought they'd shared tonight? She shook her arm until he let go. “You're not wrong. But you didn't have to seduce me with drinks, dancing, or poetry. When you figure it out, call me."
She marched up to her door, unlocked it, then slammed it behind her with all the self-righteous anger she could muster. She'd either just rid herself of a killer with a past out of a nightmare, or she'd just kissed-off the love of her life.
Chapter Fourteen
April, 1926
Chicago, Illinois
Garran didn't often thank mortals for anything, but he had to give Rudolph Valentino a tip of the hat. Garran had been Neva's “sheik” for months now. It was the new slang for “boyfriend,” thanks to the huge popularity of Valentino in the movie of the same name. If Rudy had anything to do with Neva's fascination with him, he was more than willing to give the actor his due.
The result of Neva's fascination was nothing less than nearly-nightly sex for the past eight months. He didn't bleed her every night, of course. He took blood elsewhere, but when it came to the cucumber rumba, she was his only partner.
But tonight when they'd made love, she hadn't come. He'd truly thought he'd be the one moving on, not Neva. After all, he'd been moving from woman to woman for thirty years.
She lay on her back on top of him, and he wrapped his arms around her, playing with her breasts. Her nipples were hard, but it was as if her body was simply on automatic. “What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Don't tell me that. I know when a woman isn't with me. Are you tired of me already?"
She rolled over. Her mouth smiled, and she gave him a quick kiss, but the life he was so used to seeing in her was absent from her eyes. “I'm goofy about you, you know that."
"Then what is it?"
She rolled over again, facing away from him. He cupped her mound. The hair was still wet from their sex. “Robert. My brother."
He removed his hand. Her brother? Perhaps her brother had talked to Neva and advised her that a dance hall gigolo was in no way good enough for his sister. Then he remembered something she had told him. “The one who couldn't pronounce your name?"
She nodded. “Today's his birthday."
He waited, knowing there was no forthcoming celebration.
"He was killed in the war."
He wiggled out from under her, held her chin, and turned her head to face him. “Is that why you live life the way you do? Like there's no tomorrow?"
She stared at him. “There's nothing wrong with having fun."
"I didn't say there was. It isn't a criticism, Neva, just an observation."
"I don't know. I'm not afraid of dying, if that's what you mean."
"Then what are you afraid of?"
She shook her head to free herself of his grip. “Nothing. My brother is dead. I miss him. That's all.” She reached for her step-ins and brassiere and started dressing.
He grabbed her dress from the floor before she could put it on. “I think you are afraid of dying. You live your life at breakneck speed because you know it can all go away in the blink of an eye."
She swiped at the dress, but he held it behind his back and took a step backwards. He didn't want her to go home yet. It was too late for the clubs and more dancing, but there was still plenty of night left before dawn would break, and he didn't want to be alone. He was erect again already, and he pointed his cock at Neva like a weapon, daring her to lunge at him again.
She stood with her feet braced apart, staring at the one-eyed monster, as if she were planning her own attack. “Look, I just don't want to be like my mother, that's all. It's been years, yet she does nothing but mourn all day long. She clings to all her old clothes and old habits, as if by doing that she can turn back time. I can't stand that she lives like that.” She raised her eyes to his. “You've got to move on, you know? It's a new world. But she refuses.” Her voice broke. “I don't want to get old like that."
He wasn't sure what to say to her. Consoling women wasn't something he spent a lot of time doing. Yet, for the first time in thirty years, he was afraid he was falling in love with a mortal. So he did the only thing he knew to do.
He dropped the dress and went to her, and she let him unhook the brassiere and pull down the step-ins. He prodded her with his cock, backing her to the bed. When her knees hit the bed, she fell backwards onto the mattress, and he lowered himself on top of her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and he drove into her without any foreplay.
"You won't get old. I promise you, you won't get old."
* * * *
September, 1926
Valentino was dead. Neva had mourned, as had women all over the country, but in typical Neva fashion, she'd moved on. This time, though, it was away from him. Tonight he tracked her to a basement speakeasy on Lawrence Avenue and found her perched next to a young hood with slicked-back hair who was trying his best to look hard-boiled. A half dozen empty beer bottles were lined up on the bar in front of them, and Neva drew lazily on a ciggy like she'd just had sex with the bum.
Garran cocked his head at the man and injected a dose of compelling power into his stare. “Beat it, Mac. The doll's mine."
The man eyed Garran up and down, pulled a toothpick from between his teeth, and flicked it at the bar. “Dumb Dora's all yours.” He gave Neva the same once-over, then turned and sauntered away. The pretense that Neva wasn't worth a fight was obvious in the tilt of the man's nose. Garran wanted nothing more than to prick the bastard with his fangs and deflate
some of that overblown ego.
"That the kind of man who excites you these days, Neva?"
She gazed at him with hooded eyes, and he knew that though the night was young, she was already fried. “I was about to give him the icy mitt. What's it to you, anyway?"
"You're bent. Let's get out of this gin mill."
"And go to your place? Not tonight. Sorry, bank's closed."
She slurred her words. It wasn't just hooch these days, he knew. He'd found her in opium dens more than once, and her purse always contained a bottle of some over-the-counter concoction of alcohol and cocaine.
He stroked her hair, happy that she didn't slap his hand away. “How about I buy you a drink?"
"Knock yourself out."
He signaled for the bartender. “Hey, Mac, clear away these dead soldiers and bring the lady a gin and tonic."
She drew on her cigarette, and he studied her face, shocked by how much she'd changed. She wore heavy powder on her face now, and even so, dark circles ringed her eyes. In the time he'd known her, she'd always been slender, but now she was gaunt. Her shapeless dress hung from bony shoulders like an empty sack. He rarely saw her eat, and he doubted she got much sleep. She was lost, and he was just as lost in knowing how to get her back. And he dearly wanted her back. He could have almost any woman in the city, but he wanted her. He didn't know how to explain it. Was that love? If it was, he loved her.
Dancing didn't seem to interest her anymore, and even the lure of sex didn't have the appeal for her it had had only short months ago. While Neva nursed her drink, he watched the young hood who'd been sitting with her. The man worked the room, trolling for marks and women. Garran pegged him as a two-bit con man, but the hood gave him an idea. Danger. Risk. If that's what Neva wanted, he'd give it to her.
As she finished her drink, he leaned close to her. “You look beautiful tonight,” he lied, and he nipped her neck, careful not to break the skin. She made a noise deep in her throat, and he was encouraged. “I'm more dangerous than any man you'll ever know,” he whispered. “And I have a secret. Let me share it with you.” He bit her again, harder this time, breaking the skin. He licked the drop of blood that welled on her neck.
Dance with Me, My Lovely Page 10