There was a moment of quiet before Amanda stepped from behind the screen—followed by another moment of stunned silence on James’s part. His lovely wife had donned a nearly-transparent, ivory silk nightdress that fell just below her knees. It was sleeveless with a v-shaped neck, wide peek-a-boo lace decorating the bodice and giving him a provocative glimpse of the skin underneath. He tried to find his voice, but the surge of lust that rolled over him robbed him of speech.
Her expression was—coy? He groaned inwardly.
“Please come here,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “As much as I’d like to come to you, a hobbling invalid is hardly inspiring.”
Amanda moved quickly to his side, again coming down on her knees next to him. “You would be surprised by what inspires me, my lord. The fact that you can hobble is a great victory, and it excites me in more than one way.”
The insinuation in her statement was humbling—and arousing. There was love in her eyes, warmth, and he was overcome by humility. James placed his hand to the side of her face, his thumb stroking her cheek. “How do we proceed from here? I fear I can’t offer much.”
Standing up, she sat on the rolled arm of the chair, loosely crossing her wrists around his neck. “Let me do the work. Your only duty is to make certain I don’t hurt you.”
She kissed him, her lips melting into his, fingers again combing his scalp. He brought his hands up around her waist—how he wished he could remove that damn plaster cast!—keenly aware of the malleable flesh beneath the polished texture of the nightdress.
Amanda pulled back, her gaze sultry, her lips yielding and moist. “Are your legs able to tolerate a little weight?”
His breathing stuttered as a welling of anticipation and outright craving overwhelmed him. “Yes!” he averred. He’d rather be dead than say no.
Her hand slipped beneath the edge of his nightshirt, cool fingers skimming along his naked thigh until she found him, erect and oh, so ready. A jolt of infinite pleasure began in his lower gut and ended in her grasp. Her fingers were gentle and questing as she touched him as though she were educating herself while she pleasured him.
“Amanda…” James whispered hoarsely.
She seemed to understand his control was tenuous, and she nodded. With both hands she pulled his nightshirt up exposing him. He watched her face, her cheeks growing pink as she stared at his member. Amanda glanced at him, then holding his gaze she came to her feet. She seized the hem of her gown and lifted it to her waist.
The beauty of her body took his breath. A whoosh of pent-up air escaped him.
Amanda climbed on the chair, straddling him, knees on either side of his hips. Her gaze claimed his again and his breathing continued to accelerate in response. “Can you help me?” She leaned forward, breathing the words against his mouth.
The control James sought was beginning to desert him. He was aware of a throbbing ache along his ribs, but he would allow nothing—absolutely nothing—to interfere with this moment. He and Amanda had made love before, however, never like this, never without the weight of unresolved issues hanging over them. Tonight they were in the moment together, and the relief he felt along with the tender emotions made him as eager as an adolescent at his first bedding. The discomfort, the plaster cast were merely inconveniences.
Amanda positioned herself above him, grabbing hold of the chair arms for leverage. She lowered her hips and, with his assistance, he penetrated her damp passage. She huffed out a moan of pleasure. As he filled her, a coinciding groan rumbled deep in his chest. He gulped a deep breath once more, hoping to take command of an excitement that was threatening to rise up and overtake him.
James looked up into her beautiful face. Her features were flushed now with her own arousal as she pressed against him. She placed her hands lightly to his shoulders, riding him.
With both hands he gripped her buttocks, pulling her back and forth along his erection.
“I’ve never seen this nightdress before,” he ground out. Perhaps a little conversation would stave off a release that threatened to throw him over the precipice before he was ready.
You like it?” she asked breathlessly as she moved with him.
James laughed, a rasping, lust-filled sound. “It is you in the nightdress, love. But yes, I like it. Greatly.”
“I had it made for our wedding night.”
At once he went very still. “Yes? And you’re only wearing it now?”
Her gaze centered on him as she ceased to move also. “Tonight feels like my wedding night.”
Meaning she had not felt that the time had been right up until now. A lowering thought, but James knew exactly what she meant. Emotion bled through his system in regret…and thankfulness. How hard they had fought to reach this place in their relationship.
He wrapped his arms around her torso, his mouth finding a nipple through the fine lace of the gown. He clung to her, allowing her to take the lead as she began the motion of her hips again. It hurt his side. A lot. And he absorbed it, relishing the reason for the pain. Oddly, it did nothing to impede their joining, instead bringing him to a heightened sense of the pleasure in other places. Perhaps it was the joy of the moment, but in the next moment it no longer mattered.
He was lost.
Amanda emitted a sharp little cry, and she stiffened. Her orgasm pulsed around him, wringing from him the last of his own release. Shivers of sensation rippled through his body as his wife shuddered in his arms. They both went motionless as each fought for breath.
Several minutes passed before she pulled back to look at him. Her eyes shone with contentment. “That was lovely, my lord.”
Indeed.
***
“You lied, you know.”
Amanda and James lay in the bed together, both awake but drowsy. Getting there had been a struggle. Once her husband had expended himself in lovemaking, his legs were weak. But it was his ribs that restricted movement more than anything. He could walk in a shuffling motion, but sitting down or standing from a sitting position—or, heaven forbid, laying down—were excruciating activities. Amanda and James were both vastly relieved when he finally was settled beneath the covers. Unfortunately, he still had enough strength to reintroduce the subject of her meeting with Derrick.
“I did,” she agreed. Why pretend?
James had turned his head on the pillow and was watching her. “You do understand the irony of your deception, don’t you?”
“That I lied after becoming angry at you for lying?”
“Something like that.”
“Are you comparing my lie to your lie?”
“How are they different?”
“My lie was to protect you. Your lie was to, well…protect you.” She said tartly, raising a brow at him. “So perhaps from that vantage point you are correct. They’re not so much different.”
His expression sobered. “Amanda, please accept my apology for the way we began this thing. I acknowledge my mistake in not telling you about my circumstances before we married. Or about Derrick. You and I both know I did wrong. And I understand why you didn’t tell me what you had in mind this evening. I suppose what I’m trying to say—and not very well, apparently—is that we have no need to lie to one another again. Ever. I trust you. I want you to trust me.”
“After tonight you trust me?”
He reached for her hand, wincing with the movement. But his expression was direct and sincere. “With my very life, love.”
“James…” Amanda came up on her elbow, searching his handsome features. “Life is filled with mitigating circumstances. If I want you to understand why I did what I did then I must do the same for you. That doesn’t make either of us right just human.”
“I love you. Perhaps I wasn’t clear about that in the beginning. Perhaps it wasn’t altogether clear to me. But I think I knew the first day I met you.”
“Knew?”
“That I’d met my future.”
Amanda swallowed over a lump that rose in her
throat, her gaze locking with his. She leaned forward and bussed him gently on the mouth then laid back down, snuggling close.
“Apology accepted, my lord.”
###
Excerpt: Thief of Souls
by
Cynthia Wicklund
Present day San Francisco
Regina.
Nick closed his eyes, allowing her name, his recollection of her to stroke his hungry senses. Had his powers not been impaired by his injuries, he would have called to her, but he must save his strength for mending his body. The morphine, when it was working, had helped the pain, thus his concentration had sharpened. He was better, much better.
Nick smiled to himself, recalling Nurse Garza’s bewilderment over his memory. Several times during the last few hours she had checked on him, but a cautious, almost frightened look had never left her eyes. She’d gone off-duty not long before, glancing at him through the window on her way to the elevators. The look in her eyes hadn’t changed.
Even if he’d been inclined, how could he explain what she couldn’t understand? Her world revolved around scientific logic—although he suspected by Nurse Garza’s response to him that she was not immune to superstition—and his existence was anything but logical.
Truth was, for three days he’d slept, except for brief periods which he had concealed from the staff. The notable exception was Tuesday evening when Dr. Ingram, with Nurse Garza in assistance, had looked in on him—and the moment he had revealed himself to Dr. Miles. However, sleep did not mean he’d lost awareness. Heightened senses meant little escaped his notice, even in slumber. Many people had come and gone from his room in those three days—he would recognize every one of them.
Especially his Regina. When had he begun to think of her in a proprietary way? Was it the moment he had become cognizant of her standing outside his cubicle that first day? He could see her now, her lovely face—not beautiful in the traditional sense—as she’d stared at him through the blinds of his room. Her eyes were green, very green.
Though he could not read thoughts exactly, he had been immediately aware of her fascination. That didn’t surprise him, nor did he feel any particular vanity over the knowledge. Was that not his gift—his curse—to intrigue, to enchant? How could he take credit for that?
Gingerly, careful not to aggravate his lacerated chest, he reached up to finger the old crescent-shaped scar on his right cheek, then swore silently when he realized it was now hidden beneath the bandage on his face. The scar ached, an ancient malignant ache, reminding Nick of the nightmare which had awakened him earlier that evening.
With the reminder a portentous mood gripped him. Why now, he wondered, when he’d not had the dream in over a hundred years?
***
Regina entered her apartment, tossing her lab coat on the only sofa in the small living room on her way to the bathroom. She ignored her spartan surroundings. The apartment was moldering from age and neglect, only a place to sleep when she wasn’t working. To her it was the convenience—directly across the street from the hospital—not the amenities.
It was Sunday, and after days of twelve to eighteen-hour shifts, she was exhausted. She glanced in the mirror hanging over the bathroom sink, and the cracked surface sent back a distorted image that gave her a hellish look.
“Welcome to the Twilight Zone, Dr. Miles,” she muttered, doing her best Rod Serling. Regina turned on the cold faucet, the old pipes groaning in protest, and cupped her hands under the icy water, splashing her face several times to revive herself.
Bobby Allen had been sent home today. His mother Virginia Allen, her features already set in lines of grief, had spirited him away, perhaps for the last time. Regina was surprised by her own difficulty in coping with the young man’s approaching death. Death was a part of living—it was also a part of her job. Knowing that didn’t make it any easier.
Of course, she would be handling the stress better if she’d had some sleep. However, when she did manage to snatch a few hours in bed, she found herself unable to rest. Strange musings, even stranger feelings, slipped into her thoughts as soon as she began to relax and disengage herself from her patients and work. She didn’t have to look far to realize the source of her anxiety. Thoughts of a certain individual who had occupied a bed in the ICU—he had been moved to a semi-private room today—kept popping into her mind when least expected and most unwanted.
Mr. Nicholas Anthony had managed to have an unsettling impact on her. Over and over she had relived the moment on Tuesday morning when she believed he had come awake to stare at her through the window of his room. How could she have imagined that?—his one eye so black and intense as though he saw right through her, knew what she was thinking, anticipated what she would think next. The weakness that had assailed her at the time returned now with the memory.
Today had been worst of all, Regina thought testily as she turned from the sink to dry her face. Her job usually transcended other concerns, leaving her free to concentrate on her professional responsibilities. But for the last several hours as she tried to work, she’d been distracted by the same troubling thoughts which plagued her when she tried to rest. There was something sly and invasive about those thoughts as if Mr. Anthony had crawled into her skull and was gently tickling her consciousness, insisting she acknowledge him. The very idea gave her the creeps.
Reason told her the man didn’t know and had no interest in her. The obsession was hers. Right now, exhausted and emotionally drained, she decided reason could take a fat flying leap off the nearest bridge. And she knew just the one. Regina laughed aloud. Who the hell was she trying to convince, anyway? Herself? Now there was a nonproductive exercise, since her deadened brain didn’t have two cogent thoughts to rub together. She knew what she needed; jogging always cleared her head. The weather was cold and misty, but rather than deterring her, she relished tackling an activity which, by its very harshness, would restore her common sense. If she were lucky, she’d collapse from fatigue and sleep by default.
Within minutes she had changed into a heavy cotton warm-up suit and pulled her hair into a ponytail. In the kitchen a quick inspection of the refrigerator revealed the remains of a boxed hamburger meal—ground beef, noodles, and the overriding flavor of powdered bouillon. She removed the plastic dish from the shelf and, lifting the lid, took a sniff. Regina shrugged. It would have to do. Finding a spoon, she shoveled several cold bites into her mouth. What would it be like, she asked herself as she returned the bowl to the refrigerator, to sit down to a normal meal, one not only hot but appetizing? It had been so long she’d forgotten.
Regina exited her apartment building moments later and tugged the hood of her sweat jacket over her hair, shoving her hands into the pockets. The weather had deteriorated in the half-hour since she’d arrived home. It was drizzling lightly now rather than misting, and the damp air felt colder. Across the street the hospital rose several stories into the rainy twilight, the gray concrete facade, sprinkled with lighted windows, stark and uninviting. Which room was Nicholas Anthony’s she wondered, and why did she care? She turned in the opposite direction.
At first the chilly conditions irritated her lungs, a tightening she had come to expect since she’d had asthma as a child. Even as an adult, exercising in cold moist air often made her wheeze. Regina paced herself, her running shoes beating a slow easy rhythm on the rolling sidewalks characteristic of San Francisco. The catch that had started in her upper chest, threatening her breathing, began to ease. Now she could allow herself to float mentally, her mind lulled by the repetitive motion of her body.
She came to an intersection and stopped for the light, jogging in place.
“Regina…”
She stumbled, halting her movements. “What the devil—” Glancing behind her, she searched out the source of the disembodied voice.
No one. No one anywhere near her. Her heart started to pound oddly in a way that had nothing to do with jogging. She took several steps forward but began to wheez
e again. The wheezing wasn’t caused by the jogging, either, because as far as she could tell, the voice—a man’s resonant voice lowered to a papery whisper—had originated in her head.
Now she was being foolish, she decided as she forced herself to shake off the foreboding that bubbled within her. She hadn’t heard anything. Her imagination was working overtime because of her exhaustion. Still, she couldn’t escape the feeling that something was wrong. What if Bobby Allen had been brought back to the hospital? What if one of her other patients needed her, and she ignored an intuitive warning because she was afraid of being superstitious?
And yet…
Slowly, almost reflexively, Regina turned around to look at the building, several blocks back where she worked. One window out of all the others caught her attention. For long moments she stared at the shadowed pane.
***
Nick pressed his open hands to the cold window, the glass made frosty by the heat in the room. With his fist he wiped away the moisture, creating a spot he could see through.
Light precipitation dimmed the sixth-story view, but he strained to see, his gaze flicking over the occasional car whose headlights shone like beacons through the rain and the approaching dark. On the opposite side of the street two or three blocks down, a solitary figure in sweats had paused at an intersection. His pulse quickened.
“Regina,” he whispered.
Nick knew it was she as surely as he knew he wouldn’t let her go. He’d been aware of her spirit fading from his detection as though she’d left her living quarters and was moving away from the hospital rather than toward it. She rarely did that, at least, not in the few days he’d been watching her. She worked too much; he didn’t like that. He did, however, like her near him.
In the Garden of Deceit (Book 4) Page 26