“His wife,” Beck explained.
And then she understood: the wife would go inside, and when she started up the stairs, she’d find the knife. She would pick it up, and it would hold her fingerprints, and the blood of her husband and his mistress. When she found the bodies, she’d call 911, but the only evidence to find would point to her.
Silently, Beck stood, and she followed.
The rain picked up on their walk back to the house; it beaded on the edge of her hood and dripped down inside, cold against the back of her neck. It felt good, though, her skin overheated and too tight, her pulse throbbing in her temples, making her head ache. She breathed the humid air in through her mouth, drinking it down, with all its foul city smells, feeling so keenly, wildly alive.
They went across the courtyard, and in through the back door, which he locked behind them. Raindrops dripped from their jackets, quiet patters against the tile, as they stood in the dim kitchen, just breathing.
Beck pushed back his hood, and his face was all of tension: jaw clenched, brows lowered, nostrils flared. His damp hair clung to his neck, where it had come loose of its knot, and save for its softness, he looked carved from marble. He stripped off his wet coat, and hung it by the door; knelt down to unlace his boots and tugged them off.
Rose watched him a moment, drifting, dreamy and relaxed like she’d just gotten out of a bath. Then, belatedly, took off her own coat and boots.
He sent her a look – low-lidded, full of things unsaid – that clearly told her to follow, and headed down the hall.
He built up a fire in the library fireplace, and stayed crouched in front of it a moment once it was snapping merrily, warming his hands. Orange light bathed the slender elegance of his fingers, clean tonight because he’d worn gloves, but she could imagine the smears and stains, the evidence of the violence he’d wrought. He could wear gloves, and soak in the tub, and scrub his hands until the skin was raw, but the things he’d done would forever be etched beneath his surface, sense memories like echoes, bells tolling through him and then through her when he touched her, even innocently, as he always did.
She tried to gauge his mood, but his profile revealed only gilded sharpness – and the sense that he was holding himself on a very tight leash. She wondered what it would take to make it snap.
When he stood, he went to the sideboard and poured two whiskeys. Rose settled into her chair, feet hooked over the arm and pointed toward the fire, and accepted her glass with a quiet thanks.
He got situated in his own chair, and lit a cigarette from the pack on the table. Stared into the fire when he said, “You didn’t ask me who they were.”
“I figured you would have told me if you’d wanted me to know.”
His brows lifted, and she thought he started to face her – but didn’t. “You didn’t know if they deserved it. What if they were innocent? What if they took in orphans and walked old ladies across the street?”
“What if they did?” she countered.
His head did turn, then, fractionally. He looked up at her through his lashes, chin tucked at an angle that lent his face a hollow, hungry look. “Would you have regretted it?” He took another long drag, smoke curling through the wisps of his drying hair.
She hadn’t taken one sip of whiskey, but felt like she’d had a whole glass, loose, and warm, and relaxed. Unafraid of her own honesty. “I don’t regret anything when it comes to you.”
Beck, by contrast, vibrated with barely-suppressed tension. His fingers tapped on his glass; shook where they held the cigarette. He didn’t blink for a moment, holding her gaze. Debating, she thought. Arguing with himself.
He took the last drag and flicked the butt into the fire. “He’s a banker. Was. His wife is the second-cousin of one of Castor’s generals, and when he found that out, he used the connection to force his way up from janitor to CFO. Dumb as a rock. A cheater – obviously.” He took up the cigarette packet and tapped it absently against the table. “He’s been squeezing other banks out of business. Stealing regular people’s money to fuel his heavensent habit.”
She nodded. “And now he’s dead and can’t do that anymore.”
“There’ll be another. There always is.” His hand tightened, packet crumpling, and he bared his teeth in a rare grimace.
“But he’s gone,” she said, patiently. “And that feels good, doesn’t it?”
“God, yes.” A breathless admission.
He dropped the cigarettes, drained his glass, and gripped the arms of his chair. Hard. Knuckles white. Closed his eyes, wisps of hair dancing against his temples as he fought the inner trembling that wracked him – fought it so hard. And for what? Was this self-loathing? Self-consciousness?
Whatever it was, Rose was tired of it.
She took a bracing swallow of her drink, set it aside, and got to her feet.
His eyes snapped open.
She held up a hand. Stay. And crossed the distance between their chairs.
He tipped his head back, gaze fixed on her, and looked oddly vulnerable like that, even if she could see the tendons standing out in his neck and the backs of his hands; could see the coiled strength, even through his black sweater.
“Rose,” he said, like a warning.
One she didn’t heed. She straddled his legs, and settled in his lap. Rested a hand on his chest, over his tripping pulse, and tucked a bit of hair behind his ear with the other. Leaned in close enough to watch his pupils blow out, eating up the gold-brown of his irises. She could feel him trembling beneath her, straining. Could hear the quick patter of his breath through his parted lips.
“Beck,” she said, “it’s okay.” And she leaned in and kissed him.
It was careful, and awkward, because she’d never done this before. She had no skills to draw upon; she had ideas, thanks to all her reading, but felt fumbling and young when she imagined executing any of them herself. She didn’t want to fumble; she wanted Beck to be her teacher in this, the way he’d been her teacher in everything. Wanted him to finally, finally let go of the chokehold he had on his desires and show them to her, so they could share this, too.
How could they kill together, and then part chastely and sleep apart? The idea was so ludicrous it pained her.
Please, she thought, touching the tip of her tongue to his lower lip, a gentle press. Beck, please…
His lips parted on a deep gasp – and then he was kissing her back.
She’d initiated this, but it was a shock: the sudden heat of his tongue pushing past her lips, the crush of his lips against hers. He tasted of smoke and whiskey, and like everything she’d ever wanted. She let out her own gasp, and he swallowed it; tilted his head and slanted his mouth hotly over hers.
He cupped the back of her head in both hands, fingers plucking at the top of her plait, pulling hairs loose. Held her still for the quietly devastating assault of his kiss: deep, and wet, and drugging, lips clasping again and again, his tongue tracing her teeth, running along the ridges of her palate. She’d read about so many kisses, but none of it had prepared her for the way her neck would go weak, and her breath would stutter in her lungs. She clutched the front of his sweater, and let herself fall, more than confident he would catch her.
When he pulled back with one last, clinging kiss, she couldn’t swallow her little whine of protest. No! she thought, heart pounding. No, don’t turn away now!
But then she saw his expression, and knew he wasn’t turning away. No, far from that. His eyes had gone liquid and dark with an unmistakable arousal; his gaze traveled down and then up her face, lingering on her lips in avid, hungry appraisal. He liked what he saw, if the way he bit his lip was any judge.
He took her braid in one hand, and slid down the length of it; found the elastic that secured the end and pulled it free. His gaze stayed fixed on hers as he unraveled the plait with careful, but shaking fingers; she could hear him breathing, quick little draws that lifted his chest beneath her hands.
This was the moment in the b
ooks she read when the hero told the heroine how beautiful she was, how much he desired her. But Rose could see that for herself, and she didn’t need Back to say it.
When her hair was loose, he fanned it across her shoulders, drawing his fingers through the silken lengths again and again, the whisper of sound deafening in her ears, even drowning out the pop and crackle of the fire. He gathered it up in his hands, coiled it around his palms and knuckles. “Rosie,” he breathed, and reeled her back in for more kisses.
Slower, at first, plucking at her lips with his own. Then pressing deep, delving with his tongue, firm pressure that opened her jaw wider. Then a gentling, a half-retreat. It was like dancing – like sparring. He was showing her – teaching, just as she’d hope, and her heart soared. She leaned in to him, pliant. But then his thumb stroked her cheek, urging her closer, and she slipped her tongue between his lips, taking as he’d taken, and he hummed an approving sound that went all the way down to her toes and curled hot and heavy in her belly.
“Good girl,” he murmured, trailing kisses along her jaw. In the tender hollow below her ear. He opened his mouth against her throat, tasting her pulse point with the flat of his tongue; giving her the faintest scrape of teeth. The prick of his sharp canines: always seen, now felt.
His hands slid down her arms, and shifted to her waist. They were restless; sweeping up and down, palms pressing to the small of her back, and to her stomach; fingertips playing with the hem of her sweater as he sucked a bruise against her neck. It was like he wanted to touch all of her all at once; like he wanted to mark her, so he could look at her, and know that he’d touched her, that this moment had been real.
No going back, she thought, threading her fingers through his hair, pulling his bun loose; shivering, leaning into his touch. She tilted her head to give him more access – whatever he wanted, wherever he needed to be.
He hooked his fingers in the neck of her sweater and pulled it down her shoulder – a thread snapped, and she didn’t care – mouth chasing down to the new patch of skin he’d exposed, biting and sucking at the juncture of neck and shoulder.
Rose felt drunk. Hazy with pleasure already, though tension wound tighter and tighter in her belly like a spring, each pass of his lips and fingertips shooting sparks along all her nerve endings, lighting her up until she thought she must be glowing.
Slowly, she became aware of an insistent pressure against her backside. She was straddling him, and he was hard. He shifted a little, a cute squirm like he was pressing back into the chair, and oh, no, that wouldn’t do: he was trying to spare her, trying not to push her too fast.
She slid her hand down his chest, over his belly – the muscles clenching and leaping under that light touch – until she found the smooth leather of his belt, and went lower.
His jeans were tight, and his cock strained at the fly, a prominent bulge that had to be painful. She pressed her hand flat over it, and Beck broke away from her neck with a hiss and a curse. He went still, drawn taut beneath her, and his hands gripped her waist tight.
She didn’t move her hand. Kept it there, still, flat, and after a moment he took a ragged breath and lifted his face. His eyes were all pupil, glassy, drugged-looking – but intense, somehow. She could see his want; could feel it beneath her hand.
“Christ.” He pressed his face into her throat, panting humid breaths into the hollow of it. “Oh, Rosie. I don’t want to hurt you.”
With her other hand, she petted his hair, scratched at his scalp, holding him to her, feeling like she was the one to shelter him. “You’ll only hurt me if you stop.”
He groaned, the sound vibrating against her skin. And then his hands slid down to cup her bottom, and he stood, lifting her up without effort, just as he had back in the alley tonight, when he boosted her over the fence.
The sudden movement left the room spinning, and her stomach dropping – pleasantly. She’d been so afraid so many times in her life, real, acidic fear; but this was a safe kind of fear. A little thrill, and she relished in it, grabbing onto his shoulders, legs going around his waist, holding on not for dear life, but because she never wanted to let him go.
He got down on his knees on the floor, and laid her out across the rug in front of the fire, hand cupped behind her head, cushioning her as she settled.
Her legs were still around his waist, bracketing his slender hips, and he was poised above her, one hand beneath her head, the other on the rug beside it. His hair fell around his face, framing it, and the firelight bathed his skin in leaping golds and reds, shining in his eyes.
Rose felt molten inside with wanting; stomach clenching, pulse settled between her thighs, where she was already swollen and damp for him. Her chest felt full to bursting – with love. She loved him. He’d saved her, and shown her so much; had trusted her, confided in her, and revealed his darkest parts to her. Let her see the beast that lived beneath the sleek veneer of civility.
He was a killer, and so was she, and she loved him.
“You’re so beautiful,” she said, reaching for him, unable to resist a romance novel moment.
“Not as beautiful as you,” he said with complete sincerity. Then he sat back on his heels, peeled his turtleneck off and chucked it over his shoulder. Laced his fingers with hers, and settled over her, finding her mouth again. A hot, wet kiss, tongue plunging deep, over and over, a primal rhythm that she melted beneath.
He let his weight settle over her more fully: his chest flattening her breasts, his hips pressing into the cradle of hers, and she realized, with a fresh burst of heated joy, that he was bare to the waist now, and that she had one hand free and could touch him.
They’d been naked together, before, that night in the bath. But she’d had her back to him, and hadn’t had this much access – he hadn’t been kissing her stupid then, either. She started hesitantly, laid her hand down on his shoulder, shocked by the heat of him. Smooth, fire-warmed skin that rippled beneath her, a great twitch like a horse shaking flies. Because she affected him just as he affected her. It was a desire that went both ways, equally strong, and the knowledge made her bold; had her feeling her way down his biceps – clenched and hard – and then back up, down along the taut muscles that framed his spine. To the twin dips she found right at his waistband. He felt like a wild thing in her grasp, all quick breaths, and swelling ribs, and shifting muscles; heavy, and masculine, and unrelenting.
He lifted her other hand to his face, broke their kiss – lips damp and gleaming in the firelight, swollen from kissing – so he could kiss her palm. He lifted her hand afterward to his other shoulder, fired her a fast, dark look – touch me – and then reached to slide his hand beneath the hem of her sweater.
His familiar callus pattern – the proof of his proficiency with weapons – touched the soft skin of her stomach for the first time, and she sucked in a breath, belly hollowing beneath a touch that was gentle, but electrifying. Too much and not enough all at once.
He kissed her again. “It’s alright.” A soft murmur against her lips.
“Don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He shifted down – her hands slid up his neck and her fingers curled into his hair – and pushed her sweater up a few inches; pressed his face to her stomach. Butterfly kisses; a sly flick of his tongue in her navel that left her gasping, fists tightening in his hair.
His eased her sweater up, inch by teasing inch, and kissed each bit of newly exposed skin. Dragged the tip of his nose across the dip of her stomach; passed his tongue down the grooves of her ribs.
It was so much more sensation than she’d expected. She could feel the velvet of his lips, the wet heat of his tongue, the faint rasp of stubble. He sucked a bruise against her rib cage, not letting up until a squeal finally escaped her bitten lips. She wanted to squirm – and to lift into his mouth. Raked restless fingertips across his scalp.
He lifted his head a fraction, his gaze impossible, and shoved the sweater up and over her breasts, baring the simple black silk of her bra
.
He grinned, all teeth, totally unrestrained, now. This was his real smile, the one he kept in careful check; his smile for knives, and blood, and violence – and for her.
Then he shifted forward on his knees and pressed his face into the valley between her breasts. Released a shaky breath, murmured something she couldn’t hear.
Her nipples contracted to stiff peaks, painfully tight, and her thighs tightened around his hips; a hard clenching echoed by the clenching of her sex, empty, and slick, and ready for him.
He tongued at her breastbone, and his hands came up to massage her breasts.
“Oh.” She arched up into the touch, delighted by it, nipples aching – but it wasn’t enough. There was still that silk barrier between them. She wanted to feel his calluses here, where she’d never realized she was so sensitive.
He turned his head, and ran his tongue across the top of one breast, looking up at her face through his lashes. She had the impression that it wasn’t a man above her at all, but a big cat, pounced, and purring, and playing with its food.
Then he hooked his thumbs in the cups of her bra and drew them sharply down, a sudden move that freed her breasts with a little bounce. If she craned her neck she could see them – see herself in a light she’d never imagined: all quivering, creamy skin, her nipples flushed and pebbled.
He cupped her breasts in his hands, shifted his head, and lapped at a stiff nipple, drawing a shocked sound from her. Each new touch was a revelation, all of it sending fresh shocks of pleasure to her core, her need building and building like a slow-burning fire.
He closed his lips around the stiff peak, and sucked. His fingers pinched at her other nipple, and it was so much. Too much.
She let her head fall back, and closed her eyes, basking in it.
He drew her deep into his mouth, suckled at her, and then moved to the other and gave it the same treatment. His fingertips traced patterns on the undersides; he molded and shaped them – until she grew restless again, legs shifting against his hips. She was downright squirming – lifting her hips and seeking friction against the hard bulge in the front of his jeans. Her panties were wet now, and even the barest grinding together threatened to set her off, blood sparking and fizzing, and his mouth was so hot, and he was so good at this, and…
King Among the Dead (Hell Theory Book 1) Page 16