“Like a husky’s. That cold, ice-blue. Know what I mean?”
There’d been an odd moment when Riley had finally pulled up in front of his apartment building to drop him off, his brother’s expression one of intense frustration, as if he couldn’t decide what to say. Or how to say it. Then he’d scraped one hand back through his shaggy hair and asked, “Did you ever head out to that storage place over in Mountain Creek?”
After Elaina’s funeral, Riley had shipped their mother’s personal belongings back to Colorado, storing them in a nearby facility. Instead of selling the small house where she’d lived, which had been in Elaina’s family for generations, he had left it in working order, along with some furniture—since, according to Riley, Saige was thinking of spending some time there when she wasn’t wandering all over the world, searching for her bits of junk. Everything else had been brought to Colorado, including some things that Elaina had apparently wanted Ian to have. Not that he’d been interested. He’d told Riley to throw whatever it was into storage, along with the rest of her stuff, which his brother had done. Then Riley had turned around and given him a set of keys to the storage unit, warning him that he might want to get his hands on whatever she’d left him someday.
Considering what they’d just been through, it had seemed an odd thing to bring up, but then Ian had given up trying to figure out how Riley’s head worked a long time ago.
“I told you I wasn’t interested in anything of Elaina’s,” he’d muttered, opening his door.
Before he could climb out of the truck, Riley had reached over and grabbed hold of his arm. “I think maybe you should go out there.”
“What the hell for?” he’d growled, pulling free of his brother’s grip.
Riley had scowled as he’d slumped back against his seat. “If I told you, you’d never believe me,” he’d said with a hard sigh, sounding worn out. “Hell, I don’t even believe it myself. But if things…if things get weird, I’ll go out there with you. Help you find what she left for you.”
Shaking his head, Ian had climbed out of the Bronco, slamming the door behind him. As he’d walked around the front of the truck, Riley had stuck his head out the driver’s side window and shouted for Ian not to go anywhere until he’d heard from him.
Huh. As if he had the energy to go anywhere. Frustration had gnawed him down to the bone.
Slamming his backside down on his sofa, Ian tossed his cell on the battered coffee table, wondering if he should try Molly at the motel, then shook off the irritating thought. If she had half a brain, she’d have already hit the road by now, and what would he say anyway? Hey, you were right. Some jackass mangled Kendra, leaving her body scattered over a field for an unlucky group of teenagers to come across when they stopped to take a leak. It was pretty sick and the kids are probably going to need therapy. Guess I really should have listened to you.
Naw, he could save that useless conversation for…never. He already hated himself enough at the moment—he didn’t need to add her scorn on top of it. She’d tried to warn him, but like the arrogant know-it-all his brother always accused him of being, he hadn’t listened. Seemed he’d spent years fine-tuning the worthless talent of shutting people out, ignoring them, even when they were trying to help him.
Scrubbing his hands down his face, Ian struggled to get his mind on something useful, something that would help Riley nail that murdering bastard’s ass, but his brain just kept buzzing with the images of Kendra’s broken body and the blood-soaked field that he knew he was never going to be able to fully erase from his memory. Hell, they couldn’t even be sure it’d been a human who killed her, the damage was so extreme.
If you can’t be honest with anyone else, jackass, at least be honest with yourself. You know what it was, his conscience taunted him, scraping against his nerves like a jagged blade. You’ve known all along.
Ian clenched his jaw, doing his best to ignore the snide asshole in his head, wishing he could just get his hands on whoever…or whatever was responsible. He might not have been in love with Kendra, but he’d respected the hell out of her, and at the start of their affair, he’d enjoyed the time he spent with her. Kendra Wilcox had been a good person. Funny, beautiful, independent. She hadn’t deserved what she’d suffered. Christ, no one deserved to die like that.
Riley was going to come back for him the second something came up, and he needed to rest before things started rolling, but he was too angry to sleep, adrenaline still pounding through his system, keeping him on edge. If he couldn’t get some rest, food would be the next best thing to keep him going, but he couldn’t face another nuked dinner. Everything tasted stale to him these days, his appetites bored with the usual fare.
Muttering under his breath, Ian made his way into the kitchen, grabbed the bottle of scotch and a glass, then headed back toward the sofa, picking up the remote for his flat-screen TV; the only thing in the apartment worth lifting, if anyone ever bothered to break in. Flicking on a Rockies game, he sprawled out over the cushions, trying to focus his mind on RBIs and pitching averages, rather than the gruesome images he’d witnessed—trying not to think of Kendra and the strange little blond who’d warned him that someone close to him was in danger.
Like an idiot, he’d spent the entire damn night and day trying to convince himself that Kendra’s murder had nothing to do with him, that he couldn’t have prevented it from happening. But he knew better. There was a burning, gnawing sensation in his gut that felt too much like shame for him to buy his own bullshit. He made an attempt to drown out the unwanted, sour emotion by hitting the scotch, but it didn’t work worth a damn. Instead, he just kept sinking deeper into the guilt, like standing on the muddy banks of a river, his bare feet sinking farther and farther into the thick layers of sludge. Riley had pressured him all night for anything he could offer up, but he’d lied through his teeth, claiming that he didn’t have any information. He didn’t tell him about Molly, much less the fact that she’d delivered her strange little warnings straight to his face, begging him for his help.
And he sure as hell hadn’t mentioned the dream they’d shared. Instead, he’d done his best to avoid thinking about it, though it was always there, lingering at the edge of his consciousness…waiting for the moment to strike.
Like now, his conscience whispered, and he drained the glass, the liquor hitting his gut with a hot, fiery burn.
Exhaustion finally overtook him in the seventh inning, his last thoughts centering on Molly Stratton as he drifted into a restless sleep. He wondered where she was, what she was doing. Wishing he could get her out of his goddamn mind. Hating the grinding frustration…the illogical panic that burned like acid in his chest every time he faced the maddening possibility that he might never see her again.
Despite the oppressive heat of the evening, he slept hard, thanks to the booze. Until the dreams began again. Ian had half expected the fertile heat of the forest and the erotic frenzy of the gypsy campfire, and he’d been prepared to do everything he could to keep his focus on the first woman he got beneath him. If he went with it, then maybe he wouldn’t find himself drilling Molly into the damp forest floor, taking more of her than he had any right to.
But as always, fate had a way of turning around and biting him on the ass.
As Ian pulled himself up from the deep, murky levels of his subconscious, he opened his gritty eyes to a soft, flickering light—and instantly knew something was wrong. Something even more messed-up than before. Than the twisted nightmares that had been plaguing him for weeks.
There was no forest…no gypsy campfire…no sloe-eyed provocative brunette to slake his lust.
Instead, Ian found himself kneeling on a soft, intricately woven Persian carpet, the air around him filled with the intoxicating scents of woman and wood smoke as a fire roared somewhere in a distant hearth, the heat of the flames warm against his naked body. And sprawled before him on her back, her pale thighs spread indecently wide, lay Molly.
“What?” he heard h
er gasp, surprise softening her husky voice, blurring the edges of her speech, as if she’d only just realized it was happening again. She’d probably been snuggled up in one of the lumpy motel beds, carrying on some warped conversation with his mother’s ghost, only to suddenly find herself there, with him. Her gaze flicked its way down the pale line of her body, velvety brown eyes going wide with shock as she took in the unadulterated intimacy of their positions.
She moaned, and quickly covered herself with her arms.
Lust thickened in Ian’s throat, choking off his ability for speech. He gripped her wrists, pulling her arms away from her body, pinning them at her sides. The red-and-black swirl of the rug accentuated the warm, luminous glow of her skin, while her honeyed scent grew stronger with the rise of her pulse. Atop the delicate swell of her breasts, her nipples hardened like tender berries, lush and beautiful and ripe. He wanted to draw them into the heat of his mouth, suck on them until she came undone. Wanted to run his lips across her fever-warm skin, so smooth and soft and delicious, and work his way down the mouthwatering length of her body.
“Ian?” she whispered, her voice hushed…shaky. “How?”
He shook his head, unable to pull his heavy gaze away from the provocative details of her figure, each exquisite discovery making him ache just a little harder, a little deeper. “I don’t know.”
“Where are we?” she asked, her breasts rising and falling as the cadence of her breathing grew shorter and sharper.
“Don’t care. Just don’t move, don’t cover yourself,” he growled, a grittier edge to his voice than he’d ever heard before, graveled and rough. He released his hold on her wrists and shifted, rubbing himself against her, against those perfect breasts and the soft, slick folds nestled between her splayed thighs, her sex so tender and wet he damn near lost it then and there. There were so many things he wanted to do to her, to take from her. Harsh, explicit intimacies that had no place between strangers—and yet, he’d have taken them if he had the time. Hell, he’d have given her more of himself than he’d ever given any other woman in his entire life—have lost himself in her, content to spend days on end exploring the sensual secrets of her body, drowning in the discoveries…in the breathtaking details.
But time was the one thing he didn’t have.
He knew that with each harsh, erratic breath, the seconds he’d been granted with her were slipping away. Trying to grab hold of them would be like struggling to trap rushing water within his hand. Pointless, futile, and a waste of his time.
The scene was just too perfect to last. At any moment, Ian expected to have it ripped out from under him, leaving him completely destroyed.
He only hoped he didn’t crash and burn when it happened—when he lost her.
Pointless apologies for being such a jackass jammed painfully in his throat, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He choked them back as he caught the hazy, burnished glow of her gaze, saying, “I want to go down on you. I want it so bad I can taste it, Molly. But I don’t know how long this is going to last, and no way in hell am I missing the chance to fuck you again.”
She didn’t recoil at his crass honesty or try to roll away from him. She just lay there against the carpet, beautifully supplicant, arms bent, palms open either side of her flushed face, her hair a tangled fury of golden curls around the violent bloom of color in her cheeks. The luminous depths of her eyes pulled on him, dragging him deeper, as if he were falling into her, completely under her spell.
A log popped, crackling in the fireplace while an ominous bellow of thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance, the harsh pulse of the oncoming storm echoing the violent pounding of his heart. Taking her softly panting silence for consent, Ian pressed closer, wanting to cradle her hands within his own, to rub his thumbs into the humid cups and stroke her skin, but he fought the urge, afraid of where that closeness would take him. It was already scary enough, this wild, unknown emotional no-man’s-land he kept finding himself in every time he got close to her.
Settling deeper between her spread thighs, Ian braced his weight on one elbow, then greedily opened his mouth over the succulent tip of her left breast, so hungry for her, he wanted to eat her alive. He rolled the exquisite, berry-red nipple against his tongue…and fit himself against her. Their gazes locked. Held for a single, smoldering instant. Then he lifted his head and drove his body into her with a thick, grinding motion, having to work at her as hard as he had the night before. Her eyes went wide, white teeth sinking into the pansy-soft cushion of her lower lip…and Ian shoved deeper.
Locking his jaw, he slowly pulled back his hips, the sensations so acute they bordered on that intense precipice of pleasure and pain. When he’d almost pulled completely out of her—his muscles tensed, skin sweat-slick and burning—he shoved back in, harder this time, somehow giving her more of him. His left hand came up to fist in the pale curls that haloed her head, holding her steady as he came down over her. Needing her taste, he claimed her mouth in an urgent, eating kiss, savoring her throaty moans against his tongue like a breathless stream of promises. Wrapping his other hand around her hip, his fingers biting into her flesh, he powered himself into her as if his life depended on it. Each heavy, possessive thrust fed a part of his soul that was greedy for every part of her, as if he could break her open and claim the pieces for his own.
“Look at the reflection,” he commanded against her lips in a dark, husky whisper, sharing her breath, her nipples hard against his chest, dragging against his skin as he moved over her, inside of her.
She panted, shaking her head.
“Look at the goddamn reflection, Molly.”
His fingers tightened in her hair, turning her head for her, and she stared at the explicit image emblazoned upon the wall of windows that took up an entire side of the room.
“I bet you’ve never had that particular look on your face before,” he rasped with a low, wicked rumble of laughter. “Not Little-Miss-Molly-Do-Right. You’re too shy. Too buttoned-up. Except with me. You know how hot that makes me?”
She shook her head again, gasping, and he said, “I get off on knowing that I’m the only man who can crack that cool, pristine surface of yours and make you go wild. Make you scream and claw at me, completely out of control.”
And it was true. At the moment, her small nails were dug into his biceps so hard, he knew crescent marks would be left behind on his skin, a testament of her passion.
Her eyes drifted closed as the intensity cranked higher, her body writhing, drawing closer…and closer to the edge, before she suddenly turned her face away from him. She was holding it back, denying her body what it wanted. Fighting it. Hiding from it. Hiding from him.
Grasping her chin, Ian pulled her back. “Eyes open, Molls. I want to see it happen. Want to watch your face when you go over.”
“No… ”
“Oh, yeah.” The words were gritty and thick with lust, with pleasure. “Stop fighting it.”
“You’ll leave me again,” she said quietly, her lashes lifting, revealing eyes that glistened with tears, the look in their mysterious depths making his breath catch, while something in his chest clenched with pain. In that moment, Ian had the strangest feeling that even though she was the one pinned to the floor, she held all the power, and there was nothing he could do to reclaim it.
Lowering his mouth to the moist hollow of her throat, he told her, “I won’t. I won’t leave you.”
She drew in a deep, shivery breath, clutching his back, her hands cool against the scalding heat of his body, and broke with his next down stroke, the tight, rhythmic pulses of her orgasm pulling him in, holding him, refusing to let him go. His tongue flicked against the damp heat of her skin, wanting the salty sweetness of her flesh, needing it…craving it, and the next thing he knew, his fangs were buried deep in the side of her throat, near her shoulder. A sharp, hoarse scream pierced the air, the roar of his heartbeat deafening and fast in his ears, while the warm, heady spill of her blood filled his mouth, thick a
nd hot and seductively rich. This was what he craved. This claiming of both her blood and her body. It was the one thing that satisfied that gnawing emptiness in his soul. The one thing that made him feel almost at peace, as if he was right where he belonged.
The thick pleasure slipped down his throat, his mouth working with greedy intent against her skin, needing more…and more, the hunger growing more insatiable than it had been before, suddenly frightening him with its power, its urgency. Ian fought himself for what seemed like endless, drugging moments. Wicked, decadent pleasure pulsed heavily in every cell of his body. Finally, he managed to rip himself away, terrified he would drown in that dark, destructive burn of gratification and drain her dry.
Can’t…Can’t lose her.
Ian screwed his eyes shut against the haunting beauty of her blood spilling gently from the puncture wounds, slipping across the translucent glow of her skin.
“Shit…shit, ” he hissed, his fangs heavy within his gums, her taste exquisitely hot in his mouth, while his body slammed into her harder…faster. He wanted to run, to escape the uncomfortable knowledge sinking into his bones, but he kept his word, staying with her until the hot, blistering friction shoved him into his own raging explosion. He pulled free at the last second, erupting onto her pale stomach in hard, violent surges, the intensity of the orgasm all but destroying him, turning him inside out. He looked everywhere and nowhere—anywhere but at her face, in her eyes. He had no idea what’d he see there, and he was terrified of finding out.
“Ian,” she said softly, her voice hitching with emotion. “Don’t leave. Please. Not yet.”
He ground his jaw, not knowing what to say, how to give her what she needed. Comfort. Warmth. Caring. Those things were as foreign to him as color to a blind man.
You have to give her something, jackass.
“Molly,” he rasped, forcing himself to meet her gaze. “I…” He tried to choke out an apology, an explanation, the words somehow strangled inside of him, and she lifted her hand, cupping his cheek in her cool, soft palm.
Edge of Hunger Page 6