by Kay Hooper
He kissed her again, briefly but with undiminished hunger, then laughed a bit roughly as he carried her up the stairs. “If you’re worried about me, don’t. I could carry you for miles. Besides, I don’t want to let go of you.”
Josie might have forced herself to protest again, but by then he had reached her bedroom and there was no need. He lowered her slowly to her feet beside the wide bed, his hands settling momentarily at her waist, and in the lamplight his expression was absorbed.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he said simply, looking at her upturned face as if he were memorizing every feature. “You make me feel like a teenager with raging hormones and precious little control, so wild for you I can barely think straight. When I saw you standing in the doorway tonight, I wanted to make love to you right there.”
She wanted to say that she wasn’t beautiful at all but that it was wonderful of him to say so, but he was kissing her, his hands framing her face as if she were trying to escape him, and words didn’t seem important. His mouth teased now instead of demanded, arousing without force, and again, her body responded so quickly and completely it was as if she obeyed an instinct older than the caves.
“It feels like I’ve wanted you forever,” he murmured against her skin, pressing feather kisses over her face. His hands returned to her waist, unbuckling the wide belt and casting it aside. The tail of her blouse was pulled free of her pants, and he made a rough sound when his hand slipped underneath to touch the satin camisole.
With her arms around his neck, Josie almost absently unbuttoned the tight cuffs of her blouse. Her eyes had been closed, but she opened them when he drew back far enough to concentrate on unbuttoning her blouse, and she watched his intent face as the camisole became visible.
When the blouse had been shrugged off and tossed aside, Marc made another of those low, uneven sounds as he stared down at her. The white satin molded her small breasts, gleaming in the lamplight with every quick breath she drew, and her nipples were clearly outlined by the sheer material.
Josie felt oddly more exposed than she would have been stark naked, and more female than ever before in her life. She thought it was the way he looked at her, with that utter absorption, the way his gaze so intently watched the rise and fall of her breasts. And then he lifted a hand, his fingers pressing, lightly stroking between her breasts, so that the satin provided a sensuous friction, and she thought her very bones quivered.
“Marc.” It was barely said and all she said, all she could say, but it was pleading.
For a moment his hand remained still, and then it slid downward slowly until his fingers reached the waistband of her pants. He was looking at her face now, holding her eyes with his while he unfastened her pants and pushed them down over her hips. Automatically, she stepped out of the pants when they pooled around her feet, nudging them aside and somehow getting rid of her dorm socks at the same time.
“Touch me,” he murmured. It was not a command but something urgently necessary.
She didn’t think she was breathing and didn’t know how she was standing, but when he lifted her hands and placed them on his chest, her fingers were astonishingly nimble as they unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it over his shoulders. Then those same deft and avid fingers were sliding over his chest, probing thick, springy black hair and hard muscles.
She leaned toward him and pressed her lips to him while her hands explored his ribs and hard belly. She blindly found his belt and got it unbuckled, but Marc stopped her before she could do more.
“If you go any farther right now,” he told her huskily, “I won’t be able to take it.” He leaned over to throw back the covers of her bed, then lifted her and placed her in the middle.
Pausing only to get rid of his shoes and socks, Marc joined her on the bed. He didn’t completely undress for the simple reason that he was afraid he’d lose control; he wanted to go slowly, to look at her and touch her and taste her until the aching need in him was at least partially satisfied. But just looking at her had him on the fine edge of his control.
Her lustrous hair spread out around her on the pillow, the vibrant red burnished with the lamp’s soft glow, and her eyes were darkly purple, wide and fixed on his face with a wondering kind of intensity. Her body was creamy pale against the dark floral sheets, the delicate white satin underthings she wore incredibly erotic for the simple reason that they hid very little and yet…enriched her natural beauty.
He’d grown so accustomed to seeing her in bulky sweaters and tops that he’d almost stopped thinking about how petite she was, and now her delicacy enthralled him. Not too thin, she was tiny, fine-boned and exquisite.
He leaned over her, easing the hem of the camisole up gently with his fingers until he could press his lips to her silky stomach. She quivered at the touch and he heard a sharp intake of breath even as her fingers slid into his hair.
“Marc…”
Just as it had before, her soft, husky voice saying his name, just his name, was almost enough to shatter his control. He was suddenly wild to see her completely naked and he knew his fingers were shaking as he grasped the hem of the camisole. She helped him get it off her, then clutched at his shoulder with a muted whimper when he touched her breasts.
Small and firm, they fit his hands perfectly, the coral nipples tightening even more when he touched them. His fingers and lips caressed her, learned her. Her skin was pure heated silk under his touch, and Marc thought he’d never be able to get enough of her.
But the urgency, in him and in her, demanded, and he had to obey. He stripped away the pale, wispy panties and eased her legs apart. Her thighs tensed when he stroked them, and he wanted to tell her again how beautiful she was, how wildly exciting, but he couldn’t seem to find the words. Instead he touched her gently, his fingers sliding into red curls, probing until he found the moist heat of her.
Josie caught her breath and tensed even more as his mouth caressed her breasts and his fingers stroked her. She couldn’t believe how incredible it felt, and she still found it impossible to say anything at all. Her fingers were in his hair, holding him. Faint sounds of pleasure escaped her, welling up from somewhere deep inside her.
Just when she was convinced she was going to break into a million pieces or melt into a puddle of liquid want, Marc rolled away from her and swiftly removed what remained of his clothing. She watched him dazedly, unable to say anything or move, or do anything at all except wait for him. She saw that she’d been right about him being a responsible man, and she was vaguely grateful to him for assuming that responsibility, because all she’d been able to think about was having him.
He returned to her before the sharp tension in her had time to ebb, and she caught at his shoulders in mute need when he spread her legs wide and slipped between them. She was ready for him, more than ready, but it had been a long time and the inexorable penetration was so shatteringly intimate that it shocked her. She stared, wide-eyed, up at his taut face, saw the intense pleasure and heard his low groan of satisfaction when her body sheathed his completely.
Then he was moving inside her and Josie nearly cried out at the sensations. The tension inside her wound tighter and tighter, burning and aching until she wanted to sob with it, until she felt like a single raw nerve stimulated beyond bearing. It was wonderful and dreadful and so sweet she couldn’t believe she’d existed all these years without knowing, and if it didn’t stop soon she knew she’d scream or turn into some kind of wild animal or just splinter into shards of pure raw need.
When the culmination finally came, it caught her completely by surprise, and she did cry out as waves and waves of throbbing ecstasy flooded over her. She was still caught up in the fiery wash of pleasure when she heard Marc groan harshly, felt him shudder under the force of his own release, and then felt herself drifting into blissful peace.
“You’re a very silent lover,” he said.
Josie didn’t want to move. In fact, she didn’t want to open her eyes, but pried them slightly open an
yway to find him raised on an elbow and looking down at her gravely, something tender that was not quite a smile curving his lips. He had gotten them both under the covers, although she didn’t remember it.
“Does it bother you?” she murmured.
“No.”
She opened her eyes the rest of the way and looked at him more closely. “That sounded like yes.”
He hesitated, then shrugged. “I guess I was wondering why. I mean, I would have thought you’d have plenty to say. You usually do.”
Josie had to smile at that, but she nevertheless saw that his question was a serious one. Searching for words, she said slowly, “I don’t know why, except…I felt so much. I’ve…never felt anything like that before.”
“Never?”
“Never,” she replied honestly. Compelled by something in his eyes, she added an explanation she’d had no intention of offering. “I—the only other man I’ve ever slept with was my high-school steady, and then just a few times before we went in opposite directions to college. We were just kids, and…well, I didn’t think too much of the whole thing.”
“Sex?”
Josie nodded. “I guess he didn’t know much more than I did, or maybe I was just too young. Anyway, it wasn’t something I missed afterward.”
Marc smiled. “And now?”
She eyed him ruefully. “How do I answer that?”
He leaned down and kissed her, slowly and thoroughly, then murmured, “I’m not looking for a critique, sweetheart. I just want to know you’d…miss me if I went away to college.”
Since the kiss had left her feeling dazed, it took Josie a moment to absorb and understand what he meant. Then, solemnly, she said, “I’d miss you very much if you went away to college. I’d probably call you every night and breathe heavily into the phone, and write you long letters filled with indecent suggestions, and climb the walls until Christmas vacation.”
Chuckling, he kissed her again, briefly this time. “Good. A man likes to know he’d be missed.”
Almost against her will, she said, “I knew from the first time I saw you that you’d be…memorable.” Had he called her sweetheart?
Marc looked at her for a moment, then leaned down again and slowly pushed the covers to her waist, his mouth trailing downward between her breasts. “I wish,” he murmured, “you’d said unforgettable.”
Josie knew why she hadn’t; not because it wasn’t true, but because she was unwilling to admit to him that she knew she’d never forget him as long as she lived. But even if she’d been willing to correct her remark then, she wouldn’t have been able to; just as before, desire was burning in her and she couldn’t say anything at all.
Five minutes before, she would have sworn she lacked the energy to raise her head off the pillow, but by the time Marc pushed the covers lower, his mouth at her breasts and his fingers sliding down over her belly, her energy level had increased dramatically.
He made her forget everything except him and the way he could make her feel, carrying her away on a tide of sensation so intensely overwhelming she was almost afraid of it. Almost. But her body, it seemed, had surrendered at his first touch, and that was something Josie simply couldn’t fight—even if she’d wanted to.
And she no longer wanted to.
Vaguely remembering that her silence had seemed to disturb him, she tried to say something while hunger coiled in her body, but all she could manage was his name, hardly more than a whisper of sound. It seemed to have a strong effect on him, which would have surprised her if her mind had been capable of thought just then, but since he chose that moment to enter her body with almost rough and urgent haste, she was too occupied with raw sensation to care about anything else.
There was no time for thought after that. All she could do was try to hold on to sanity—and even that slipped away from her at the end, when the pleasure peaked in a stunning eruption of ecstasy….
“Yahhh.”
She’d been drifting, Josie realized, already awake but unwilling to open her eyes. The feline greeting, unusually soft, roused her, and she opened her eyes slowly. The room was bright, which told her it was morning—probably around eight o’clock, though she didn’t know for sure because Pendragon was sitting on the nightstand on her side of the bed, hiding the clock.
“Yahhh,” he repeated, still softly.
“Hello,” she murmured. There was an arm around her waist. She turned her head cautiously on the pillow, then pushed herself up on her elbows, still careful, so that she could see Marc better. He was asleep, on his stomach beside her with his left arm flung across her middle.
It was the first time she’d seen him asleep. His face was relaxed, the tautness of awareness eased. The dark crescents of his lashes hid his striking eyes, and the faint blue shadow of his morning beard softened and blurred the sharp angle of his jaw. She looked down at his left arm, at the scar that twisted up past his elbow. It would fade in time, like all scars, but right now it spoke of a great deal more pain than he had revealed.
He certainly didn’t hesitate to use the arm. And for a man still supposedly convalescing, she thought wryly, he sure had energy to spare.
Three times. Three times during the night, he had awakened her with hungry kisses. And that had been after they’d finally fallen asleep sometime around midnight.
Josie had the uneasy suspicion that he had, during that passionate night, marked her indelibly as his. In fact, she was half afraid to look into a mirror, because she was sure she’d be able to see the mark.
Tearing her gaze away from him, she looked back at the black cat, who was purring loudly. “Why do I get the feeling,” she murmured softly, “that all of this was somehow your idea?”
Pendragon blinked at her, then stopped purring, said, “Wow,” and looked toward the doorway.
Josie followed his gaze automatically. She heard her own sharp intake of breath, but this time she was more startled than truly surprised.
Wow, indeed. Luke Westbrook, it was clear, disdained the notion that ghosts appeared only at night, and put paid to Josie’s theory that after ten P.M. was his time to haunt.
He stood just outside the doorway, looking at her intently. He raised his left hand and, this time, beckoned urgently. Then he backed away, out of her sight.
Josie was on the point of waking Marc with an urgency of her own when she hesitated. What if she shook him awake and dragged him out into the hall to follow a ghost—and the ghost was gone? She’d look like an idiot—or worse. And Marc, who had at least been fairly neutral about her claims, might well begin to question her sanity.
She bit her lip, then slid carefully from the bed without waking Marc. Their clothing had been scattered about the room; the closest thing was his white dress shirt, and she put that on hastily. It smelled of him, a spicy male scent that made her legs go a bit weak and roused dizzying memories of his skin, of his body lying heavily on hers….
With a tremendous effort, she got hold of herself. Luke. She had to follow Luke. She also had to roll up the sleeves of Marc’s shirt several times and was still buttoning it as she padded barefoot out into the hall.
Luke was at the very end of the hall, at the door that led up into the attic. He beckoned again, and faded back through the closed door.
Josie found that sight more unnerving than anything yet, but she nevertheless obeyed his insistence and followed. She hadn’t yet explored the attic in any depth; she had gone up once while settling in just to glance around, and had found a relatively small space under the rafters of the old house that was stuffed with old furniture, a few trunks, and other assorted junk.
Now, treading lightly up the narrow stairs, she wished she’d explored more carefully. The space was unheated, but not especially chilly this morning—but she wished she’d remembered her slippers or dorm socks because the floor was cold. It was fairly dark, the cramped space boasting only one small window curtained in some gauzy material that was almost in tatters. When she reached the top of the stairs
and stood uncertainly, the gossamer curtains fluttered strongly, catching her eye.
Luke was nowhere to be seen.
Slowly, Josie approached the window. It was closed—nailed shut, actually—which didn’t surprise her, because she hadn’t felt a breeze. She pushed the dusty, filmy curtains wide open and looked out, assuming there was something important she was supposed to look for.
At first there seemed nothing unusual. The morning was bright, with fleecy white clouds drifting across an almost painfully blue sky; the trees waved their branches lazily; leaves, soaked by the recent rain, lay heavily on the ground.
Then, realizing that only this window was high enough to provide a view beyond the hills immediately surrounding the house, Josie looked farther out. Still, she saw nothing unusual—until a faint movement caught her eye.
Probably half a mile away, just beyond a hill that would no doubt have provided a particularly good view of the house, a small figure appeared, trudging up a slope along a white rail fence. At the top, the figure turned and stood there for a long moment, seemingly gazing back toward the house. Then the figure bent, slipped through an opening provided by a missing board, and was soon lost among the trees.
“A woman.” Josie didn’t know why she was so sure, just something about the way the woman had moved. And something else, she thought, remembering the slight stiffness, the caution of movement. “An old woman.”
But what does it mean?
There was nothing else out there, at least not that Josie could see. Nothing unusual. So it had to be the old woman. Luke Westbrook, dead for fifty years, had led her up here to the attic so that she could watch an old woman’s morning walk. He had been urgent, so he must think it important…and Josie hadn’t the faintest idea why.
Frustrated, she turned away from the window, intending to return to bed with Marc and try to convince herself she’d dreamed the whole thing. But as she turned, a shaft of bright light streamed through the open curtains and picked out the gleam of wood across the cluttered room in a corner near the stairs. A piece of furniture. A rather large piece of furniture, mostly hidden under a thick linen dustcover…