His profile is appealing and undoubtedly attracts his share of women. I can just imagine how many maidens and concubines alike those skilful hands have touched. His eyes narrow as we continue to silently examine one another, but he doesn’t look away. Most people would, yet he unabashedly stares right back at me, leisurely exploring my face just as I am studying his.
The corners of his lips curve into a faint smirk. “Do you look at everyone like that? It’s quite hypnotic, if not a little unsettling.”
I blink, because it’s exactly how I feel about Keenan’s stare. “I’m just trying to figure you out.”
“Ah, yes, the constant appetite of an empath.” He takes a sip of his wine and gestures for me to continue. “What is it you wish to know?”
I curve a brow in a challenge. “Everything.”
He laughs heartily and sets our glasses on the table. Grabbing hold of my hand, he opens his mind to me. The landscape is like most people’s minds, the layout constantly shifting as a whirlwind of emotions, thoughts, and memories swirl around me. Some flicker and then disappear, while others press against me. The most prominent emotion is desire; it caresses me—insistent, yet patient.
“Can we ever really know everything about someone?” He weaves a constant circle against my palm with his thumb, while his other hand trails up the length of my arm. “But you’re more than welcome to try.”
A pleasant shiver creeps up my arm in the wake of his touch, and I struggle to organize my thoughts. “Why aren’t you married?”
“Most women I encounter bore me,” he answers truthfully, planting a tantalizing trail of kisses along my neck.
I close my eyes and lean into his touch. “That’s harsh.”
His breath tickles me as he gives a short laugh in response. “Yes, well, it is what it is.” His tongue flicks against my skin, and I moan. “The women of high society are often meek or narcissistic, and I don’t care for either. I prefer a little fire in my women.” He pulls back slightly and begins running his fingers through my hair. “I never mentioned I like what you’ve done with your hair.”
I frown, momentarily puzzled. Then I remember he’s the one responsible for my involvement in the case, so he must have seen a picture of me with long hair. My thick, dark hair is now a scandalous length, falling unevenly below my jaw, and it’s quite the controversy whenever I attend any of the Elite’s private events. Every other woman keeps their hair long so they can pin it up in popular hairstyles with frivolous hats. It’s something I never cared about even at the pleasure house. Besides, concubines don’t wear hats.
Icarus’s eyes flicker to my lips, the desire to kiss me evident in the softening of his gaze. Our lips meet, soft and hesitant at first. Then, he draws closer and deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against mine as his lust washes over me. My own arousal rises up to greet him in equal vigour, yet nervous thoughts flutter to the front of my mind, prohibiting me from completely relenting my control.
I pull away briefly. “Won’t someone walk in?”
“No.”
“What about Jonathan?”
“Jonathan is at his own home.” He breaks our kiss and stands, pulling me up with him. “But I suppose we’ll be more comfortable upstairs. What do you say, Moira?”
When I hesitate, he leans forward and kisses my chest, creeping lower toward my cleavage—a promise of what’s to come.
“Take me upstairs,” I moan softly.
I follow him up the staircase, my anxiety returning with each step. But the moment we enter his bedroom, his lips melt against mine and dissolve my unease. His hands are confident, deftly removing my dress and untying my corset. I try not to think of how he acquired his confidence and simply relish in the feel of his hands caressing my curves. He both smells and tastes delicious, and he lets me know he thinks the same of me. He loves the feel of my body against his, but wants more. Once we’re both naked, he guides me onto the bed and diverts his attention to parts of my body other than my lips. I moan as he creeps lower and lower.
I think I cry out a profanity, but I can’t be sure. My mind is slipping away from coherent thought, relishing in every single sensation. When he introduces his fingers into the mix of tongue and lips, I’m delirious with pleasure. Some of my clients liked to explore my body, but it was never to bring me to climax. Icarus certainly knows his way around a woman’s body, so much so, I’m soon contracting in a glorious pulse of orgasmic pleasure. It’s been a long time since I’ve had an orgasm, especially one that climatic. The moment the waves settle, I’m drunk on drowsy content. Still, I manage to prop myself up, intent on showing him what I can do with my mouth. He stops me and gently pushes me back onto the bed.
“I’d prefer to have you this way if you don’t mind.”
He’s eager to burrow himself deep inside me, and it’s a desire that borders on a possessive need to claim me. A part of me warns me I should be concerned by that, yet I’m too satiated to argue. So I consent. When he pulls out his own contraceptive, I’m grateful. Mine is back at the detective’s townhouse, and I have no intention of getting pregnant. He slides into me slowly and lifts himself up so all his weight is on his knees. His eyes rake over my body, devouring me with their profound lust. As he moves in a slow rocking motion, he rubs the pad of his thumb in teasing circles over my clitoris. His movements eventually become more fervent, and he moans in pleasure when his body contracts in his release.
His features relax into a smooth plain of content, and he pulls out of me, disappearing to the other side of the bed. I roll over onto my stomach, stretching out my limbs in a lazy gesture. I smile, but when I inhale deeply, I catch the faint scent of smoke. My gaze cuts to Icarus with evident surprise. He’s lying on his back with a cigarette in his hand, smoky vines slithering up to the ceiling, and I immediately cringe and my previous calm vanishes. Both the sight and the smell remind me of Keenan—someone I don’t want to think about at the moment.
“Can you please put that out?” I ask.
Icarus glances sideways at me and chuckles with pleasure. “Anything for you, Moira.”
Once the cigarette is extinguished, he creeps toward me and props himself up on his elbow. His fingers are once again on me, yet this time they’re content in seducing my back with shivers, his fingertips trailing an elaborate design along my spine. He finds everything about me beautiful and has waited a long time to have me in his bed. I no longer sense the possessive need that had unsettled me earlier, so it must have been yet another thing I imagined. I decide to throw him a bone and stroke that ego of his.
“Well, I have to admit you lived up to your word.”
“I’m glad I could accommodate you.” He glances at my face, his lips twitching with mischievous intent. “I hope I didn’t stir up any trouble between you and the detective.”
I snort, because it’s a lie. “That’s exactly what you wanted.”
A soft laugh escapes him, and he plants a tender kiss on my shoulder. “Yes, I admit it may have been a side desire of mine, but I assure you my foremost intention was to get you into my bed.”
I lift a brow. “And now that you’ve had me?”
“Well, that is entirely up to you. But if I have my way, you’ll be back for more.”
My lips curve in a teasing smirk. “We’ll see.”
“Ah, Moira, you sure know how to kill a man’s ego.” He offers me a convincingly wounded expression. “And here I was willing to admit I can’t keep my hands off you and that your scent will haunt me in my dreams.”
I bury my face in the sheets and burst out in laughter. “God, do other women fall for this?”
His eyes narrow threateningly before he abruptly rolls me over, pinning me beneath his unyielding body. I squirm, but we both know I’m only pretending. His grip on my wrists loosens, and I find myself pulled into the warmth of the rich amber of his eyes. I feel a momentary sense of déjà vu before it disappears, slipping away from my grasp. I sense the usual constant shift as his mind moves from
thought to thought, and I’m surprised by how easy it is to be with him.
He plants a soft kiss on my lips. “Actually, yes. Most women do fall for that. I suppose that’s another thing I like about you.”
“You’re not so bad yourself.”
My words don’t fully convince him, and he gives me a look like he could force the truth out of me. If he were an empath, I would be immediately wary of his look. But he’s not, so my muscles relax along with the barriers around my mind. I give him an enticing smile and wrap my legs around his. This way, we’re both pinned. I wiggle my hips suggestively beneath him.
“I like what you do with your hands,” I whisper seductively.
“Is that so?” His brow rises high on his forehead, and I can feel his arousal once more. “Just my hands, Moira?”
“Well, no. I also like what you do with that tongue of yours.”
* * *
Afterwards, I’m extremely sore. I honestly didn’t think I had it in me to go a second time, but, like I said, Icarus knows a woman’s body well enough to slowly build it up again. By the time I’m sitting in his motor vehicle, I recall my intention had been to wheedle information out of Icarus concerning Jonathan. I had been completely caught up in my own pleasure, but I suppose that was mostly the point. And did he ever deliver. I’m actually giddy on the ride back to the detective’s house—that is, until my mind betrays me by thinking about the man inside the brick building. My next thoughts tumble forward disconcertingly, jolting me out of my pleasant mood. What if he’s awake? Please, don’t be awake. Why do I even care? He made himself perfectly clear last night.
Icarus’s voice pulls me out of my spiralling unease. “I hope to see you again soon, Moira.”
“You will,” I say, smiling. “Goodnight, Icarus.”
I exit his motor vehicle and tentatively make my way toward Keenan’s front steps. When I knock, Mrs. Whitmore opens the door. Her gaze sweeps the distance to catch Mr. Hayes before he drives away, and she begins mumbling again about propriety. I ignore her, simply grateful Keenan is nowhere in sight. Besides, I don’t care what she thinks of me. She thankfully slips away, and I make a dash up the stairs. I haven’t even made it halfway when the door to the detective’s study opens, the creaking of the wood sending an ominous shiver through me that stills me in place. Of course he wouldn’t be asleep; the man suffers from insomnia.
Keenan’s voice stops me from climbing the next step. “Ah, you’re finished. I hope you had a pleasant evening with Mr. Hayes.”
He’s drunk. I can tell without having to turn around and see the half-empty glass in his hand. Nevertheless, I still turn to face him. He’s leaning against the wall—for support? And his eyes are as unyielding as ever, despite his intoxicated state. They’re accusing even though he’s drowning in his own guilt, and I’m suddenly angry with him again. It would be a lot easier if he was actually as emotionless as he had wanted me to believe earlier. Then I wouldn’t fret over the disorientation he spins me into.
“I did.” My voice comes out peevishly, and I can’t stop myself from sharing the thoughts I’ve been careful to keep to myself since last night. “Unlike some people, he doesn’t consider me an annoying distraction or despise me for it. He actually enjoys my company.”
An emotion manages to crack through his stoicism, but it’s one I hadn’t expected. He’s confused, but I’m not about to explain. I sigh in frustration, which manages to sound more like an exasperated grunt. I told myself it was best if we kept our relationship professional, yet Keenan always somehow manages to bring out my most volatile side. When I turn to leave, he grabs my arm and pulls me closer.
“Wait.” The moment he realizes he’s grabbed me, he abruptly releases my arm. Apparently someone doesn’t want me reading their thoughts. “Are you accusing me of finding you annoying and despising you for distracting me?”
“Really, Detective, I thought you were more intelligent.”
The intermingling scent of smoke and alcohol permeates the air around him, as if he has spent hours basking in the delight his vices have to offer, and I wonder if he’s been in his study ever since he had left Mr. Harrison’s private event. The smell should repel me, yet it somehow manages to do the opposite. I catch myself leaning forward, seeking the warmth of his body, when I should be moving away from him. Or possibly it’s those green eyes that always manage to undo me. Regardless of the cause, I can’t seem to escape my attraction for him, which infuriates me further.
“Is that what this is about, Moira?” His bewilderment quickly settles into exasperation, and I get a taste of my own temper mirrored back at me. “Well, allow me to clarify–”
“Please, do.”
“Yes, I find you infuriating—excruciatingly so,” he continues, though I have to admit it’s not exactly what I wanted to hear. “You’re outspoken and are constantly provoking me with your crude or self-deprecating statements. And then you continue to goad me by flaunting your sexuality in my face on a daily basis. When I refuse to take the bait, you get upset. And if I were to bite, I imagine you would resent me still.”
He draws closer, pitching his voice lower. “And, yes, you are a distraction. Because, when I should be concentrating on the case, I’m thinking of you instead. Does that answer any questions you may have had?”
“Yes,” I hiss, when in reality I’m more baffled than ever.
We stare silently at one another, both of us fuming and unwilling to show any sign of submission by glancing away. When he drops his head forward, I’m immediately paralyzed. My resentment dissipates, quickly replaced with wide-eyed anticipation for his next move. Despite the slight scowl marring his face, he intends to kiss me. I’m incredulous, especially since he had just spent his breath explaining in great detail the extent of his annoyance over me.
His lips are so close to mine I can already taste the alcohol on my tongue, but instead of closing the distance, he pauses a breath away from me. “You smell like him.”
The tone of his voice is acrimonious, so I respond in turn. “You don’t smell too good yourself.”
Our breaths mingle together in hostility as neither one of us moves, his lips still hovering an inch away from mine. A part of me wants to clutch his hair and draw him close, while the other part of me, sitting in the dark corner, insists I walk away. But my body obeys neither command, leaving me momentarily trapped beneath a spell of paralysis.
His eyes flicker away from my lips, and his voice has returned to its usual calm tone. “Do you enjoy taunting me, Moira?”
I lift my chin a little higher. “I could ask the same of you.”
“Then we should call it a night.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
When he still refuses to move an inch, I force myself to turn away and casually ascend the stairs. In reality, I want to run up the rest of the way. But I manage to remain calm enough the entire distance to my bedroom and even successfully close my door without making my frustration known. The euphoric feeling I had acquired after my time with Mr. Hayes has now vanished. The realization I have to stay here until the Phoenix is found fills me with dread. It means I’ll have to endure weeks—possibly even months—in the detective’s presence with him demanding so much but yielding so little.
6
I don’t consider myself a sadistic person, yet I’m once again standing before the legislature building about to watch someone die. A loud bell resounds through the square as the clock high up on the tower informs the citizens of Braxton that it’s noon, but the people standing around the platform that has been momentarily erected before the government building aren’t paying attention to the time. Their thoughts are solely focused on the man in chains who is staring defiantly at the mob. Several emotions swirl around me, and my head throbs from the external tension. The crowd’s full of rage, Anthony’s indignant, his strong features set into a grimace, and, combined, the emotions press upon me and make me ill.
Why did I come here? Was it to offer the condemn
ed person comfort as I once had done for Rachel? No, this man doesn’t deserve any compassion I may have. Did I come here to stand amongst the crowd to bear witness to his death for the two women who lie buried in the cemetery—the very ones who were unfortunate enough to be his victims? It certainly feels closer to the truth. Or have I come here to see him punished for what he was about to do to me? Yes, that’s definitely a part of it as well. Still, I can’t shake the feeling there’s something more. There has to be, because surely I didn’t come here just to watch someone die.
Anthony’s pain will be brief, not enough to compensate for the agony he had imposed on Ginny, Rebekah, and their families. He won’t feel an ounce of remorse for his crimes. In fact, he resents the crowd, especially the detective and I. We are the reason he is at the mercy of a noose and will soon no longer exist, and he still refuses to account for his transgressions. I loathe everything about him, yet I can’t seem to summon my hate. I try, reaching down into the pit of my most volatile emotions in search of anger, disgust, and condemnation. Nothing. I should have come up with something, but all I manage to grasp is sorrow. The emotion is thick and viscous, clinging to my fingertips. Desperate, I wipe my hands on my dress in an attempt to free myself of the wretched feeling. I do not pity this man; I can’t. He’s a rapist and a murderer. If anything, he deserves to die.
The moment Anthony freefalls into the air my gloom has settled over me, and I feel as if my own body hangs at the end of a rope. Now that he’s dead, it’s possible my melancholy will dissipate. I turn to face Keenan only to find him examining me. It’s been a couple of days since I slept with Mr. Hayes, and since then, my relationship with the detective feels as if it’s about to combust. We haven’t exploded yet, but I suspect one of us will catch fire soon. I hope it’s him, because I can’t stand another minute of his perpetual mask of decorum.
The Pawn of the Phoenix (The Memory Collector Series Book 2) Page 7