King of the Castle

by Heather Graham

  “Justin…”

  It was barely a whisper, and it was quickly silenced as he lowered his mouth to hers. His lips met the quivering softness of hers, and their breath mingled with the bittersweet beauty of the kiss. A sudden rush of tenderness had brought him to her, but then it passed and a storm began to rage, stripping away time and pretense and inhibition.

  Justin had been waiting for eight years. For a lifetime.

  Her lips parted beneath his, and his tongue began to delve and probe, to cajole and explore, while his arms, trembling, swept around her, dragging her against him. She was soft and warm, her heart pounding, and through the soft knit of her shirt and the cotton of his shirt he could feel her breasts against his chest. He could feel her nipples harden, and it was as if something inside him soared and exploded. His fingers were in her hair, and it was like silk cascading down around him. He had to let her go. He had to step back, to lift his mouth from hers. He had to put some distance between them or…

  “Oh…”

  It was the softest, most provocative sound he had ever heard. He did draw away, but only an inch, and only for a second. He stared into her eyes and thought of what she had done, and of all that she was still hiding from him, and then those thoughts fled, because only one thing really mattered to him now, and that was raw desire. But it was more, too, because despite all the fever and gut-wrenching need he felt, he could never see her, never touch her, never inhale the sweet scent of her, without being overwhelmed by tenderness.

  And now…

  Her hair was wild and beautiful, a halo to frame the lustrous magic of her eyes. Her neck was slender, and he could see the beat of her pulse, a throbbing that caused him to wet lips that had gone dry, to straighten and feel as if his body had tautened to steel.

  “Lunch.” She merely mouthed the word; there was no sound to it. Her lips were still parted, her immense eyes were still on him, and her mouth was ever so slightly damp and shining from his kiss. Her breasts were rising and falling rapidly, and the velvet whisper of her breath fell against his cheek.

  This can’t be right, Kit thought, but she couldn’t move, and she found herself praying that Justin would be as arrogant and confident as she accused him of being. She prayed that he would touch her again.

  “Lunch.” His voice faltered, and the rich baritone was husky, but at least he managed to give substance to the word.

  His lips against hers, the flagrant foray his tongue had made deep into her mouth, had stolen breath and sanity from her. She could still feel his body against hers, and she thought she would die if he didn’t touch her again.

  And then he did.

  He smiled, slowly, ruefully, and stretched out his arm, his fingers lacing into the hair at her nape, pulling her toward him. He brushed a kiss against the top of her head and whispered, “Who are we kidding?”

  And then his touch was no longer gentle. His finger caught her chin and lifted it, and when his lips seared hers again she nearly cried out at the intensity of the hunger, the need, he aroused in her. She clung to him, eager to meet and savor each thrust of his tongue, to luxuriate in the strength of her passion for him.

  She felt his hand sliding beneath her shirt to the bare flesh of her midriff. Her skin seemed to burn with his touch. Then his hand covered her breast, his fingers teasing over the lacy fabric of her bra, then slipping beneath it, too. His thumb coursed over her nipple, and she leaned against him, hungering for more of his kiss, of his touch.

  Then he drew them both down to the soft hearth rug, and as he placed her there, he spread her hair out around her, smiling. And then she missed his kiss, missed that ardent pressure of lips against hers. He had drawn back and begun stripping away his tailored shirt, and when he spoke, his voice was rough with emotion.

  “There’s nothing between us now, Kit. No drug, no force—and no pretense.”

  She nodded, because she couldn’t speak. And because his shirt was gone and she had to put her hand out, had to place her palm against the rippling muscle and crisp black hair on his chest. She had to move her fingers in fascination over his flesh, his nipples, his ribs, until he grasped her fingers and brought them to his lips. He kissed them and suckled them, and she inhaled sharply. He was wrong, she thought. She was drugged; no force on earth could affect her more potently than the sight and feel of him.

  Groaning, he quickly kicked his shoes and socks away, then hurriedly shimmied out of his jeans and briefs. And then he looked at her with amazement, as if he couldn’t believe she was still clothed when he was entirely naked.

  Magnificently naked, she thought, and she couldn’t even tell him that just the sight of him was enough to paralyze her. His body was sleek and muscled, lean and fascinating. And his desire for her was completely evident. He wasn’t even blushing, while she was sure she was turning a dozen shades of red.

  “Katherine…?”

  It was both a question and a reproach, but it was spoken with tenderness and humor—and hunger. No one else ever said her name quite that way, in that deep, haunting tenor and with that trace of a lilt that proclaimed him Ireland’s own. Her name became a sensual caress on his lips.

  And then he touched her again.

  He slipped off her boots, then arrogantly stripped away her skirt and stockings and panties with one sweeping gesture. His hands against the flesh of her thighs were hot, and she gasped for breath as she reveled in the sensation. He pulled her up to lift the shirt over her head, but suddenly he became fascinated with her kneecap. And his kiss didn’t stop there. It grazed against her inner thigh, and she was suddenly neither silent nor still, but whispering his name urgently, fumbling out of her shirt and moving into his arms.

  His fingers found the hook of her bra, and her breasts fell into his hands like a gift of ripe fruit. His kisses tarried there while she wrapped her arms around him and nipped his shoulders with a shuddering, quivering rapture. This couldn’t be true. It felt so good to be here, to be in his arms, to give herself up to sensual fires raging through her….

  She felt as if this was the most beautiful moment she would ever know in her life. It was as if they had both been deprived forever.

  Justin marveled at the silkiness of her hair, the way it fell over his flesh and caressed him. He savored the taste of her flesh, the rounded weight of her breasts, the supple shape of her calves and her thighs, and the sensual curve of her hips.

  To him, their lovemaking was like a miracle, as she wound her long legs around him and stared at him with eyes that were both sultry and innocent. She shivered and gasped and wet her lips, closing her eyes with the depth of her passion, and closing her body around him as he thrust into her. He felt sheathed in silk, hot and wet, sheathed in her body. Her eyes met his, matching his urgency, matching his need. And that honesty had cost her, he knew, and that made the moment even more beautiful.

  She was incapable of holding back. She had to touch him, had to run her fingers along his back, had to cling to him while he moved within her, filling her with pleasure so intense that she could scarcely bear it. She kept her eyes on him, because she had to see his face—taut, teeth clenched, muscles straining. His eyes, too, were burning with the heat of his desire. Then her vision blurred, because he kissed her. His tongue filled her mouth as his body filled hers, and then the molten pleasure burst through her. Volatile shudders swept through her with the force of her release, and she moaned his name aloud as he joined her at the peak.

  It was long minutes before he pulled away from her. They were both damp from the passion they had generated, and she flushed slightly, but she didn’t look away from him. She merely smiled shyly and stroked his cheek.

  He caught her hand, kissed the back, then held it against his cheek. “Promise me one thing, Katherine.”

  “What?” she asked hoarsely.

  “That you’ll not run away again. Promise me. Swear to it. Because I’ll find you this time, you know.”

  She smiled at him. She was afraid that she was goi
ng to cry because it had been so good between them, and because it was still so good to be here with him, both of them naked and comfortable and not at all afraid.

  “I swear it,” she vowed. But he was staring at her so intently that she was a little bit nervous, and she murmured, “Do you…do you still want to go to lunch?”

  He didn’t laugh; he only kissed her lips. “What is it? A loaf of bread, a jug of wine—and thou?” He smiled. “Nay, lass, it’s not lunch I want. I want time. Time with you. All the time that I’ve lost.”

  There was nothing for her to say—because all she wanted was him.

  CHAPTER 7

  Justin lay on the bed, his bronzed torso very dark against the crisp white of the sheets. His fingers were idly laced behind his head, and he was leaning comfortably against two plump pillows. His lashes fell over half-closed eyes that appeared lazy, but were in truth narrowed in speculation. He hardened himself against emotion as he watched Kit.

  It had been a week since they had first come here to the cottage. A week in which they had spent nearly all their time together. Discreetly, of course, since she did have a young son. And they both had work that couldn’t be ignored. But not a day had passed in which they hadn’t seen one another, hadn’t given in to the strength of the feelings that lay between them.

  It had been a week of discovery. By silent agreement, nothing ugly and nothing frightening—and certainly nothing painful—had been discussed. Even when he had shown Kit the bolts on the door and explained the window catches, neither of them had mentioned the reason why it was so important for her to keep everything locked. Nor did they do so when he showed her the instant-dial lines on the phone: one instantly rang his house, a second got Constable Liam O’Grady’s office, a third would reach Barney Canail, and as a last safeguard, a fourth contacted Jamie Jameson.

  They hadn’t talked about the past, only the present. Kit had made no confessions, nor had she even intimated that she might need to confess, and that made Justin angry.

  At times he felt wearily resigned, so he watched her, as he was doing now. It hadn’t been so long, he told himself. Not really. They’d seen each other daily, but only twice had they had a chance to throw caution and discretion to the winds and give in to their desire.

  And now they had tonight.

  Mike was away on a school field trip. It had been difficult for Kit to let him go, Justin knew, and he had felt a few twinges himself. But not only was Douglas Johnston in charge of the group, Molly had gone along with them, and so had Barney Canail, who had left his deputy in charge of his department.

  So they were alone. Completely alone. And again, by tacit agreement, they had planned a quiet evening, a domestic evening, just like an old married couple. He’d brought flowers and wine, while Kit had prepared a wonderful beef Wellington with parslied potatoes and a green salad, and they’d eaten by candlelight. Dinner had been wonderfully romantic, their knees touching beneath the table, one of her stockinged feet occasionally brushing over his ankle, his fingers curling over hers where they lay on top of the tablecloth. She had laughed a lot, but nervously, filling him with desire. Vivaldi had played softly on the stereo, and they had discussed movies and plays and music, and been delighted by both their shared likes and the spirit of their disputes.

  She’d worn silk, a floor-length gown in soft violet, trimmed at the bodice and hem and sleeves with blue. It highlighted the fire in her hair and the color of her eyes, and it made it difficult for him to open the wine, to play the part of the civilized gentleman.

  That role had come to an end after dinner. He had been tied in knots, and she had suggested coffee before the fire. He’d caught her hand and said that he’d rather have his coffee later, and in spite of the fact that they were coming to know one another very well, Kit had flushed the color of a winter apple. Her lashes had fallen over the dazzle of her eyes, and she had demurely excused herself to disappear up the stairs.

  And she was still where he had found her ten minutes ago, sitting at the dressing table, brushing out her hair. The blue silk was gone, and she was wearing an even more provocative costume, some kind of shimmering gauze in a soft shade of mauve. It revealed more than it concealed. The lights were low, but he could see her breasts with each movement that she made. She had beautiful breasts, full and exquisitely rounded, but firm and crested in the most exotic shade of rose that he had ever seen, a shade heightened to a dusky mystery by the mauve that lay against her skin as softly as a cloud.

  Enough was enough, Justin finally decided. He had tossed his own clothing in a haphazard pile in the corner, and if she didn’t get up and come to bed soon, he was going to attack her like a maddened animal.

  He smiled slightly, remembering the first night he had seen her, running across the moor in gossamer white. She had been like a fantasy come to life, hauntingly young and innocent and beautiful, an enchantress out of the mist. He would never forget her eyes that night, shy and embarrassed and huge, with a sheen of tears and a touch of fear. And then, of course, they’d found Michael.

  Everything that had followed had been bittersweet. He’d never meant to fall in love with her. He was the O’Niall—and the name brought responsibility with it. That was an old-fashioned idea, perhaps, but it was still something that came along with the castle, with the land, with the inheritance of his blood. He had been twenty-eight, too old for an innocent eighteen-year-old, even if she was a widow.

  Especially because she was a widow. She had been hurt and lost and confused, and he had meant to be her friend. For a while he had succeeded. But only for a while. God, it was so difficult to look back.

  Why did you leave me? he wanted to ask. Why didn’t you come back?

  He hadn’t meant to fall in love with her. Not then, not now. But he’d spent the last eight years as a free man, refusing to tie himself down, almost as if he’d known, as if he’d been waiting for her to come back to him. He’d never wanted anyone so completely. Never ached to hold a woman, to know her spirit, to hear her laughter, to wake beside her time and time again. As soon as he had seen her at the cemetery, he had known that he had to touch her again. Even when he’d told her to leave, he’d never intended to let her get very far, because there was still the other matter, of course.

  He understood why she had left him. He had known that she had loved her husband and had been too young to understand that letting herself feel again wasn’t treachery, that desire and the need to touch could not be buried forever.

  True, they had been drugged. He knew that. But he wasn’t as perplexed as Kit. He was sure that the tea had been meant only to give her a gentle sleep and sweet dreams, to ease away the anguish in her soul.

  He tightened his fingers behind his head. She was staring into the mirror, but he could tell that she wasn’t really seeing anything. Her brush was held idly in her hand, and he wondered whether she, too, was reflecting on the past and wondering at its part in the future.

  She hadn’t really changed much. She had a veneer of sophistication now, and stylish clothes. Her hair was still long, but layered slightly and streaked with blonde. She was independent; after all, she lived in New York City. But her eyes…

  They were still the same. Beautiful, innocent, exotic. They could sizzle, could caress. They were like the sky, wide and honest, yet he knew that the honesty wasn’t real. And oh, how that hurt.

  She moved, just slightly. The slinky nightgown caught the light, and she was so erotically outlined that Justin exhaled a soft oath and tossed the covers away, then got to his feet. Alarmed, she lifted her eyes to his in the mirror.

  He smiled, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. It was slightly menacing, because he didn’t think he could take any more of the torture she was putting him through.

  “Justin…”

  His hands fell to her shoulders. He bent down and pressed his lips against her, savoring the taste of her flesh, running the tip of his tongue over the delicious satin of her skin. He kissed her throat, grazing his teet
h against it. He felt her tremble, heard the sharp intake of her breath, and felt his own body surge and tighten in response.

  Their eyes met in the mirror again, and he smiled, sliding his palms over her shoulders and then lower, until he cupped her breasts. A flush rose to her cheeks, but she seemed unable to break their mirrored gaze. He rubbed his thumbs over her nipples, which hardened beneath the fabric of her gown, and swallowed sharply when her head fell back against his belly and her hair swung tauntingly against his arousal.

  “What are you doing?” he managed to ask with soft humor.

  “I—I thought we should talk,” she whispered.

  “Can’t we talk later?” he asked.

  “I—”

  He bent over her, taking her left nipple, fabric and all, into his mouth, laving it with erotic strokes of his tongue. He heard her breath catch in her throat and reveled in the way her nipple hardened like a luscious pearl.

  “I…oh…”

  She twisted against him; he raised his head, and she buried her face against his belly, thrusting kisses against it, making him shudder with the intense pleasure that swept through him as she darted the hot, wet tip of her tongue across his flesh. He threaded his fingers through her hair, his muscles tightening, his face a mask of desire.

  “Katherine…”

  She rubbed her head against him, covering him in the silky cascade of her hair, boldly exploring his reactions further and bringing the provocative allure of her damp kisses and caresses ever more intimately against him until she knew all of him. He whispered her name wildly, then wrenched her from the chair and into his arms. He tore heedlessly at the gown she was wearing, and she protested breathlessly.

  “I bought this just for you! To be seductive and—”

  “You’ve achieved it,” he said briefly, and the mauve gown fluttered to the floor. His lips seared hers, while he crushed his body to hers and his hands moved everywhere. She didn’t remember falling onto the bed—she was just there, and he was with her, over her, blanketing her. She adored the feel of him, the steely hardness of his body, the wonderful way they fit together. She cried out softly when he entered her, because it felt so good, so shattering, so complete. And when he began to move she lost all thought, eager only to meet each stroke, each thrust, to climb with him toward the peak, the culmination of all desire.