Once he was completely wet and slick with her saliva, she went crazy on him, taking him deep into her mouth, working his length with one hand and rolling his balls gently in the other. As he let his head fall back, she sighed with delight. He tasted wonderful.
Through no fault of her own, she was lost in her claiming of him. As if under the influence of a spell, the feel of his textured flesh in her mouth, the carnal act of consuming him was heady and surreal. She’d dreamed about men, fantasized about what sex would be like, how she would behave, but this was real and it was far more exhilarating than anything she ever imagined.
The clock on the mantel called her back. Reality regained dominion. Morgan stopped abruptly and pushed him down on the bed. Locking eyes with him, she climbed on top of him. She took his hands, kissed them, brushed his fingers against her lips and set them high above his head. Pulling her sash from around her waist, she used it to secure his wrists to the headboard.
Luckily, he did not fight her but chuckled in a low bedroom voice that made fire pool between her legs. “Kinky girl.”
At last his thoroughly male body was at her disposal. His chest, created by a master sculptor’s hand, lay bare and exposed to her, his muscled arms stretched to their limits and flexed, the divide of his abdominals into six distinct chambers and the fullness of his generous cock made her mouth water. She didn’t care if it was wrong; she desperately wanted him inside her. Wanted to consume him the way he’d consumed her, every waking thought. Her dreams.
Her life.
More than anything, she wanted him to banish the ache deep within her and make it go away.
But first things first. At long last, she had come to the moment of her big reveal. With her pelvis nestled against his erection, she removed the brunette wig and shook her long, red-blonde hair free of its artificial confines. It felt good to take it off, for the air to cool her scalp.
The male’s hooded brow furrowed in an instant. “Wha’ the hell?”
Morgan squinted back at him with ferocious malice. “What’s the matter, don’t you recognize me?”
“God in heaven.”
“Not quite.”
Conall shook his head in disbelief. “You’re dead.”
She imagined what he must have been thinking and smiled. What had he done to invite a fire-headed succubus into his house, into his bed? In the event he’d forgotten, she was going to refresh his memory. He’d stalked, raped and silenced her twin sister. “Oh I’m very much alive, I assure you. And so are you—but not for long.”
Then he saw the dagger and his eyes went wide with alarm. “Are you insane?”
Finally…finally, Megan.
Conall tugged against his restraints. “Shit a brick!”
Maintaining her balance as if riding an angry bull, she moved in sync with his struggle. “Any last requests?”
A hoarse sigh of exasperation was his first response. She watched his eyes search the room for aid he knew would not come. Screaming was pointless. Fighting was impossible. Fascinated by the myriad emotions playing out on his face, she watched him thinking, praying and at last yielding.
Draped in a sheen of sweat that made her skin shimmer like muted bronze, she watched his gaze settle on her, the lethal stranger he’d invited to his bed. His breathing steadied, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest the only discernible movement in the room.
“Fuck me…”
Morgan, entranced by the vision at arm’s length, couldn’t answer right away. Ciaran, Conall, it made no difference. Whoever he was, the man was about to die and he was asking for sex. “Now who’s insane?”
“No more insane than you. A perfect match, I’d say,” he remarked in the Scottish brogue that, like it or not, thrilled her from head to toe.
It was crazy. So why was she entertaining it? The idea of hurting him with the knife appealed to her more than anything. The idea of hurting him with sex appealed to her more than she wanted to admit. Hurting him in any way whatsoever was her ultimate goal.
“Admit it. You feel it too.” He thrust his hips and looked at her with his magnetic emerald eyes. “From the moment you walked up to me.”
No…
“You felt it.”
In an act of mutiny, arousal flooded her pussy at his declaration. And he knew it, because his struggle ceased and his voice lowered to an unsettling calm. “No one need ever know.”
Damn straight. She was going to make fucking sure of that.
Without further hesitation, she pressed her pelvis against him, grinding herself on the rigid shaft that united them in carnal lust. “No. They don’t.”
Morgan slipped the blade between her breasts and turned it, the black lace cups of her bra cleaved in two. Keeping her eyes on him, she slipped out of the now-useless garment and threw it aside, her soft pastel nipples hardening to pink topaz. She cinched the sides of her skirt high enough to reveal she wore nothing beneath it, allowing him a view of her naked pussy, the small v-shaped tuft of blonde hair that directed his gaze farther downward to her clit and swollen labia.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered breathlessly.
“Shut up.” Fueled by adrenaline, she moved between his muscular legs, grating her fingernails down them as she went, taking delight in the sound that escaped from the wall of his clenched teeth.
“Oh fuck…” He struggled to see her lips and tongue revisit his cock for seconds.
Inch by inch, she took him in, wetting his girth with the moisture of her hot mouth. God help her, he was scrumptious. Her head bobbed rhythmically up and down on him, her eyes occasionally drifting to his, making sure he watched her pleasure him. But he wasn’t alone in his rapture. Between her legs, a river of desire flowed.
Helpless, he twisted and writhed to no avail. His fight captivated her, his beautiful male form flexing and stressing under a suit of muscle and sinew, coated with sweat and determination. “Morgan…”
She stopped long enough to scan the area around them and pretended not to hear his cries, shrugging it off in a mocking display.
“Please, Morgan.”
Shameless, she looked at him but continued to manipulate him with her mouth and hands, teasing the slit on the head of his cock with her tongue. “Did you hear something?”
“Morgan, that feels too good. Please—”
“What was that?”
“God—please, Morgan. I’m begging you.”
“Hmm?” She sat up a little bit, rubbing her breasts against his shaft. Anything but look into his eyes, listen to his voice, his accent stronger now that he was under duress. “I’m sorry, what?”
Panting, Conall stretched and pulled his restraints to their limits, making the headboard creak and groan. “Fuck me, Morgan. Please, please fuck me.”
Intoxicated by his pleas but determined not to show it, she looked at him through a haze of heat and hatred. She would not be just another victim to him. He would not claim both her and her sister. It was his turn to be the victim.
Morgan moved onto him with lightning speed. Careless of how a man would feel inside her, she impaled herself on him in one shearing motion.
And screamed.
Grabbing a handful of his hair, she teased his mouth, agape in an ambivalence of pain and pleasure, with her tongue. But it was as much for her benefit, desperate to conceal her reaction to his penetration of her maidenhead.
“Jesus on toast.” He moaned, pulling against his restraints.
Working on instinct and what she’d read in books, sneaked from movies and internet web sites, she undulated against him, pushing the tender part of her as far away as she could. The pain of his body’s exquisite invasion within her dulled by the second. Unprepared for the sensations taking her body hostage, she had no recourse. She’d planned on the pain of sex, but not the pleasure hidden on the other side of it.
Helpless to thwart her body’s override on her brain, she let it guide her in deep undulations with his. Clutching his arms in her mindlessness, she w
as unaware of how she hurt him. Not that the man beneath her reported anything but fierce pleas that begged her to not to stop.
“Jesus Christ—you feel so good—I knew you would—I knew it—” he bit out, his gaze mesmerized by the pumping action of her body atop his. “I fucking knew it.”
She did too but would rather die than admit it. On an intuitive level, somewhere devoid of words or logic, she knew he complemented her, equaled her, fit her as though they’d been custom molded for each other. Desperate to release the mounting tension building within her, she screamed. It was more in response to the voice of ecstasy in her head that evicted every other thought than the man beneath her as she leaned back and fell down harder and harder on him.
“Fuck—” A low growl coiled in his throat, his voice a ghost of itself.
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” Tears streaming down her cheeks, she pushed and pulled, pushed and pulled until a squall rumbled somewhere deep inside her. Oblivious to what it might mean, she did not turn away from it but reached for it instead, ready to accept whatever force had her in its grip. If it destroyed her, so be it. If she came apart in a thousand tiny pieces, she was powerless to stop it.
“Morgan—I’m gonna come so fucking hard…” His voice cracked under the pressure of his impending release.
She made a frenzied attempt to cover his mouth. When her climax took hold, she squeezed her eyes shut and braced herself, completely mindless for one blissful moment. Her body jerked and slammed against him like an unnatural force, a wave crashing against a rock, shattering again and again like an echo.
Through a veil of tears, she listened to his groan reach a crescendo. Averting her eyes, she remembered the dagger white-knuckled in her hand, the tapered edges of the handle cutting lines into her skin.
Now…now, Morgan!
Thoughts of what Megan’s last night must have been like rushed over her. It had been raining heavily all week. She would have been wearing the galoshes their mother had bought her. That night she’d stayed awake working on a project that was due the next day. Running out of supplies, Megan, ever the perfectionist, made her way to the all-night bookstore across campus to put the finishing touches on what would have most assuredly been a stellar presentation.
Morgan remembered her sister telling her that her project partner, a young man on whom she had a crush, was out sick, suffering with the flu, and she was considering going by his apartment with homemade soup. She remembered the girlish giggle they shared when, in the comfortable offhand style only sisters could know, Morgan declared her twin would soon have the flu too.
She imagined the terror her sister had experienced her last night alive. At some point, she probably knew she was going to die. What had such a horror been like? It was too much for one person to shoulder alone. However, much to her heartache, she hadn’t awakened in the middle of the night to a psychic feeling of panic involving her twin. No premonition, no warning, no chance to beat it.
Not until later. Details about the crime implanted in her mind. Like taking a shower and waking up at the bathroom sink with a man’s name scrawled on the steamy mirror. No memory of doing it or why. Reliving Megan’s last moments over and over, feeling death enter her body. Living her life but carrying the spirit of her twin within her. Would Megan visit her once her killer was dead?
When her mother called in hysterics, her speech so garbled she couldn’t make sense of anything but the tone, Morgan knew something bad had happened. And since there were just the three of them in their little family and the two of them were on the phone, that left one possible conclusion. Megan Keevy. Age twenty-five. Attacked on her way back to her dorm room. Raped. Mutilated. Murdered. A short list of suspects. One arrest. No closure.
But Morgan Keevy had a suspect. And he was here.
Beneath her.
Inside her.
What was it about this monster masquerading as a man that had obtained her sister’s trust so easily? Was it the voice, friendly and disarming, the penetrating green eyes or his toothy grin employed yet again in luring Morgan to his bed? The same smile that fooled her sister into letting down her guard long enough for him to grab her, beat her and snuff the life out of her. Her body withdrew from his and the warm juices of their mating spilled out between them.
“My name is Morgan Keevy and I’ve come to kill you.”
She’d said it a thousand times in what seemed like a thousand hotel mirrors halfway around the world. For months she’d spent her entire college savings on plane tickets, taxis, rooms and information. In that short period of time she’d become a globetrotter, starting in Houston, booking a flight to London and points beyond, traveling throughout the remotest parts of Great Britain searching for Ciaran McCade. It took months to track him, always missing him by a few days or a few hundred miles. Finally she’d got word from a local innkeeper he’d left for Ireland. Another two weeks of hiding and waiting and at long last she gained on him. Morgan showed his picture to everyone. When they stopped talking and clammed up, she knew she was getting close. Now he was in the Outer Hebrides of Scotland. At a cottage out in the middle of nowhere.
Right here.
Right now.
Her arms floated high above her head and slammed down against his chest with all her strength, burying the dagger in the flesh below. The dying man screamed and kicked in rejection of what had to be unbelievable pain. She couldn’t help but wonder if his pain was anything like Megan’s. Unable to endure anymore, she grabbed a pillow and pressed it to his face, desperate to silence him once and for all.
Die. Dear God, why don’t you die?
She weathered the jerky flailing of his body as he fought for air. It seemed like a lifetime that Morgan pushed against him, praying for it to be over, waiting for the stillness that death promised. The movies were wrong. They were edited for time and content. They spared people the real horror of the real world. Smothering someone took an eternity.
At last, he went quiet. She was unable to move at first, frozen in position above him like a macabre statue. Halfway afraid that a remaining gasp of breath would bring him back to life and scare her to death, she watched him.
But she saw nothing. Nothing but a small pool of blood running from the fatal wound in his chest to the bed beneath them.
Sobbing, Morgan slid off him. Blinded and in a daze, she tumbled to the floor and covered her face in her hands. The shroud of finality wrapped itself around her like a concrete shawl. She was a murderer. Now she knew how it felt.
Through the steady stream of tears she gazed at the pile of clothes nearby. In a defeated slump she fell to the floor and saw the small flat leather wallet protruding from his jacket pocket. With shaking hands she reached for it, then reconsidered. Fingerprints. She couldn’t afford to leave behind such damning forensic evidence. While she was at it, she needed to wipe down the dagger. But first things first. Using a sock to cover her fingers, she managed to flip the billfold open. The idea seemed terribly morbid. She was going through a dead man’s things.
No way in hell she was seeing things clearly. Such a fate wasn’t possible. It had to be a delusion, a byproduct of the requisite lunacy necessary to commit murder. Stunned, she stared at Conall McCade’s plastic photo ID until it blurred out of focus. “No—please, God, no.”
Conall. Not Ciaran?
She had to get out of the house.
Had to.
But before she could, the dead man groaned.
Chapter Three
Conall came awake in a roar of pain. Because of the nearly full moon, he’d held back while he was with Morgan, not wanting to scare her with his primal responses. Now that he was in serious pain, however, he couldn’t be bothered to censor himself.
Fuck, his chest hurt. Lifting his head a little, he nudged the pillow from his face and it fell backward onto the floor. Now he could assess the damage. A dagger protruded from his chest as if he were a human hors d’oeuvre. A mix of sweat and feminine juices glistened like morning dew
on the patch of dark brown curls between his legs. The raging hard-on between his legs.
Pretty little Morgan Keevy was to blame for all the above.
Morgan Keevy, twin sister of Megan Keevy. Things were beginning to become clear to him now. It hadn’t been a coincidence that a beautiful woman picked him up in the pub. Rather, it was a woman hell-bent on revenge. She’d followed Ciaran all the way from Texas, for God’s sake.
If only she knew Ciaran the way he did. He was sick, imbalanced but not capable of killing someone.
Maybe it was the punctured flesh talking, but he couldn’t decide which was worse, her absence or the pain she left in her wake. This was a far cry from waking up together and the sweet yet awkward conversation he imagined they might have over the breakfast he would cook for her. And if he was lucky, round two. Minus the knife, that is.
The grim reality of his situation did nothing to dilute the fire in his groin. She hadn’t even let him come. And he’d never wanted to come more than when he’d been balls deep inside her. His cock twitched at the thought of fucking her again.
A sudden pang sent a sharp jolt of pain down his left side. The dagger above his heart.
Oh yeah.
My name is Morgan Keevy and I’ve come to kill you.
That was what she said. Thank God she hadn’t.
Scanning the bedroom, he searched for something he could use to free himself. It was no use. Even if he happened upon something, he would never be able to reach it. For some reason, his gaze kept returning to the closet. When his brother appeared abruptly from behind its doors, he understood why. He hoped he was delusional from blood loss.
“Tsk, tsk, brother. What did I tell you about picking up strange women at the pub?”
Conall went tense from head to toe. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, he groaned inwardly. So he was perfectly lucid. His twin brother had indeed stepped out of the closet, all six foot six inches of him. He knew his size and shape well. It was exactly like his own, after all. Ciaran was a little bigger, a scant inch taller but every bit his spitting image. But their true distinction wasn’t physical.
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