by Linda Howard
Then his mouth closed over hers and the last shred of restraint dissolved. The kiss was hard and deep and hungry, his tongue taking her mouth. Desire sizzled along her nerves, turned her warm and yielding and boneless. His free hand moved to her breasts, found her nipples through the layers of cloth, gently pinched them awake. He had her now; she wasn’t restraining him from any caress, and the clothing that kept his body from hers was suddenly maddening. She wanted the rest of it, all he had to give her, and with a burst of clarity, she knew she had to say what she wanted to say now. A minute from now would be too late.
The proof of how far gone she was came in the amount of willpower it took for her to tear her mouth from his. “We need to talk,” she said, her voice strained and husky.
He groaned and laughed at the same time. “Oh, God,” he muttered, frustration raw in his tone. “The four words guaranteed to strike fear in any man. Can’t it wait?”
“No—it’s about this. Us. Now.”
He heaved a sigh and pressed his forehead against hers. “Your timing is sadistic, you know that?”
Lorna slid her hands into the black silk of his hair, feeling the coolness of the strands, the heat of his scalp. “Your fault. I almost forgot.” Her tongue felt a little thick, her speech slower than normal. Yes, this was definitely his fault, all of it.
“Let’s have it, then.” Resignation lay heavy in the words, the resignation of a simple male who just wanted to have sex. She would have laughed, if not for the heavy pull of desire that threatened to overwhelm everything else.
She swallowed, struggled to get the words lined up in her head so she could say them coherently. “My answer…to whether or not we do this…depends on you.”
“I vote yes,” he replied, biting her earlobe.
“This mind-control thing…you have to stop. I can be your prisoner or your lover, but I won’t be both.”
He lifted his head then, his gaze going cool and sharp. “There’s no compulsion involved in this. I’m not forcing you.” Anger clipped his words.
“I know,” she said, drawing a shuddering breath. “I can tell the difference, believe me. It’s…I have to have the choice, whether to stay or go. The freedom has to be there. You can’t keep moving me around like a puppet.”
“It was necessary.”
“At first. I hated it then, I hate it now, but you did have valid reasons at first. You don’t now. I think you’re too used to having your way in everything, Dranir.”
“You would have run,” he said flatly.
“My choice.” She couldn’t bend on this. Dante Raintree was a force of nature; dealing with him in a relationship would be challenging enough even without his ability to chain her with a thought. He had to bow to her free will or their only relationship could be jailer and prisoner. “We’re equals…or we’re nothing.”
Reading him wasn’t easy, but she could see he didn’t like relinquishing control at all. Intuitively, she grasped his dilemma. On a purely intellectual basis, he understood. On a more primitive level, he didn’t want to lose her, and he was prepared to be as autocratic and heavy-handed as necessary.
“All or nothing.” She met his gaze, squaring up with him like fighters in a boxing ring. “You can’t use mind control on me ever again. I’m not your enemy. At some point you have to trust me, and that point is now. Or were you planning to keep me pinned forever?”
“Not forever.” He ground out the words. “Just until—”
“Until what?”
“Until you wanted to stay.”
She smiled at that rough admission and gripped both hands in his hair. “I want to stay,” she said simply, and kissed his chin. “But at some point I may want to go. You have to take that chance, and if that day does come, you have to let me go. I’m taking the same chance with you, that one day you may not want me around. I want your word. Promise me you’ll never use mind control on me again.”
She saw his fury and frustration, saw his jaw work as he ground his teeth. She knew what she was asking of him; giving up a power went against every instinct he had, as both a man and a Dranir. He lived in two worlds, both the normal and the paranormal, and in both he was boss. As understated as he kept things, he was still boss. If he hadn’t been the Raintree Dranir, his natural dominance would have been reined in more, but reality was what it was, and he was a king in that world.
Abruptly he dropped his arms from around her and stepped back. His eyes were narrowed and fierce. “You may go.”
Lorna barely controlled a protest at the loss of his touch, his heat. What was he saying? “Are you giving me your permission—or an order?”
“A promise.”
Breathing was abruptly difficult. Her lips trembled, and she firmed them, started to speak, but he lifted a hand to stop her. “One thing.”
“What?”
The green of his eyes almost glowed, they were so intent. “If you stay…the brakes are off.”
Fair warning, she thought dizzily, shivering a little in anticipation. “I’m staying,” she managed to say, taking half a step forward.
A half step was all she had time to take before he moved, an explosion of pent-up power that was now released from all constraint. If she was free, then so was he. He swung her off her feet and carried her into the bedroom, moving so fast her head swam. The slow, careful seduction was over, and all that was left was raw desire. He tossed her on the bed and followed her down, pulling at her clothes, his movements rough with urgency, even though she helped him, her own hands shaking as she dealt with buttons and zippers, hooks and laces. He jerked her shoes and jeans off as she fought to unbutton his shirt, peeled her underwear down her legs while she struggled to lower his zipper, hampered by the thrust of his erection.
He shoved his jeans and boxers down, and kicked them away. Lorna tried to reach for him, tried to stroke him, but he was a tidal wave that flattened her on the bed and crushed her under his heavy weight. His penetration wasn’t careful, it was hard and fast and powerful, taking him deep.
She gave a choked cry, her body shocked by the impact even as she rose to meet it. His heat burned her, inside and out. He pulled out, thrust in again, then again. Her brain stuttered a warning of what that heat meant, and she managed to say, “Condom.”
He swore, pulled out, and jerked open a drawer in the bedside table. He tore the first condom, rolling it on. Swearing even more, he slowed down, took more care with the second one. When he was safely sheathed, he pushed into her again, then held her crushed to him, their bodies straining together as relief shuddered through them. Tears rolled down her face. This wasn’t an orgasm, it was…pure relief, as if unrelenting pain had suddenly vanished. It was completion—not a sexual one, but something that went deeper, as if some part of her had been missing and suddenly was there.
It was being filled, when she hadn’t realized how empty she was; fed, when she hadn’t known she was hungry.
He rose, supporting his weight on his arms as he pulled back, then eased forward in a slow, deep thrust. “Don’t cry,” he murmured, kissing the tears from her wet face.
“I’m not,” she said. “It’s just leakage.”
“Ah.”
He said it as if he understood, and maybe he did. He snagged her gaze and held it as he moved in and out, drawing her response to him, going deep to find more. She was both relaxed and tense at the same time: relaxed because she knew he wasn’t going to leave her behind, and tense from the building pleasure.
It happened faster than she’d thought possible. Instead of hovering just out of reach, building slowly, she came hard in a rush of sensation that roared through her entire body. Dante slipped his own leash, driving fast and deep, and followed.
When she was able to breathe again, able to open her eyes, the first thing she saw was fire. Every candle in the room was flaming.
“Tell me why you denied your gift.”
They were lying entwined, her head on his shoulder, barely recovered from what had felt
so cataclysmic that neither of them had spoken for a long time. Instead they had been slowly stroking each other, touch replacing words, touches of reassurance and comfort, of silent joy.
She sighed, for the first time in her life feeling a little distance from the unhappiness of her childhood. “I think you already know. It’s not an original story, or an interesting one.”
“Probably not. Tell me anyway.”
She smiled against his shoulder, glad he wasn’t making any big deal of it, though the smile faded almost as fast as it had bloomed. Talking about her mother was difficult, even though it had been fifteen years since she’d last seen her. Maybe it would never be easy, but at least the pain and fear were less immediate.
“As bad as it was, a lot of kids have it worse. The only reason she didn’t abort me was so she could get that monthly check. She told me that every month when it came. She’d shake the envelope at me and say, ‘This is the only reason you’re alive, you freak.’ That check helped keep her in drugs and booze.”
He didn’t say anything, though his mouth tightened.
Her head found a more comfortable resting spot on his shoulder, and she nestled against him, soaking up his heat. She’d known he felt hot, but it was nice to know she hadn’t been imagining things. “It was constant slaps, and she’d throw things at me—cups, empty wine bottles, a can opener. Whatever was near. Once she threw a can of chicken noodle soup, hit me in the head, and knocked me out. I had a headache for days. And she wouldn’t let me have any of the soup.”
“How old were you?”
“That time…six, I think. I’d started school and discovered numbers. Sometimes I was so excited I’d have to tell someone what I’d learned about the numbers that day, and she was the only someone I had. She told my teacher I’d fallen and hit my head on the curb.”
“You’d have been better off in foster care,” he growled.
“I ended up there when I was sixteen. She took off one day and never came back. I remember…even though she’d made it plain how much she hated me, when she left it was as if part of me was missing, because she was what I knew. By that time I wasn’t helpless, but when I was little…no matter how bad it is, little kids will do anything to hold on to what passes for a family, you know?” She sighed. “I know I overreacted about the baby thing. I’m sorry. You said ‘baby,’ and that’s one of my triggers.”
A little smile curved his mouth. “Don’t get upset again, but I wasn’t joking. When a human mother gives birth to a Raintree baby, she becomes Raintree. No, I don’t understand the science of it. Something to do with hormones and the mixing of blood, and the baby being a genetic dominant. I’m not sure there is any science to explain it. Magic doesn’t need to be logical.”
The explanation intrigued her. Everything she’d learned about the Raintree intrigued her. It was such a different world, a different experience, and yet they existed normally within the regular world—not that the regular world knew about them, because if that ever came about, then their existence would not only not be normal but they might cease to exist at all. Lorna had few illusions about the world she lived in. “What about human men who have babies with Raintree women? What changes them?”
“Nothing,” Dante said. “They stay human.”
That didn’t seem fair, and she said so. Dante shrugged. “Life isn’t perfect. You deal with it.”
Wasn’t that the truth. She knew about dealing. She also knew that, right now, she was very happy.
The dozen or so candles in the room were putting out enough heat that she was beginning to be uncomfortable. Looking around at them, she realized that Dante and fire went hand in hand. She didn’t like fire, would always be afraid of it, but…life wasn’t perfect. You dealt with it.
“Can you put out those candles?” she asked.
He lifted his head from the pillow and looked at them, as if he hadn’t realized they were burning. “Damn. Yeah, no problem.” Just like that, they went out, the wicks gently smoking.
Lorna climbed on top of him and kissed him, smiling as she felt a leap of interest against her inner thigh. “Now, big boy, let’s see if you can light them again.”
TWENTY-TWO
Sunday morning
She had stayed.
Dante came back into the bedroom from the balcony where he’d met the sunrise, intense satisfaction filling him as he saw Lorna still peacefully asleep in his bed. Only the top half of her head was visible, dark red hair vivid against the white pillow, but he was acutely aware of what it meant for even that much to not be covered by the sheet.
She was feeling safer. Not completely safe, not yet, but safer. When he was in the bed with her, she slept stretched out, relaxed, cuddled against him. When he left the bed, though, within five minutes she was curled in a tight, protective ball. One day—maybe not this week or this month, or even this year, but one day—he hoped he could see her sprawled in sleep, head uncovered, maybe no covers at all. Then he would know she felt safe.
And when the day came that he didn’t feel the need to constantly check on her whereabouts, he would know that he felt safe, too.
He didn’t constantly check on her; his pride refused to let him do that to either her or himself, but the need, the anxiety, was always there.
On Wednesday she hadn’t gone with him. He’d called the Jaguar dealership and had a new car sent over, and she had stayed there to accept it. The salesman had called his cell phone to let him know delivery had been made, but Dante had expected Lorna to also call and let him know. She hadn’t. Since he had also had her own car—a dinged-up, slightly rusty red Corolla—delivered that morning, he’d been acutely aware that she was free, she had wheels, and she had cash in her pocket. If she wanted to leave, he couldn’t stop her. He’d given his word.
He’d wanted to call, just to reassure himself that she was still there, but he hadn’t. She could walk out as soon as the call ended, so talking to her at any given time was useless. The only thing he could do, would do, was hope. And pray.
He hadn’t cut his work short. No matter what happened, whether she stayed or left, the work had to be done. Consequently, it was almost sunset when he drove up to see her car still parked in his garage, with his brand-new Jaguar sitting outside, exposed to the sun and blowing grit. As he’d zoomed the Lotus into its slot, all he’d been aware of was a relief so intense that he’d almost been weak with it. Let the Jaguar sit out; seeing her Corolla still there was worth more to him than any car, no matter how expensive.
She’d met him at the kitchen door, wearing a pair of cutoffs and one of his silk shirts, a scowl on her face. “It’s eight-thirty. I’m starving. Do you work this late on a regular basis? Got any idea what we’re going to do for dinner?”
He’d laughed and pounced, and showed her exactly what he wanted to eat for dinner. She hadn’t said another word about food until after ten.
On Thursday, she’d gone to the hotel with him. Work was continuing at a frantic pace. He’d gotten the okay to bulldoze the charred ruins of the casino so he could begin rebuilding, and things were so hectic he’d actually delegated some authority to her, because he couldn’t be in two places at once. On a perverse level, he’d enjoyed watching her give orders to Al Franklin. Al, being Al, was sanguine about everything, but Lorna got a great deal of satisfaction from the arrangement, and he’d got a great deal of enjoyment from her satisfaction.
At lunch, they’d gone to his suite and lit candles. Twice.
On Friday, she didn’t go with him, and he’d sweated through that day, too. When he got home, his relief at seeing her car still there had been as acute as it had been on Wednesday, and that was when he faced the truth.
He loved her. This wasn’t just sex, just a brief affair, or just anything. It was the real deal. He loved her courage, her gallantry, her grumpiness. He loved the snarky comments, the stubbornness and the vulnerability she hated for anyone to see.
Gideon would laugh his ass off when he found out, not just bec
ause Dante had fallen so far, but out of sheer relief that at long last, and if the angels smiled, he might soon lose his position as heir apparent.
The bottom dropped out of Dante’s stomach and his gut clenched. Last night he’d been rolling on a condom when abruptly he knew that he didn’t want to wear protection. Lorna had been watching him, waiting, and she’d noticed his long hesitation. Finally, without a word, he’d pulled off the condom and tossed it aside, then steadily met her gaze. If she wanted him to put on another one, he would; the choice was hers.
She had reached out and pulled him down and into her. Just remembering the intense half hour that had followed turned him on so much that the candle beside the bed flared to life.
Today was the solstice, and he felt as if he could set the world on fire, as if his skin would burst from all the power boiling inside him. He wanted to pull her under him and ride her until he was completely empty, until she had taken everything he had to give. First, though, they had to have a very serious talk. Last night they’d done something that was too important for them to let drift along.
As he sat down on the edge of the bed, he extinguished the candle, because a candle that was already lit was useless as a barometer of his control. This conversation might be emotionally charged, so he would have to be very careful.
He slid his hand under the sheet and touched her bare thigh. “Lorna. Wake up.”
He felt her tense, as always; then she relaxed, and one sleepy hazel eye blinked open and glared at him over the edge of the sheet. “Why? It’s Sunday, the day of rest. I’m resting. Go away.”
He tugged the sheet down. “Wake up. Breakfast is ready.”
“It is not. You’re lying. You’ve been on the balcony.” She grabbed the sheet and pulled it over her head.
