Masters of the Hunt: Fated and Forbidden

by Sarra Cannon

  So she stayed.

  — —

  Hallie showered in the largest walk-in shower she’d ever seen, complete with jets, a bench seat, and an adjustable, detachable head. She tried not to think about why he’d need such a large shower in a house that clearly had only been remodeled in the bedroom. The idea of him with a girl in here was enough to make her stomach churn.

  But why should it? Did he even think of her that way? He wanted to see her, spend time with her, talk to her. But she had a hard time separating his kindness from pity. And there was the way he had treated her tonight, avoiding her, taunting her with his date. She couldn’t shake the feeling his interest in her came with a lot of baggage, and she was determined to get to the bottom of it.

  She shut off the water and dried off with a thick, oversized towel, then rummaged through the dresser drawer where he’d told her she’d find a shirt and sweatpants. The shirt was big and soft, and she felt both sleepy and refreshed as she slipped it on. Then she peered into the den and listened for Matthew’s soft snores. He was asleep. She crept out of the bedroom and into the hallway, stepping lightly to avoid the creaky wood floors.

  Down the hall, she found two more bedrooms, both of which looked as though they hadn’t been touched in years. Both beds were made with plain blue quilts, and each was tinted with a layer of dust. The third room, she found, wasn’t a room at all—the door opened to a small staircase that led downward, to yet another door.

  Hallie frowned. Was it a basement? She glanced around, then crept downward, her heartbeat pounding a little harder. What use could he have for such a secret room?

  She jiggled the handle. Locked. Glancing around the room, she noticed a hook on the wall, on which hung a little gold key. Bingo. She slipped it in the lock and pushed the door open

  The smell of processing chemicals hit her first; she recognized it from the studio art clas she'd taken last semester. It was a darkroom. Hallie felt strangely relieved. She felt around for the infrared light, then flicked it on and used her hands to guide her as she adjusted to it. Hanging all along the wall, drying, were new photographs - some of the campus, the town, but mostly a stately, ivy-checked mansion with a wrought-iron gate and gothic spires. The Belleyre House. It was a beautiful house, old and spooky and filled with history. The thought of going inside, of being the first person in over fifty years to enter, made her nervous with excitement. She wondered if Matthew felt the same way., in love with the possibility of what they could find.

  The darkroom had another door at the opposite end, which led to a workroom, of sorts, with a work bench on the left and a light board on the right. It held a shelf full of photo albums, and Hallie had to admit she was impressed. He was a dedicated photographer. She wondered if he’d ever done it for a living.

  A thud from upstairs startled her, just as she was reaching for one of the albums, and she listened hard. The sound of footsteps and soft, crooning music drifted down through the walls. He was awake. She switched off the lights and hurried back upstairs, where she found him in the kitchen. He’d washed up and changed into a pair of flannel pants and a t-shirt, which made him seem delightfully imperfect - strong and solid and sexy but human enough to lose his good sense in a bar, respectful enough to wear a shirt to bed for his skittish guest.

  She watched him for a moment from the den as he pulled a mug out of the microwave and dumped something into it. Already she could smell coffee and hear the whirr of the machine as it filled the carafe. Clearing her throat, she padded into the kitchen and he turned around, holding the mug he’d taken from the microwave. His small frown cleared at the sight of her.

  “I made you some hot cocoa, instead of coffee. Careful, it’s hot,” he said, handing her the mug. “I figured you’d want to be able to sleep soon.”

  She took a slow sip and savored the sweet chocolate as it warmed her throat.

  “Thank you. And you? You don’t plan to sleep?”

  “No. I’m pretty sure having you in the next room is going to make sleeping very difficult.”

  Hallie blushed, suddenly hyperaware of her own body, her limbs, her exposed feet, the thinness of her shirt, her nakedness beneath these clothes, which smelled like him. “I was going to leave,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “You made me stay.”

  Matthew set his coffee down on the counter and crossed the room so that he stood close to her. As she realized he liked to do (and not that she was complaining), he reached out and touched his fingers to her hair, then her neck, trailing them upward over her jaw to trace her lips with his thumb. She felt her skin grow warm and sensitive under his touch.

  “That’s because I want you here,” he murmured, pressing closer, caging her in against the counter. “But every second, it’s all I can do not to touch you. And when you’re asleep in my bed tonight, that’s what I’ll be thinking of. Touching you… kissing you… Falling asleep with you in my arms.”

  Hallie knew her face was bright pink, but he didn’t seem to care. And God, his hands felt so good. Gentle but familiar, like he already understood things about her body. Like he knew what spots to stroke and press and rub to make her respond, make her lose her worrisome, rational mind and replace it with raw desire, instinct. She longed to wrap her arms around him, to press her whole body against him, to let him do all the delicious, dangerous things his hungry gaze promised.

  “Who says you just have to think about it?” Hallie whispered, and he stilled.

  “Don’t…” he murmured. “Don’t… unless you mean it. Because I will.”

  “Maybe I want you to.” The thought of lying in his bed, being touched by him, of lying wrapped in his arms and losing herself to the peace and pleasure his touch brought her…. The idea had captivated her. In that moment, the more he touched her, the less anything else mattered.

  He bowed his head and pressed his forehead to hers. “Do you? What is it that you want?”

  “I want the way I feel when you touch me.” He slid his palm over her hip and squeezed lightly.

  “And how is that?”

  “Safe. Sexy. Nervous…” She swallowed. “Hot all over.”

  Matthew groaned softly and slid his palm up her side, dipping his hand beneath her oversized shirt to rub the bare skin of her waist and the small of her back. He leaned in and nibbled her ear, trailing his lips along the curve and then down the side of her neck. She clenched her fists in the front of his shirt as he kissed her, breathing in the scent of his freshly washed hair.

  “Hallie…” He slid gripped her waist with both hands, skating upward over her ribs, then doubling back to roam over her backside. He held her like this for a moment, tracing her curves back and forth as he suckled and nibbled her neck, and her body felt rooted to the spot, trapped by the rough warmth of his palms, the sweet tickle of his fingers on her skin, and the raw pleasure of his lips at the column of her throat. She slid her hands up and into his hair, wanting to pleasure him too but unable to extract herself from his commanding touch, paralyzed by the way her breasts were growing swollen and achy, her skin feverish and sensitive. She pressed against him with a soft whimper, parting her legs, and he pressed back, one hard thigh putting pressure right where she needed it. Too many layers separated them. With a growl, he hooked his arm behind her knees and lifted her into his arms.

  “I’m too heavy,” she said, hooking one arm behind his neck. “I’m going to break your back before we get started.”

  His stern expression was enough to silence her, but she noticed the corner of his mouth twitching, too. God, she loved seeing him smile. Somehow it felt private, like each rare grin was meant only for her.

  He carried her to his bedroom, but as he set her solemnly down on the bed and climbed over her, she felt - to her extreme embarrassment - a rash of giggles rising in her chest. He froze, staring down at her, and she knew he’d seen the tremble of laughter she’d tried to suppress.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” she said, “it’s ju
st—I’ve never had a guy carry me to his bedroom like that. It’s very old fashioned.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “And sort of cave-man-y,” she added. “It’s a good thing!”

  But she kept giggling as he settled on top of her. She couldn’t stop. How did he do this to her? She could tell he was fighting a grin, too, as he traced her curves under her shirt, the gentle tickles making her giggle even harder.

  But when his roaming hand grazed the peak of her breast, a jolt of pleasure caught in her throat, and she fell silent. And then he kissed her - thoroughly, this time, his lips soft and tender and chaste at first. With gentle licks, he coaxed her to relax, teaching her the way he moved, the way he liked to taste her, so that by the time he deepened the kiss with a low growl, she was aching, desperate to feel his tongue warm against her own. He licked into her mouth, claiming her - each slide of his tongue a heady promise of the pleasure he would give her… the pleasure he would demand.

  Sighing, she threaded her fingers through his hair and kissed him back, loving the taste of him, like sweet Irish coffee. His hands roamed over and under her shirt, closer and closer to her breasts, drawing light circles over her belly and ribs. She whined, arching toward him, and he broke the kiss to watch her as he smoothed down her shirt and began to draw circles around her covered breasts in maddening, delicate strokes. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even look at him; the darkness intensified his touch.

  “Matthew…” she whimpered. He pressed a warm kiss to her belly in silent reply.

  How had she ended up here, lying beneath him, wearing his clothes, letting him tease her, taste her, set her whole body burning with his hands on her curves? He was so much… too much. And even in his messed up, drunken state he cared for her, wanted her… maybe needed her, if the sad state of this lonely house and lonely bed were any indication. It hurt her to think that he lived in such coldness, when to her, he exuded such warmth, such heat.

  In the darkness his eyes were deep blue pools, drawing her in. She couldn’t escape his gaze as his fingers drew tighter and tighter circles around her breasts. Her face, neck, and chest flashed hot then cold as she trembled, biting her lip, and the corner of his mouth twitched as his teasing touch grew nearer, closer—

  Then, finally, he stroked them over the tight buds, scraping his fingertips lightly over the cotton of her shirt. Hot, liquid pleasure shot straight to her core and she broke out in gooseflesh, unable to catch her breath, unable to contain the strangled moan she released at his touch. His cheek creased, and he smoothed his palm over her breasts, squeezing gently and then repeating the rhythm. Teasing, soothing, teasing, driving her higher and higher as he brought his lips to her neck with tender, warm kisses. His palm slipped lower, down her belly, and cupped her over her panties. Her legs fell open. He kissed his way down the column of her throat, stroking her with a single finger until she squirmed.

  “I—Matthew, please…” She was unbelievably turned on as he toyed with her, and she clenched her fingers into the bedspread, fighting the urge to rub herself against his hand. When she looked at him, his eyes were dark, focused, intense… and he, too, seemed to be struggling. With a rough growl he kissed her again, pressing her hard into the pillows but keeping his touch on her pussy light, gentle. How on earth were they both still clothed?

  With this in mind, she struggled with the hem of his shirt, only managing to get it halfway up his torso. She ran her hands over his back and marveled at how hot he was to the touch, how his muscles flexed and rolled as he ground himself against her. She reveled in the feel of him, desperate with relief at finally getting to touch him, to run her hands over his hardened, virile body. As he shifted to cage her in with his forearms, she let her hand slide around to his stomach, then lower. When she finally stroked him over his pants, squeezing gently, the groan he gave was so deep, so forceful, so primal, that she snatched her hand back. He caught her wrist and pulled it above her head.

  “You’re going to make me lose my mind,” he growled, pressing a rough kiss to the corner of her mouth and sliding his hand between her legs again. This time, there was no teasing involved—he slid his fingers beneath her panties and through her slick folds, then began rubbing tight, firm circles over her clit. She let out a strangled cry, but he wouldn’t relent, driving her higher and higher until she broke, coming hard against his fingers, writhing in his shirt. But even then, he didn’t let up, didn’t let her come down, instead thrusting two fingers inside of her as she came and pushing her higher her with rough, quick strokes.

  It was too much—the pleasure that flooded her chest and belly, the relentless heat and friction of his fingers inside her, forcing her open even as she clenched around him. His focus on her was razor sharp, trapping her in his gaze as her hips jerked, chasing the sweet ache. She gasped against his lips, overwhelmed, exposed, tears pricking the corner of her eyes as he prolonged her orgasm. No one - no one - had ever touched her like this, so relentless in demanding her pleasure, her vulnerability, her loss of control.

  When it was over, her throat ached. Her chest and face burned. Her limbs were limp, weak, her body somehow both sinking and weightless. She vaguely registered him withdrawing his hand, adjusting her clothes, gathering her up in his arms. But she wanted nothing more than to pull away, to hide her face, to get the hell out of that room—away from his inescapable, intoxicating grasp. Every part of her felt exposed, raw, marked by his touch, the force of his kisses, the slide of his lips, the thrust of his fingers… A lump clogged her throat at the thought of how she’d gasped and moaned, how he’d watched her lose control.

  She wriggled away from him and sat up, smoothing her shirt, unable to look at him. Her skin felt overly sensitive where her clothes rubbed against her.

  “Hallie… what’s wrong?” His voice was warm, low and languid but laced with concern.

  “I have to go. I should go.” She ran her fingers through her curls, trying to smooth out her bed head. With every passing second, she was angrier at herself for falling apart in front of him—and more frightened than ever of what she’d let him see, what he’d seemed to know, what she’d seen in his eyes as she shattered beneath him.

  As she stood to leave, Matthew caught her around the waist and tugged her back down.

  “Stay,” he whispered into her ear. “Stay here… and I’ll go.”

  It was exactly what she wanted to hear, and somehow, she still felt a pang of disappointment.

  She relaxed into his embrace, and he stroked his fingers up and down her arm. “But first,” he murmured, “let me do this.” And with that, he tugged her back into bed beside him, pulling her on top of him so her torso aligned with his. Her heart writhed with pleasure at how comfortably she fit against him.

  “You’re lovely,” Matthew said, running his hand from the crown of her head to the small of her back. She fought the urge to arch into his touch, like a weak, pliable kitten, starved for affection. He was quiet for a moment, silently stroking her, and she tried to relax. The panic that had gripped her in the wake of such sudden vulnerability began to subside. When he spoke again, his voice was low and soft.

  “I’m sorry… I overwhelmed you.” He rubbed a circle on the small of her back at the end of a stroke.

  “I don’t know what happened,” Hallie admitted, pressing her cheek to his chest. “I wanted it… Too much. It scares me, the way I am with you.”

  He nodded. Then his hand smoothed over the swell of her hips and he sighed. “I know the feeling.”

  “There’s something strange about you,” Hallie said, keeping her voice low and soft so as not to break the softness that had settled around them. “About this.”

  His hand stilled.

  “What do you mean?”

  She touched his chin, his jaw, the broad curve of his collarbone. “I mean you’re not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

  He covered her roaming hand with his own and brought it to his lips. When he met her eyes, the fear she saw there
rallied something warm and protective inside of her. He hesitated, as though he was on the verge of telling her something. Instead, he played with the tips of her fingers and asked a question instead.

  “Do you believe in impossible things?”

  “Like, miracles?”

  He nodded.

  She thought of all the things that had happened in her life so far. She thought of the man whose daily drive to work turned him into the murderer of her mother and baby sister. Of her father, whose grief had turned to a rage that Hallie had to bear. Of Louisa and Dani finding her on the beach, of long nights under the stars and how it had all been false, all one big giant lie. Miracles were the last things she believed in.

  “Not routinely,” she replied drily, and the moment the words were past her lips she knew it was the wrong thing to say. Immediately, his expression closed, and he sat up, letting her roll unceremoniously off his chest and onto the mattress.

  He stood, adjusting his shirt.

  “Matthew…” She reached for him, feeling bruised inside and out, and he met her gaze as she linked her fingers with his.

  He squeezed her hand. “When I sleep next to you… with you… I want it to be right. I want—I want you to be able to trust me.”

  “I—I do trust you,” she said, cursing how her tongue fumbled the words.

  “No, you don’t. You can’t. I’m sorry, angel.”

  He looked so sad and exhausted that she didn’t have the heart to ask all of the questions bubbling on her tongue. Instead, she watched him as he walked away, feeling tired and cold—and more lonely and confused than ever.

  Chapter 9

  Matthew woke the next morning to the smell of coffee and bacon. He groaned, his head throbbing and his mouth watering. How long had it been since anyone had cooked in this house? He was surprised the stove still worked, that the rickety burners hadn’t caved in with all of the takeout he’d piled on it over the years.