Dead of Eve (Trilogy of Eve)

by Godwin, Pam

  I shrugged. “Colorful delusions have become my norm since the outbreak.”

  He pulled my legs across his lap and bent over me. His lids hung heavy over cloudy eyes. I nursed my own buzz, but he was hammered. He set his glass on my chest, its amber dram sloshing on my shirt. The glass bottom moved over my scar.

  “Tell me how that bloody butcher died.”

  I unfolded my memories of Dover Port while massaging the frown lines rutting between his brows. Then I told him about the basement in Pomme de Terre. Despite my taut throat, I recited the events in a toneless monologue.

  He listened without interrupting, but the muscles jerked in his clamped jaw. His arms around my legs turned to stone. “And ye den’ remember wha’ happened to Joel?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t want to.”

  He studied my face with eyes that penetrated a hole in my defenses. “Ye never cry about this, about anything you’ve been through.” His brows gathered. “Ye think emotions are useless to survival.”

  Christ, he knew me well. “I’ve learned the hard way.”

  He pushed off my legs and staggered to his feet. “Then let’s not get weighted down with them.”

  Relief washed over me. He stumbled to the stereo and punched a button. His voice warbled through the basement as “Rebels of the Sacred Heart” kicked off with the vocals.

  He turned to me and winked, his beautiful voice hitting every note. Then he set down his glass and prowled toward me.

  “Tipsy much?” I hollered over the feel-good Irish chords.

  He swayed over me. “Rubbered. Blootered. Pole-axed”—he swished a finger in the air—“Monkeyed. Rat-arsed. But tipsy? Naw.”

  I ducked under him and stood. “We should get some sleep. Separately.”

  “Away on a’ that. Sing with me.” He followed me around the couch, belting lyrics to the rafters.

  Holy fuck, he was adorable. His roughened lilt, the cleft of his stubborn chin, the way his boyish smile turned my hardened heart into butter. In matters of intimacy, he was just a boy.

  I powered off the stereo mid-verse and tugged him back to the couch.

  He fell against me and gripped the back of my thighs. His hands inched up and cupped my rear. “Give me a snog, love.”

  “A what? Never mind.” I wrestled his hands away. “It’s bedtime for bonzo.” I turned him, gave him a hard push. He fell on the couch. When I returned with a blanket to tuck him in, he grabbed my arm and yanked me on top of him.

  I perched on my elbows above him. “What’s this about?”

  His eyebrows jumped across his forehead. “Den’ ye drive all your men to drink?”

  “Silly mick, if you weren’t drinking yourself stupid, you’d be chasing pots of gold at the end of rainbows.”

  His grin fell away under red tingeing in his cheeks. “That’s mean.”

  I smirked. “Oh, aye.”

  He flipped me over and kicked my knees out with his legs. Then he settled his hips between my thighs. “I surrender.” Whiskey puffed against my mouth. “If I were honest, I surrendered the day ye walked into Lloyd’s local.”

  For the first time, he let me feel how aroused he was. I grabbed a fistful of curls and yanked his head back. His body followed. Free of his weight, I powered a knee into his gut. His breath rushed out with an oomph.

  I slipped off the couch and stooped over him. “You get drunk to work up the nerve to have sex with me?”

  “Liquid courage.”

  A rush of resentment curled my hands into fists. I ached for this man, who would kill for me and die for me, but wouldn’t fuck me sober. “Go to hell.”

  “Aw Evie, it’s not like that. It’s…” He ran his hands over his face and slurred, “Ye know I’m…I’ve not touched a woman until…”

  His eyes dropped to my chest. I crossed my arms and cleared my throat.

  “Ye know wha’ I was thinking about that night ye walked into Lloyd’s?”

  “Altar boys and dried up convent titties?”

  “Jaysus, no.” He fidgeted with the hem of his tee. “But shagging was heavy on me mind. Sitting a’ that bar, thinking I’d never see a woman again, I felt sick. The decision to break me vow—had I wanted to—was taken from me.”

  “Should’ve made it easier.”

  “Easier? Having the existence of women wiped clean from the planet made me realize I would never know the love of one.”

  Never. Despite his slurred statement, I felt the pain of that one word. “That’s fucked up.”

  “Right.” He leaned forward, stared at the floor. “Then a woman walked in. The sexiest, most courageous thing I’d ever seen. I wanted…I never wanted something so badly.”

  “Oh my God.” How had I misjudged him so completely that night? “You’re a priest. I thought I was safe with you.”

  His head shot up. “Ye were. I mean ye are. I wouldn’t have—” He pushed back his shoulders. “I’ve never even bashed the bishop.”

  My jaw dropped.

  “Ye know, rubbed one off—”

  “Stop. Shit. I know what it means. Christ, Roark.” I crouched before him. “You told me to trust your discipline. Despite all your teasing, I did trust you. And now you’re drunk enough to forgo it? Your timing sucks.” Blood boiling, I paced in front of the couch. “Sleep it off or take a cold shower. And for the record, I fucking hate your vow.”

  His expression shuttered, fingers digging into his jean-clad thighs. He stared at me for a long time, carving away my anger. But I glared right back, willing him to understand. Then something changed. The air between us shifted, sizzled, charged.

  He rose from the couch, stepped toe-to-toe with me, looking suspicious and gorgeous, smiling down at me.

  I put a hand over the low waistline of my sweatpants, as if to hide the frenzy pulsing below. “What are you—”

  He silenced me with a kiss. Irish whiskey flavored the tongue dancing with mine. My already rapid pulse picked up its pace.

  He pulled away. “Of all the carnal temptations over the years, I’ve never wavered. Do ye know why it’s different with ye?”

  “Holing up with the world’s last lass for endless weeks might have something to do with it.”

  “Nah, love. Let me show ye.”

  He pulled my hand from my belly. Fingertips balancing on mine, he slid them over my palm, up my forearm to the inside of my elbow. Goose bumps trailed. In sync, he guided my fingers over his palm, his arm, my caress mimicking his.

  Static skated my skin, lifting the hairs on my arms. My body trembled.

  “Do ye feel that?”

  I swallowed, nodded, swallowed again.

  He nodded too, padding a finger across my lips. I let him raise my hand and mirror the movement on him. His mouth was so pliant, inviting. His eyes hooded in sultry slits. Drunk Roark was delicious. My womb clenched.

  He pressed his palm over my heart. I followed suit. His beat under my hand, thumping in chorus with mine, surged tingles through my limbs and blood roaring in my head. My empty chest filled with…what? The sensation was fluttery, but intense. I knew that feeling.

  “Evie?”

  “Mm?

  “Wha’ do ye feel?”

  Throbbing under my palm, mere inches beneath muscle and bone. His vitality. The thing I fed so ravenously on. The thing that made me long for a future. “The song.”

  “It’s one hell of a feckin’ song. Never felt anything like it.” A finger hooked my waistband, yanked my body flush with his. He used my surprise to capture my mouth.

  What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?

  Robert Browning

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: THE ROAD TO TRUTH

  A hundred objections beginning with “Don’t” assembled on my tongue, until they melded, transformed, and escaped as one. “Don’t stop.”

  He didn’t. Mouths locked in urgency, we staggered toward the bed, stripped it of bug infested blankets, laughing into that kiss and tumbling on the mattress, n
ot once severing our joined lips.

  The bunker filled with the rip and rustle of shed clothes. Finally naked, our hands explored. Mine on his chest, the cut lines of his back, the cleft of his gorgeous ass. His drew in, closing around my breasts, following my ribs, over the swell of my belly.

  When fingers found the wet heat between my thighs, elation sloughed away whatever willpower I had left to stop it. His mouth took mine and I met his demands, lick after lick, wanting him more and more.

  I centered myself in the flex of the body draping mine. The iron erection thrusting against my thigh, miming sex, was affirmation of his intent.

  He raised his body, lips parted and watched his fingers move between my legs. In and out. Round and round. “So soft. Slick.” Eyes flicked to mine, accent thick. “Sacred.”

  “Voodoo,” I breathed, widening my thighs.

  A husky laugh barreled from his throat. “Aye, ye randy temptress.”

  I closed my eyes, saw myself standing nude under an apple tree. Vines swayed around me. Except one of those vines was a snake hissing in my ear. Temptation. Fruit. Sin.

  My lids fluttered up. Through the alcohol and guilt-ridden fog, I found the question still worrying me. “How drunk are you?”

  He shook his head, eyes glittering. “Your deadly body sobers a lad straight away.”

  Conflicting emotions railroaded me. Leading the pack was apprehension. It was going to happen. When the aftershocks settled, where would we stand?

  I grabbed his face, held it between my palms. “This can’t come between us. Understand?”

  Mouth bowed in a lopsided grin, his hips closed the distance, erection replacing fingers, nudging me. Those fingers slipped into my mouth, letting me taste my arousal, then moved to my hair, knotting and pulling. His gaze, as naked as our bodies, searched mine. “This”—he wiggled his hips—“will come between us.” Then he thrust.

  “Ugn.” His head dropped, cheek stroking cheek. “Uhh…unngh.”

  Inch by aching inch, bliss overwhelmed me. My thighs shook with it. Our tongues collided, tangled, and I was lost. Lost in the thrumming of heartbeats, panting breaths, rolling hips.

  “Oh, love. Oh, Evie. This is—”

  A shudder went through him. He pulled back, mouth agape to accommodate labored breaths. “I can’t…”

  “No, you don’t. Not now.” I bent my legs, clamped his torso between my thighs and dug my heels into the muscled meat of his ass.

  He released a shaky laugh, hands pinning my writhing hips. “Just need a minute, love.” His brogue was intense.

  Oh. A smile twisted my lips.

  I held still as we stared at each other, ragged breaths mingling, the intimate connection magnifying the anticipation. Moments later, he sat up and crushed my breasts to him. Arms coiled around me, his mouth covering mine, he began to move.

  I rocked in his lap, calves sawing against his back. We found a rhythm and the pleasure built. My body tensed, prepared to unfurl. Our tongues disentangled.

  “Come with me,” he mouthed.

  I tightened my arms around his neck. I was there, teetering, nodding.

  My back hit the mattress. Muscles trembled above me. Hips met mine, over and over. The pace became harder, more impassioned.

  “Now.” His exhale heated my cheek.

  Deep inside me, his cock enlarged, stilled, released. Submerged in his groans, his scrunched face, the fists in my hair, and the drugging grind of his pelvis against my clit, my cry joined his and I followed, riding his tremors, fully sated.

  When I came back to myself, I pushed against the hard muscle crushing me. It didn’t move.

  “Roark?”

  A snore answered. Still buried inside me, his cock twitched. As I succumbed to orgasm-induced sleep, I basked in our connection, his body in mine, his perceptive ability to read my mind, and the way he wound himself around my heart.

  The cave bled around me. I rolled, met the gentle features of a woman’s face. Her eyes were closed. I shook her shoulders. Her head wobbled and detached from her body.

  My heart pounded. Her body lay gutted. Her womb turned inside out. Bile filled my throat.

  Laughter echoed. Black boots approached, kicking the swishing hem of a sable cape. “Shh. Do not fear Allah. You are a necessary instrument in my design.”

  My eyes snapped open, lungs pumping, my hands searching the bed beside me. Empty. I sat up.

  Roark stood from the prayer bench, dressed in full cassock, rosary twisted through his fingers, expression severe. It occurred to me then, he dressed that way when he meant business.

  I swallowed past a parched throat. “What’s with the fuck-all mood?” I glanced at our supplies, packed and waiting by the hall. “Is it the trip today? Or something else?” Please don’t let that be resentment in his eyes.

  He perched a hip next to mine and cupped my face. “Was that a nightmare?”

  I nodded. “They’ve been worse.”

  His hand dropped, fisted. “Bloody hell. I’m sorry. I was…” His eyes flicked to the prayer bench then the floor. “Do ye still want to leave today?”

  “Yes. You?”

  “Ready when ye are.” He smiled, but the mirth was missing from his eyes.

  I slid a finger under his white collar and tugged. “What’s this about?”

  He rose, a pained expression twisting his beautiful face. “I’m a man of God. Least I can do is dress like one.” Taking long strides, he swept toward the hall.

  Unease boiled to realization. “Oh my fucking God. You regret it? You regret what we did?”

  He froze, turned. “Ye should find another blasphemy. Coming from a non-believer, that one sounds hollow.”

  Fire swept through my bloodstream. I marched toward him, gloriously naked, aware of the remnants of sex crusting my thighs and how my tits bounced with every stomp. I put my face in his and shoved him. The mountain didn’t move.

  “You self-righteous fucker.” I shoved again. “Whose name were you groaning while pumping your saintly dick in me?” I cupped my chest. “‘Oh, Evie. Oh, love.’ Certainly wasn’t your god’s. You fucking enjoyed it and that makes you feel like a rat-bastard.”

  His eyes flared, face crimson.

  My heart hit the floor and shattered into a million pieces. My voice came out whispered, broken. “You’re safe with your vow. I’m going alone.”

  A hiss whistled through his teeth. “Ballix. I vowed to protect ye, if it’s the last vow I can hold.” He stepped back. “I’ll be waiting by the door.” Then he spun, leaving a tornado of emotional debris in his wake.

  In the truck, loaded with food, ammo and petrol, our journey north took us through rippling moors and quaint villages. The drive was tedious, dodging men and aphids. And the brooding priest beside me made it worse.

  He wouldn’t talk about the barbed-wire wall erected between us. His silence only stabbed the spikes further in my wound.

  When I pushed, he jerked the truck over and foraged for additional supplies. These unnecessary stops resulted in risky battles with aphids, so I stopped pressing.

  At night, we slept in the truck, two feet apart. Might as well have been sleeping in separate countries.

  So, why hadn’t I shaken free of him? It was as easy as holding the carbine to his head and swiping the keys.

  Memories of his drunken laughter, his innocent smile, and his not so innocent lips formed a knot in my gut, replacing the fury there. In my fucked up mind, I convinced myself he was just a sentinel. Someone to watch my back.

  Weak. I was so fucking weak.

  Several days and seven hundred kilometers later, we reached the basin of the River Tweed, which bordered England and Scotland. We didn’t know how we were going to cross the Atlantic to Iceland, but he planned to filch a boat and use the ferry route to Northern Ireland. The same route he took two years prior when the outbreak forced him afield.

  He sat upon a stone wall that edged a moss covered bridge and watched me bathe in the stream below. “Ye
think that bloody Lakota is shadowing ye?”

  I glared at him and forced myself a final dunk in the frigid water. Maybe the naked show would make his dick so hard it would crack and fall off.

  “Would we know if he was following?” he asked.

  “Nope.”

  I waded out, flushing a nuthatch bird from its pecking spot.

  He leaned forward, elbows on knees. Our interactions were so attuned, we could communicate with the exchange of a look or slight gesture. As we shared a glance across the space between us, we knew the other’s hurt. We didn’t need to vocalize feelings or hash out issues. What we needed was an impossible solution.

  The sun dipped below the lea that stretched beyond the bluff we parked on. The night was made darker by the wall of clouds charging in.

  An hour later, sleet pounded, drenching our clothes and chasing us into the shelter of a limestone cave.

  Settled and dried on our bedroll, he sat beside me, his outstretched hand offering an opened can of chili and a spoon.

  “Are ye well?” he asked, five days behind.

  I snorted.

  “This land reminds me of me boyo home.”

  It rained a lot in that climate, which kept the aphids away. But who fucking cared? “We need to talk.”

  He dug a spoon in my can then slipped it between his lips, that talented tongue licking both sides. “I know.”

  My eyes went back to our dinner. Why the hell was I torturing myself? I wanted him, but I couldn’t have him. More painful silence stretched between us.

  He set down his spoon. “Right then. I’ll go first.”

  Hands gripped my shoulders, pulled my back to his chest, and legs straddled my sides. His breath teased my nape.

  My reaction was to explode in a whirlwind of attacking limbs, but it only came out as a flinch and a sputtering broken heart. Never mind days of pent up anger. It was comforting to be close to him. I reprimanded myself, but didn’t pull away. I missed him and that was that.

  “I den’ regret making love to ye. It was brilliant, amazing. Sacred.” He sucked in a breath. “I will never forget it.”