Dance with Me, My Lovely

by Jaye Roycraft

  Finally he slowly parted her legs even farther, until they would go no further, then lifted her hips off the floor and drove into her. She cried out with the sheer pleasure of his entry, and when he took control of her hips with his hands, she let her legs relax in the crooks of his arms. He drove into her again and again, deeper with every thrust. She tried to constrict around him, but he was too big, filling her completely and then some. He grunted with his efforts, and she heard his hips slap against the backs of her thighs. All of him was inside her with every thrust, yet both his rhythm and power increased until she thought she'd explode. Sensation took over thought and emotion, and she rode it, feeling the waves of pleasure build, crest, and ebb until she thought they'd drown her. Her mind separated from her body and floated to a plane where nothing existed but color, heat, and desire, and she melted into the sensations, not seeing or feeling, but one with them. White heat exploded around her, and she felt herself falling back to reality.

  She felt him come inside her, pumping liquid that filled her and ran out between her legs. He fell against her with a grunt, but his body was far from relaxed. His hands stroked her breasts and neck, but roughly this time, and the growl that grew from deep in his throat scared her. Oh God, what have I done?

  That single thought gave her the strength to push against him and create enough space to wriggle out from under his body. She gathered her legs under her, reached for her sweater and skirt, and looked at him, half expecting him to look like his spirit. But his blue eyes glittered in the candlelight, almost feverishly. His dark hair hung over his eyes, and his lips parted. God, but he was beautiful, even in such a state.

  She tried to think. It had been wrong, but she didn't want Garran to feel guilty. It hadn't been his fault or hers. It had just happened. “Are you okay? Please tell me what you're feeling."

  * * * *

  What am I feeling? Garran's body screamed to finish it by taking all the sweet fluids that ran through her body. What am I feeling? The vampire's own wolf, Cate, and it is no friendly spirit.

  But he couldn't tell her any of that. Instead, he sat up and let her question burn in his brain like an unattended fire, for he had no answer she'd understand. How could he tell her that the vampire had just reveled in taking the sweetness of her flesh and was about to top off the celebration of her failure by taking her blood, while his saner half could do no more than apologize?

  She'd been everything he'd imagined—tight, hot, wet and responsive. She hadn't been a virgin, but he didn't care. Still, as wonderful as the sex had been, he felt no satisfaction.

  Please tell me what you're feeling. How could he tell someone who doesn't know what it's like to die once how it feels to die twice? For that's what traveling back to the Land of the Dead had felt like. Only he hadn't died. And she hadn't found whatever part of him was missing. He closed his eyes and waited for the red mist to clear from his mind.

  But it didn't. It clouded his thoughts and seized his body. More than hunger and desire, it was a mania that gripped him in its jaws and tore his restraint to shreds. He wanted nothing more than to ram his cock into her tight little cunt again. He wanted to cleave her and pierce her and claim all the liquid life in her body as his.

  Garran had no choice. He had to leave. Her pushing him away had granted him the brief respite he needed to piece together what self-control he could.

  "I must go, Cate. Now."

  "No! Garran, please, we can talk about this. We can try again."

  He dressed, grabbed his boots, and pulled them on in two quick tugs. “No. It's far too dangerous. I shouldn't have come at all."

  "Wait, please.” Her mouth opened and closed again, as if she was lost for the right words to convince him to stay.

  He couldn't wait. The mere sight of the golden skin he could still taste on his lips was enough to threaten what little control he had left. He snatched his coat and was out the door before either his wolf-side or Cate could react.

  Once Garran was safe behind the walls of his mansion, his beast, resigned to the denial of its prey, retreated to the dark corner of what was left of his splintered soul. It allowed him to think again, and all the well-oiled lies and half-truths that had failed to slide from his lips at Cate's house came to him now.

  He slouched in the armchair in his study and supported his chin with the heel of his palm, as if such weighty thoughts made it hard to hold his head up. He could have explained his lust easily. The transition from the physical world to the spiritual world could be a mystifying journey, as he was sure Cate knew. He could have claimed disorientation or bewilderment, or even weakness.

  The rest of it, as bad as he was sure it'd seemed to Cate, could have also been explained away. He could have described his familiarity with the Land of the Dead a dozen different ways, including the truth. Oh, not the truth that he'd died in a dark alley in Brooklyn at the hands—and teeth—of one of the undead. Not that he'd been reborn from death that night in 1894 after choosing the wrong drinking partner in a boozer. No, he could have told Cate he'd been born from death in Ireland years before that, for his ma had died giving birth to him in Ballyroe, County Cork. His father had never let him forget that he'd caused his mother's death. How could he have forgotten to use it as an explanation to Cate? It would have been a believable story, as long as he neglected to mention that the year had been 1865.

  But he hadn't anticipated Cate journeying to the Land of the Dead, and he hadn't foreseen his own spirit accompanying her in the form of a corpse.

  Idiot! Where had he thought Cate was going to go to root out the lost pieces of his soul? The Upper World, with its clouds and colors and crystals and light? No, even if he wasn't one of the damned undead, no soul-fragment of Black Gar would reside anywhere but the Lower World. Tunnels and caves in the spirit world were the proper quarters for a Brooklyn tunnel worker with nothing to his credit but a tall body and strong limbs.

  Garran raked his fingers through his unruly hair and stroked his jaw with the back of his hand. Neither should his appearance in the spirit world as a corpse have been a surprise. His mortal body had died years ago. A walking nightmare was closer to what he really was than this Dorian Gray perfect youth he exploited at the Pony Express to lure his victims. No, he shouldn't have been shocked by the corpse-spirit.

  But Cate should have been. He'd lay odds she'd never before done a soul retrieval for one of the undead. He felt his lips curve in a smile under the forefinger that tapped against the side of his mouth. Sweet Cate. She hadn't recoiled from him in fear or disgust, even when her wolf-guardian had warned he was evil. Not only that, she'd persisted in her attempt to heal him, without questions and without hesitation, even to the extent of putting her own life in danger. Even when she suspected in her heart's heart that he was a killer.

  He felt his smile fall. He could explain his knowledge of the Land of the Dead easily enough, but how to explain his spirit's morbid manifestation? Cate was no fool. She may not have questioned him in the spirit-world tunnel, but she was sure to question him should they meet again. And he very much wanted to see her again, in spite of his insistence that another journey would be too dangerous to attempt. She was sweet and pure, yet she'd responded with a fierceness to each of his simple touches.

  He stared out the window into the night. The November storm had moved out over Lake Michigan, replaced by a clear cloudless sky that pleased him as much as morning sunshine delighted mortals. His mind painted her image on the windowpane, and he saw her unspoiled beauty as clearly as if she were sitting in his lap. That thought triggered the memory of her in his arms, and in a single blink every one of his senses was engaged full throttle. He let his eyes drift closed and groaned, and this time it wasn't the beast lusting for her, but Garran the man longing for a woman like Cate who would know him for what he was and still want him. With all his whores, man-eaters, and femme fatales, no woman had ever known him and wanted him. Even Geneva, as liberated from the artifices of society as she'd been, hadn't
been able to accept what he was.

  He opened his eyes and stared at the leafless branches dipping with the breeze, wondering what Cate was doing now. Was the shaman thinking about him? Surely she must be. He'd given her a Pandora's Box that would tempt anyone in her profession—an enticing twenty-nine-year-old face and body that housed a one hundred-forty-year-old tortured spirit. And what about Cate, the woman? Did she lust after him the way he lusted after her? Was she touching herself now, trying to recreate the way he knew he'd made her feel? He pictured her sitting in bed naked, with her eyes closed and her knees pulled up. In his mind she let her knees drop to either side as her fingers brushed her belly, then her bush, and finally her channel. She finger-painted until she was lubed, but he wondered if anything would bring her to climax the way he had.

  In that instant he made up his mind. She would be either his salvation or his final undoing.

  The phone rang, startling him out of his reverie. His recorded voice message answered. This is Garran Lux. I'm either dead to the world or working. If you desire, leave a message.

  "Garran, this is Cate. Are you there? If so, please pick up."

  She paused, and he heard the anxiety in her voice.

  "I understand how upset you must be after what happened tonight. It's vital that we talk about it. I still believe I can help you, but only if you let me.” Another hesitation.

  Upset? Did horny and frustrated qualify as “upset?" She was proper and professional, but behind the concern he felt the rawness in her voice. “Please return my call. It doesn't matter how late it is.” She repeated her phone number twice. A long silence followed before he heard the click signaling she'd disconnected the call.

  I'll let you. Believe me, Cate, I'll let you try. Garran leaned back, nestled his head into the hollow of leather, and tried to smile, but it was a one-sided smile. She had just unknotted the glittering golden cord from around the box. When they met again, just as in the myth, she would either unleash holy hell or hope. Like Geneva, Cate would have all his secrets, but then, he'd have all of hers.

  Chapter Eight

  August, 1925

  Chicago, Illinois

  Garran lounged at the edge of the dance floor at El Jardín and surveyed the crowd for his quarry. Like a school of fish, the dancers moved as one, an indistinguishable mass of glitter and flesh. It was an embarrassment of riches, and he finally believed, as he never had before, that providence, if not God, had something other than damnation in store for his kind.

  Oh, there'd always been women and dance, of course, but never in his lifetime had the two been so accessible. No more did he have to troll the Levee for whores, and no more did he have to confine his dancing to cheap dance halls. The women here tonight were the treasures of the young generation, dripping lust and jewels in equal quantity, and he was more than ready to aid them in whatever quest they embarked on, be it the entertainment of dance or self-gratification.

  His gaze fell on a girl weaving her way around the dancing couples to where he stood, and in a pool full of minnows, she was a catch. She was tall and slender, with bare arms, a low neckline, and shapely calves well-revealed by a knee-length black skirt. It wasn't her dress that caught his eye, though, but her expression. She was laughing, as though she was sharing a joke with a companion, and yet she was all alone. It was unbridled joy, the kind he felt when he danced—or when he brought a woman to climax.

  He stepped into her path, and she walked right into him. He caught her elbows to steady her and let her heat wash over him. “I'm so sorry. My fault entirely. I wasn't watching where I was going. I'll make it up to you. Dance with me."

  She leaned her head back, maybe because her bangs were so long, or maybe because he was taller than she was. She licked her red upper lip and brushed the wide lapels of his jacket, as if rubbing off any makeup their collision might have left there.

  "Um, I'd like to, but I'm with someone."

  "Tomorrow night, then."

  He watched her pink tongue slide back and forth over the edge of her teeth as she pondered his invitation, and he thought about what it would be like to have that tongue give his cock a good polishing job.

  She kept her hands on his lapels, running her fingertips down their satin length, and he quickly added them to his fantasy. He felt himself harden at the thought of the rapture those long, slender fingers could bring him to with even the feather touch she was giving his clothes. With just a little more pressure...

  She batted her eyes twice. “Sure. That'd be jake."

  Close up, her eyes didn't laugh as much as her mouth did. They were blue, not as dark as his own, but with a mesmerizing touch of violet. “Tomorrow then. I'll be right here. Nine o'clock straight up."

  She let go of him and twisted a long strand of her pearls around her pinky. “If you'll excuse me, I have to go iron my shoelaces,” she whispered.

  He smiled, and as she walked toward the john, he watched the movement of her bodice's low hemline against her hips. The movement was subtle, but enough to sustain his hard-on. He knew with a certainty she'd be here tomorrow.

  * * * *

  She made her appearance at nine-fifteen, making him wait, but not too long. She looked tantalizing in a sleeveless lavender dress with a dropped waist and handkerchief hem. Gray pearls cascaded into a plunging neckline, drawing his eyes to her chest. The contours of small breasts were barely visible beneath her dress's boyish silhouette, but Garran didn't care. Whatever delectable secrets the girl hid would soon be his.

  "I'm Garran."

  "That's a strange name."

  This girl was more straightforward than any he'd ever known. No sideways glances, roundabout questions, or demure beating around the bush with this one. He had no doubt that once in bed, she'd tell him exactly what she wanted. He'd always been the one to dominate, but the promise of this girl's challenge excited him like no woman had in a long time.

  "It's Irish.” True enough.

  "Neva.” She smiled at him, as though she knew what he was going to say next.

  He didn't want to disappoint her. “And you think my name is strange?"

  "It's Geneva, really. When I was a kid my brother had trouble pronouncing Geneva, so he called me Neva. It stuck.” Her grin faded to a wisp of a smile, and her eyes gleamed.

  Childhood memories, no doubt. He wished his had been so memorable, but he'd been nothing more than “Black Gar” to a father who hated him and a stepmother who wasn't about to risk her husband's wrath to stand up for a troublesome child.

  The band started playing, and the past slipped away. It was a tango, one of his favorites. He held out his hand. “Dance with me, Neva."

  She dipped her head, smiling and peering up at him from under thick lashes and long black bangs. He smiled back, careful not to bare his fangs.

  He loved the tango. It was an earthy dance, full of drama and seduction, a perfect and innocent prelude to the real thing. He grasped her right hand with his left, and the dance began. The slow, deliberate steps of the tango walk reminded him of a big cat stalking its prey, and the image never failed to call to his own beast. Neva's feet matched his own with little cat steps, and when they swiveled to the left she felt secure in his hold, like prey in the beast's grasp. The stalking steps alternated with sharp staccato steps, which he likened to the chase, and when the music ended with her draped back over his arm, he bent forward to kiss her throat.

  But she was no meek doe to swoon in his arms. Instead, she stood, faced him straight on, and shook her torso. The music started up again, and her pearls bounced against the bare skin of her décolletage. “Come on, baby, get hot!"

  He was already there. He'd been dancing for almost thirty years, but no woman had ever challenged his dominance like this one did. His beast loved a challenge. They did the shimmy, swinging their arms and legs with an abandon that made the foot flicks of the tango seem mild by comparison.

  When the music stopped, they took a break, making their way to the edge of the dance flo
or.

  "Butt me,” she ordered.

  He reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, shaking the pack to slide one out of the open end. He didn't smoke himself, of course, but since more and more women had taken up the habit, he carried a pack for moments like this.

  She took the cigarette and placed it between her red lips. He pulled out a lighter and flicked it. She leaned forward, drawing on the cigarette as its tip touched the flame. He watched her lips, impatient for them to join her tongue and fingers in his fantasy sex. Her full mouth pursed a little as she sucked on the ciggy, and he wondered how she'd respond to something harder, thicker and longer between her lips. He'd had plenty of whores who were jaw queens and more than a few modern Janes who'd declared they were all for casual sex. But few had been as liberated in the act as they were with their pronouncements.

  Perhaps Neva would be the one as bold in her actions as in her words and dress. He took the opportunity to study her face. She was young, probably not more than twenty. Dark gray eye shadow was smudged around the violet eyes, but other than that and the lipstick, she wore little makeup. The skin on her face was flushed, and sweat on her neckline provided a shimmering backdrop for the gray pearls. He wanted to lick all the sweat from her to cool her down, so he could heat her up and make her sweat all over again. He'd make her sweat between her legs, and he'd lick that, too.

  "You're good,” she said.

  He raised his eyes to meet hers and stared at her. Could she read his mind?

  "You're a regular Oliver Twist,” she added.

  The dancing. Of course. “You're not so bad yourself."

  She drew again on the cigarette. “Say, some friends of mine are having a party tonight. Want to come?"

  Did he ever. Over and over and over. He smiled. “Sure.” Bootleg. Maybe dope. It didn't matter. He'd find a way to get her alone.