"Jeepers. That's some jack-in-the-box you've got there,” she breathed.
Before he could respond with anything more than a groan, she leaned forward until her mouth met his. His hands were still up her bodice, and hers were still stroking him, gauging the length and breadth of his meat. He wanted more. He broke the kiss. “Take off your pearls and give them to me."
She pulled her head back so she could look him in the eye. “Why?"
He smiled. “Trust me."
She pulled the long strand over her head and pooled it into his waiting palm.
He reached up under her skirt. She was wearing a pair of step-ins. He yanked them down to mid-thigh.
"Hey,” she protested, slapping his arm.
"Just trust me. I can guarantee none of the men you've known have ever done this to you.” He threaded the pearls between her legs and above the material of the undergarment so that there was no barrier between the pearls and her. With one hand holding each end of the strand, he raised it so that the pearls rested against her flesh. He pulled the strand taut and worked it back and forth, so that the individual pearls rubbed against her clit and all along her trough.
Neva squeezed her eyes shut and bit her lower lip, and Garran could feel her body tighten as she tried to grip the pearls. It was a trick a whore had taught him years ago. He never thought he'd have the opportunity to use it with a woman like Neva, but providence had smiled on him tonight.
He pulled the strand tighter against her and increased the speed of his back and forth action. “Tell me how it feels."
"Mmm. The pearls are cool. They're massaging me in all the right places."
"Are they making you wet?” he whispered.
"Why don't you find out?"
He pulled the strand out and pulled her step-ins back up. In the soft light, the pearls glistened. “I hope these weren't your mother's pearls."
She grinned and put a finger to her lips. “Ooops."
He raised the strand to his mouth and sucked on the pearls, tasting the musk of her juice. “I guess you'll just have to keep these."
"I guess so."
He kissed her mouth next, parting his lips so her tongue could touch his and know her own taste.
Suddenly he was tired of the little collegiate game. He was no student, and the call of her blood was too strong. He slid his hands up her thighs, lifting her skirt as he went. Her legs were firm, but the skin on her inner thighs was even softer than that of her breasts. The step-ins were as little of a hindrance as her little brassiere had been.
"You want me, don't you? Tell me you want me, Neva."
She pouted a little. “This is a petting party, Garran, not a cathouse, and I'm no quiff."
He pushed his hand through one leg opening in the step-ins and stroked her cunt. She was already lubed, as he was well aware, but as he rubbed her clit she became wetter still. “No, you're no slut, but you're a woman, not a child playing games. Either you want me or you don't.” He was calling her bluff, but he was willing to bet she was bold enough not to back down, and that after the stimulation of the pearls she'd want the real thing. So far she'd made no move to stop his explorations.
She closed her eyes and sucked on her lower lip. Her lipstick was gone now, and her swollen lips were an enticing shade of pink. She rocked her hips a little, forward and backward, making it easier to slide his fingers along her valley. Her juice covered his fingers to the second knuckle now. “Well?"
"I'm considering your request."
He smiled. The farther along he brought her, the harder it would be to stop. It was the advantage men had always had over women. He inserted two fingers into her, stretching her to see how tight she was. He was sure she was no virgin, but with her youth, he hoped she was snug. She was. She constricted around his fingers, and as he finger-fucked her, her hips increased their rocking motion.
"Tell me, Neva. Tell me now,” he whispered.
"Yes, I want you. All of you."
He withdrew his hand. It was soaked with her juice. He licked his fingers, reveling again in the taste of her, then unbuttoned his drawers to free his cock. Her eyes widened when she saw him, and her hands helped guide him through the opening in her step-ins. When he was positioned, she let her weight come down on him, and it was all he could do to keep from moaning like a school boy. She was incredibly tight, and she had to move up and down on him several times before she took all of him in.
He closed his eyes and relaxed, letting her do all the work. She rocked back and forth and in a circular motion, varying her position with every stroke. Finally, in need of more speed, he worked his hips until she came, bathing him in her hot juice. He came soon after, dousing the blanket.
"Lay back and relax. I'll be right back.” He buttoned his drawers, fastened his trousers, and went to the kitchen to find a towel. He wet one with a little water, and when he returned, she was prone on the sofa, her skirt still hiked up. He spread her legs apart and wiped the cum from her skin, kissing her thighs as he went. When his mouth was as high up on her inner thigh as he could get, he sank his fangs into her. She jerked a little, but didn't cry out. He let her hot blood well into his mouth before swallowing, savoring the taste. He drew for a moment more, then released her. It was the way he usually fed on women. Wounds in such a place weren't as noticeable as on the neck or wrist, and any traces of blood seen afterward were attributed to the hard sex. If the woman was a virgin, the blood was explained even more easily. Most women, still on the high of their climax, never even felt the pain.
He finished cleaning her, then pulled her skirt down. She was gazing at him with the eyes and smile of a woman well satisfied—eyes half-shut and lips emulating Mona Lisa. “Mmm. I'm going to have to call you my sheik."
"Then that makes you my sheba."
She smiled more broadly.
Petting party, indeed. He was willing to bet that none of the other cake-eaters there tonight got what he did.
* * * *
He'd buried the memories of Geneva and the poem, but like his own immortal body, like corpses that refused to rot, they were still here. He raised his hand and stared at the paper, forcing himself to read the words again. Geneva was gone, but Cate was here, and the words took on a new meaning. Cate was indeed the maid of his soul, and he had certainly charged her with saving him from sorrow and sin. Was he fated to love again? She would either restore the balance to his existence, or she would die trying. Was that love? He wasn't sure, for not all the poem rang true.
Sweetest of mortals could I deceive her.
He'd been deceiving Cate from day one.
Chapter Thirteen
A part of Cate rejoiced that her dream was coming true. She'd met a man, not just the sexiest man on the North Shore, but a man who had obviously overcome problems in his life to make the most of a rare talent. A man who needed her and desired her. But another part of her told her it was only a fantasy—something pleasurable to think about but could never come true. The sex they'd shared had been a mistake—a result of the emotional transition between the spiritual world and the real world. In the real world he was a client, asking for professional help, nothing more, and he was a man she still knew almost nothing about.
But her next dream that night sealed her resolve. In this new dream, the woman she'd seen in the image of death came to her. She was beautiful, with straight black hair and blue eyes a shade paler than Garran's. The woman implored her, beseeched her, yet there was no anger in her eyes, simply sadness. The woman reached out to her, her hand clutching a piece of paper. She couldn't make out any of the words, save the two at the top. My Lovely.
When Cate awakened, she knew what she had to do. She had to help Garran, regardless of her personal feelings.
So when he arrived on her doorstep and suggested they talk over a drink instead of in her office, she hesitated only a little. He took her to Murphy's, just two blocks from Moves On Tap.
"Evening, Spud,” said Garran to the bartender.
&nbs
p; "Evening, yourself, Gar. Careful, miss. This laddie's a bit of a lush.” The bartender winked at her.
"Pay him no mind. He's never seen me take a drop,” Garran whispered. “I'm one of Murphy's favorite customers,” he explained as they were seated at their table. “He credits the increase in his business to my working at the studio. Says all the women who sign up for lessons with me stop in here afterwards for a drink. I'm not sure if I should be flattered by that or not."
She smiled. It was good to hear him joke about himself, and she almost regretted turning the conversation to more serious issues. She waited until a waitress brought her an Irish coffee and then repeated the question he hadn't answered two nights ago.
"How do you know about the Land of the Dead?"
The cheer that made him look so young faded from his face. “I was born from death, rather literally."
She waited.
"My ma died giving birth to me."
She raised her brows, but otherwise kept her surprise to herself. It wasn't the explanation she expected. “I'm so sorry.” It was a possibility she hadn't thought of.
He shrugged. “I don't mourn her. It's hard to miss someone you never knew. But I think my life would have been different had she lived."
"What happened?"
"My father couldn't take care of five squealers, so he packed us off to an aunt and uncle. We all had nicknames in those days—Long Bill, Jumping Joe, like that. I was Black Gar. My aunt tried to tell me it was because of my dark looks, but I knew better. My father always blamed me for my ma's death."
A childhood like that was enough in itself to cause some serious soul-splintering, but she refrained from further condolences. Garran didn't need or want pity. He needed her help. “But when you got older?"
"My father remarried and moved us all from Ireland to New York. I left home at fifteen and went to work in the tunnels."
"Tunnels?"
"Rapid transit tunnels. Most of my life has been spent in hell, Cate. So traveling down that Other World tunnel to the Land of the Dead was like a day at the office for me."
A fifteen-year-old working in the tunnels? She wasn't even sure what tunnels he was talking about. Hadn't New York's subway system been in place for years? She took a sip of the coffee. It was strong and not really to her liking, but it gave her a moment to think. Garran's revelations might explain a few things, but she knew he was still holding back. “How did you get from the tunnels in New York to dancing in Illinois?"
He smiled, and it was one of those sad smiles that affected her more than his dazzlers did. “After the old man died, my stepmother tracked me down. I think she'd always felt sorry for me. Anyway, she gave me a scrapbook that had belonged to my ma. I'd never seen it, of course. There were photos of her when she was young. She was English. Before she married my father she was a dancer in London. I made up my mind then and there I'd take up dancing. Come on, enough of this. Let's go down by the lake. It's a beautiful night."
Once again, she knew she shouldn't. “You didn't have anything to drink."
"I don't have much of a throat on me tonight. Come on."
And once again her resolve to stick to business crumbled. They drove south on Sheridan Road along the lakefront to Rosewood Park. Garran parked the car, and they strolled down to the water. It was indeed a magnificent night. The temperature was above freezing, and the snow from the weekend's storm had melted. Moonlight glittered on the water like dancing stars against a shimmering sky.
She buried her hands in her coat pockets, feeling like a teenager on a first date, not knowing what to say. No, it wasn't a date at all, much as she wanted it to be. There were things they needed to discuss if there was going to be any chance at all of healing Garran, and the tavern hadn't been the right place to talk about certain things. Now was as good a time as any, before Garran got it into his head to kiss her. And he was going to kiss her. She just knew it. His eyes were telling her in no uncertain terms he was going to.
It was that gaze again. By the roving glints in his dark eyes she knew he was inspecting her from head to toe as if he were eyeballing a banquet feast and pondering over which morsel to taste first. The look was so intense it made her forget the stars, too, and she watched his eyes watch her.
She forced herself to look away and break the spell, much as she hated to. More than anything, she wanted the kiss that his eyes promised, but first things first.
"Garran, we need to talk. We, ah, never really discussed what happened after the soul retrieval journey. I think we need to before we can move forward.” Before we can have sex again, but she didn't tell him that.
He cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair, displacing long strands that fell back over his eyes.
He said nothing, so she took a deep breath and continued. “Listen, I've made hundreds of journeys like that. The moments of transition between the spirit world and the real world can be disorienting, but I'm used to that. I should have controlled the situation. I didn't."
He drew his brows together, and the moonlight, like the spotlight at the Pony Express, accentuated the darks and lights, making his hair and eyes look black and his skin pale. “Are you saying you're sorry it happened?"
She didn't know how to answer that. “I just don't want you to feel you're to blame."
"Cate, answer the question. Are you sorry?"
Sorry for the best sex of her life? Sorry that the most gorgeous man she'd ever met made her feel desired? How could she admit she was sorry, yet, as a healer, how could she admit she wanted her client with a lust she never knew she possessed? But she'd started the conversation. She couldn't weasel out of it now. “It was a mistake. It shouldn't have happened. But it wasn't an unfortunate mistake."
He laughed and stepped closer to her, pulling her to within arm's reach. “Doctors and politicians. Never without their very practiced bedside manners. Give me the truth."
How could she lie when her client relationship was all about trust and honesty? And if she really wanted to be honest, how could she not let him know her truest feelings? “I'm not sorry,” she breathed.
"That's better.” He leaned in close and pressed his lips against her throat. “Better,” he whispered. “I like you better when you're straightforward. You should always say what's on your mind, Cate."
His breath against her skin raised gooseflesh on her arms and tightened her nipples. Her own breath came in ragged little gasps, and when he kissed her mouth, she knew he tasted the truth on her lips.
He broke the kiss, and when he pulled away from her, she felt cold air against her chest. He'd not only unbuttoned her coat, but was doing likewise to her blouse. When he finished, he slipped his hands inside the liberated clothing and splayed his fingers against her ribcage. “You wanted me."
She couldn't very well admit it and tell him to stop now, yet once again, she couldn't lie. “I wanted you."
He ran his hands over her exposed flesh and she felt only him and none of the cold.
"Good. No more talk about mistakes, disorientation, weakness, or any other excuse. I wanted you. You wanted me. It happened. Agreed?"
Her breathing was hard and fast now, and as she looked down at his hands, she could see her breasts swelling and straining against her bra with every breath. She nodded, and the anticipation of his next move had not only her breathing but all her systems on overload. Her heart was beating like a jackhammer, and her pulse rate jumped so high she could almost feel her blood racing though her veins.
"You want me now?"
His questions were just a game now, for a blind man could see she wanted him. Still, she answered. “Yes."
He popped the front closure on her bra, and the lace cups sprang to the side, exposing her cold breasts to his hot gaze. Her nipples were so hard she was afraid she'd shatter if he touched her. He obliged by cupping the undersides of her breasts and lifting them, but she wanted his mouth on her, not just his hands. She took a deep breath, thrusting her breasts forward as much as s
he could. She closed her eyes to concentrate better on whatever it was he did next.
He bent his head and touched the tip of his wet tongue to the tip of one nipple, and she didn't know how her body kept from splintering into a thousand pieces. He flicked his tongue at the nipple, over and over, increasing the contact each time, and shivers raced down her spine and along her limbs. When she started shaking, his lips kissed the nipple, not sucking, but as though he were kissing her mouth.
He stopped. “Come.” He kissed the nipple again, giving it a little suck this time. “Home.” He sucked harder. “With.” He nipped her. “Me."
The invitation sounded controlled, but when she opened her eyes she realized that his own breaths were more ragged than her own, coming in gasps so uneven it was as though they were torn from his body.
"Let me make love to you. And not on the floor, I promise.” His voice was as rough as his breathing, as if it was too full of desire to squeeze words in. He hooked her bra and buttoned up her blouse.
She nodded. It wasn't every night that a man bared her breast in the moonlight and pressed such tempting invitations to her heart.
* * * *
A half hour later they were at his house. Garran didn't usually bring women to his home. Little things like a lack of food in the kitchen were details that women tended to notice. But Cate was special. If she questioned him, he'd find a way to explain it away. A kitchen without food couldn't be any harder than explaining his familiarity with the Land of the Dead or how it was that his spirit resembled a rotting corpse instead of a man.
No, the only thing that worried him was his control. He'd been riding its edge sever since he'd met Cate. It was just like skimming a finger along a knife. With a little pressure, everything was fine. Too much, and you had a bloody mess to contend with. One moment longer in the park tonight, and he would have pierced that beautiful nipple. Now that would be tricky to explain.
Dance with Me, My Lovely Page 9
