'Yes! Yes! That's marvellous. More of that!' she goaded him as he flicked his tongue over her. Swift, deft hands dug into his scalp, cramming his face against the juncture of her thighs. Rafe felt as if he were drowning, drowning so fast and hard that he'd probably expire just at the moment of her extreme pleasure. His cock was a rod of agony that seemed to belong to another man.
Harder and harder he licked, covering every bit of her sex, licking her clit and her lips, and sipping at her entrance. She writhed against him, sultry and serpentine, groaning and shouting, praising him with a string of lurid profanities, language even fouler and more extreme than even he'd ever comfortably used himself. Her heels bashed against his back and his entire head felt as if it were on fire. His eyes were shut but somehow he seemed to see a burning, setting sun, searing his vision and extinguishing his self-control.
When he sucked hard on her clit, she howled. But instead of falling back and surrendering herself to orgasm and pleasure, she surged off the massage bench and knocked him backwards, so he sprawled on the wooden floor and slid in the spilt oil. As he lay there with the wind knocked out of him, dimly away of shards of glass digging into his shoulders and back, she climbed astride him, and knelt over his pelvis, her dark triangle hovering tauntingly over his loins.
'So, sex-god, do you have a condom in your pocket?' she jeered. Then without waiting for an answer, she inclined over him, feeling around and under him into the pocket of his yoga pants. Her fingers felt hot through the thin cloth and with deadly accuracy they secured and prised out the contraceptive he might have used if he'd been able to bring himself to fuck Barbara Butcher what seemed like a century ago.
In a swift sharp yank that had him bouncing and swinging up to slap his belly, she dragged down his trousers and, handling him ruthlessly, she rolled the latex jacket onto him. Then with no further ado, she sat down hard, taking every bit of him into her with one voracious lunge.
It was like plunging into the heart of a black star, burning hot, yet at the same time utterly dark. He'd never felt anything quite like it, not even with this same woman, last night in the alley.
But was it even the same woman? He no longer knew or cared, the way she moved, the way she rocked, the way she gripped him in a slow, then fast, then slow, devilish rhythm. His spine was melting and running away across the floor, blending with the spilt oil and the remnants of his flawed self-respect.
Pathetically he bucked his hips upwards, trying to make some impact on her, but she slammed down hard, making him feel as if his scalp were lifting off. He tried to hold her hips, but she dashed his hands away, then grabbed them again, bringing them to her breasts.
'Hard. Do it hard.' Her command was low, yet echoing as if it were coming from the vault of a cathedral. He complied and, as he did, she slid a hand to the juncture of their bodies and began masturbating herself as furiously as she was ruthlessly fucking him.
'Yes! Yes!' she screamed. 'Yes, you vile bastard, I've got you now!'
Rafe blinked, trying to focus on her face, and got a jolt of shock. Paula's eyes were rolled up and her grimace was that of another woman who was in another place. She bounced harder, gripped harder, and, with some last faint shreds of conscious thought, he received the distinct impression that she was trying to fuck not him to death but another man entirely.
But then those shreds dissolved, his vision went red and he hollered like a dog, his abused loins erupting in a painful, blissful surge of total orgasm.
His last awareness was her answering snarl of pleasure.
The smell of lavender filled Paula's head, making it whirl and her stomach flutter ominously.
Slowly, she sat up and surveyed the war zone, trying to focus.
Her clothes were everywhere, the floor was shiny with oil and what looked like smears of blood, and Rafe was stretched out to one side of her, gasping like a beached porpoise. His yoga pants were dragged down to his knees, exposing his crotch and his subsiding cock, still clothed in its latex coat.
Was it going to be a habit, this? Waking up, dimly remembering doing some crazy thing, but not quite knowing how she'd got herself into it?
She dragged in a deep breath, sickly lavender or no, in an attempt to calm her panic and work out what had led to what. There would have been some comfort in being able to blame everything on Isidora. But truth was hard, and she had to face the fact that the bitch hadn't been entirely in control. All she had done was bring out urges that already existed, seething and latent.
Which was the true horror of her possession.
Fighting nausea and unable to look anywhere else, Paula studied Rafe.
He looked like a man who'd just survived a hurricane, but somehow that made him strangely beautiful. Despite his short cropped hair he had the look of a warrior angel, a character flying aloft in a Renaissance fresco. She could almost imagine him on the Sistine Chapel ceiling. His deep chest was still heaving, his reddened lips parted. There was a thin film of sweat lying across the surface of his naked chest and belly, and the blood smears on the floor were obviously his, because a thin trickle or two of it was seeping out from under his back.
She'd never seen a man that looked more shattered, shagged out or debauched, but, deep in her centre, the demon lust reanimated. And this time there wasn't even a whisper of Isidora. The desire was just hers, deep and true.
'Are you OK? I'm not sure I am ... I think I've just been possessed by the devil.' Rafe sat up, flinching and grimacing as he straightened.
'Don't say that!'
The words were out without thinking, and Rafe's eyes shot open, wide and puzzled. And concerned. Ignoring the glass and the oil, he slid along the floor and put his arms around her, folding her close. There wasn't anything sexual in it, even though she was naked and he was almost the same, but, even so, her libido coiled, wishing it was sex.
'Are you OK,' he repeated softly. 'That was pretty wild. I feel shell-shocked. How about you?'
'I ... I don't know.'
It was the truth. She didn't know what to feel or think. The heat of Rafe's skin against hers was the only thing that was real and, automatically, like a kitten seeking comfort, she snuggled closer.
His arms tightened. 'Now why do I think that what just happened isn't the sort of thing that you'd normally do?'
Paula shook her head. Over the last few weeks, she'd almost forgotten what 'normal' was like, and being reminded of that hit her like a blow.
To her horror, she began to cry. Hard. Her shoulders and her whole body shook with the force of the sobs, and embarrassingly she began to gulp and hiccup like a toddler after a tantrum.
'Hey, hey, don't worry.' Long, lavender-scented hands slowly stroked her hair and her back therapeutically. 'It's all a bit sudden, love. But it's good. No harm done.' He laughed softly against her ear. 'And I still respect you.'
Suddenly, the crying hiccups mutated into giggle hiccups. Paula rocked in his arms but it was with laughter rather than distress. A giant weight seemed to lift off her shoulders and her chest, and darkness, the now familiar darkness, receded away. The light and warmth of the pleasant white room was an embrace as comforting as that of the semi-naked semi-stranger who held her so kindly in his arms.
'There, that's better.' As they drew a little way apart, he brushed her hair away from her face. His brown eyes were warm, but a little curious still, and he was frowning. 'Let's get this lot –' he gestured to the mess of oil and glass and clothing all over the floor '-cleared up, and then I'll make some tea and we can talk. And maybe you can tell me what you really came here for. I've a feeling that it wasn't just to shag me senseless, delicious as that was.'
'OK. And you're right.' Paula allowed him to help her with great care to her feet and lead her with infinite caution out of the glass zone. Suddenly embarrassed, she stared at the narrow white counter where the oil bottles stood.
'What? That you didn't come here to shag me, or that the shag was delicious?'
'Both.' When she turned
round, she found Rafe holding open an oversized white fluffy bathrobe for her to slip into.
He laughed softly as she shrugged it on and they set about the cleaning up.
4 Therapy
'So, why did you really come here?'
Rafe was eyeing her over the rim of his teacup and, put on the spot, Paula didn't have the first idea how to even begin telling her story.
How do you tell someone you want help casting out an evil spirit? she mused glumly. Or whatever the hell Isidora is.
They were in a different room now, one she guessed was used for counselling sessions. Paula noticed that Rafe had gently manoeuvred her into lying back on a white leather-covered recliner, while he sat in an easy chair just to one side.
I'm ready for my close-up now, Dr Freud, she thought, and couldn't help but laugh. When Rafe narrowed his eyes, she said, 'I don't know where to start.'
Weariness washed over her, and she reached for her own tea from the side table, hoping for an energy boost. Late nights in alleys and strenuous afternoons on treatment-room floors weren't conducive to mental clarity, and her story was going to sound like the demented delusions of a crazy woman. Or a drunk. Or a junkie.
God, it would have been so much easier if she could blame booze or pills!
Sighing, she put aside her cup. 'I came here because I need someone to help me. I don't know ... It's hard to explain...' As she met his look, Rafe cocked his head on one side. His expression was calm and gently encouraging, a therapist's cliché. He was probably good at his job, but all she could think about was the way his short, crisply cut hair just curled a tiny bit at the edges. And his eyes, too. They were utterly beautiful, like gleaming, polished wood, dark and wise and knowing.
Is it an act? the sudden cynic in her asked. Was he wondering how long he had to wait before they could have sex again? She had a horrible suspicion that his wide massage table might see more than therapeutic action now and again.
'Just try.' He abandoned his own teacup and reached for her hand.
Almost immediately, she felt a discreet freeing sensation, a loosening of her thoughts. 'I think I'm possessed. I think there's another mind, another consciousness inside me sometimes.' It did sound mad, but how else could she describe it? 'Not all the time, but there's something in me that connects this ... this "thing" to me and it keeps coming back.'
She puffed out a breath. The words had come relatively easily, and seemed to make sense.
'What makes you believe that?' Rate's grip on her was light and unrestricting, but his thumb circled slowly over the back of her hand. He was soothing her, she realised, in a pleasing, abstracted way.
'I have dreams ... and I hear her voice. She speaks to me and goads me into doing things and saying things. It's not really against my will. They're things I might have done anyway. But she sort of encourages me into actions that I know are stupid and dangerous.'
'She? It's definitel a woman?' Still the thumb circled, delicately and comfortingly. Rafe was closer now and she could smell his freshly showered body beneath the black T-shirt and jeans that he wore.
'Oh yes, and I sort of know who she is. I've heard her name in dreams and I think I met her once, although I don't actually remember anything about it.' Jumbled memories flooded into her mind and the rush of them was so great it made her giddy. She bolted upright on the recliner, her skin as cold as winter in the warm, sunlit room, all her sense of well-being shattered. She wanted to run, but what was the point when her pursuer was inside her? Instinctively, she pressed her hand to her belly, seeking the heat of the invisible tattoo. It was cool there now, but it wouldn't be long before it began to sizzle again.
'And there's ... there's this mark that comes up on my belly when she's around. It's like a pattern. I can't see it but I can feel it. And it's hot.' She clawed at the place through the robe, but there was nothing she could do. It would always come again. 'She's put some kind of brand on me, the bitch, and I can't get rid of it!' Shaking her head, she let out a cry, overwhelmed by the horror of finally voicing what had happened.
Immediately, Rafe leant forwards and wrapped his arms around her. His body was solid and real, like a rock. Paula hugged him in return, gripping on tight to her only anchor against being whirled away to madness.
For a while, he held her in silence. She didn't cry this time. She hadn't the energy. She needed everything to cling on, just cling on.
Eventually she wriggled free, putting him from her with a hand on his broad chest.
'You must think I'm mental.'
'No, I don't.' He placed his hand over hers again, still soothing, still calming, 'There are some strange, strange things in the world, Paula.' For a moment, he seemed to go away from her, as if visiting some private trouble of his own, but then he squeezed her fingers. 'And I don't even think this is the only world either.'
For an instant, cynicism reared up and she glanced around the room at posters advertising sessions with spirit guides, reflexology, angel interviews. Things she'd always dismissed as claptrap.
'Of course, you're into all this New Age stuff, aren't you? It's your business to tell nutters you believe all this nonsense.' She gestured at an image of a smiling Indian swami.
Rafe shrugged. 'I believe some of it.'
'But do you actually believe me? Be honest. No bullshitting because you want to get in my pants again.'
He nodded. 'Well, yes, I do sometimes tell white lies to women and I'm not proud of it. But in this case, I'm telling the truth. I do believe you.'
And she believed him. After being fobbed off by her doctor with pills and vague mutterings about being 'just tired' and 'having had a shock', it was refreshing and reassuring, and something seemed to lift off her, something indefinable. She knew that, if she found Belinda and Jonathan, they'd probably know what was going on – but they were out of reach for the moment. Now, though, there was someone who she could touch and feel and talk to who was prepared to listen and believe without dismissing her as ill or neurotic. The sense of relief was almost blissful.
'Really?' she whispered, her eyes watery.
'Of course.' He drew her hand from his chest and, twisting his wrist, just clasped her fingers loosely. 'Why don't you tell me as much about it as you can. And then maybe we can work out a way to help you.'
Paula heaved another sigh, letting go of some of the tension that had been gathering so long. How to begin? She really didn't know where. Most of it was vague in the extreme.
'Well, about five weeks ago, I was supposed to meet a couple of old college buddies who were on holiday near here. It was just a casual thing. We were going to hang out a bit, maybe motor round a few quaint villages and whatnot. Probably drink lots of beer in between enjoying the local colour.'
When she paused, Rafe said, 'Sounds cool.' He gave her a little nod, encouraging her.
'But I don't remember much of what happened after I set off to meet them.' Shaking her hand free of Rafe's, she wrapped her arms around herself. It was as if she had to or her body would fly apart. 'The next thing I do remember clearly is waking up in a strange hotel room, naked and with a whole chunk of time missing. Someone sent for a ambulance and they took me to hospital. It's all a bit blurred. I suppose they thought I was a druggie but apparently there was nothing obvious in my system. Just a bit of alcohol but not enough to have caused me to black out.' Tremors rippled through her body, icy waves of panic. She gripped herself hard, holding on as best she could, staring into the middle distance and trying to grab at fleeting images and fragments of recollection. 'And I had absolutely no memory of the preceding two or three days. During which I'm now beginning to suspect I met this bitch inside me!'
'And have you remembered anything since? About those lost days?' Rafe's voice was soft and low, subtly leading. If she hadn't been so freaked out, Paula would have laughed at how touchy-feely he sounded. Glancing at him, she discovered he'd crossed his arms and had a knuckle pressed to his chin. The cold spell breaking, she laughed out loud at
the sight of him.
'What's the matter?' He grinned back at her, and she sensed that he knew.
'It's the shrink act. The infinitely understanding therapist routine. It's so funny after what just happened on that couch in there.'
Rafe shook his head, then shrugged. 'Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. I should be struck off, shouldn't I?' For a moment his mouth hardened, but almost as quickly he was smiling again. 'In fact I would be if I was "on" anything to start with.'
As Paula unwound her arms again, he reached for her hand once more, holding it loosely.
'Seriously though, have you remembered anything?'
Paula dragged in a breath, centring herself. She felt calmer now, more in control, her nerves settled by the heat in Rafe's fingers.
'Well, not at first, but in the last week or so, some stuff's started to come back.' Stay calm, stay calm. But her equilibrium was tilting as fast as it had settled, sliding sideways into panic. She gripped Rafe's hand harder, nails digging in. When he winced, she shook herself free. 'Sorry about that.'
He shrugged. 'No problem. Go on. What's come back to you?'
Paula breathed deeply. Suddenly she didn't want it to come back. The thing, Isidora, wasn't here now and she was loath to stir her dark presence up again. 'Well, it's just these fragments and dreams. And this sense that ... that ... whatever she is, this woman-thing inside me ... that she's evil... and she is, or was, very powerful.'
'In what way?'
'I don't know. Black magic or witchcraft or some shit like that.' She shrugged and shook her head. 'But the thing is, I don't even fucking well believe in the supernatural! At least I didn't. It's always been just mumbo-jumbo to me.' She sought Rafe's eyes but they were neutral, offering nothing definitive. 'Until now.'
'But now you do believe?' He looked at her steadily, his gaze level, but somehow Paula sensed a keen interest under the surface of his placid, therapeutic mask.
'Yes. Yes I do. When Belinda and Jonathan visited me in the hospital afterwards, they started to tell me some insane cock and bull story about this guy they'd been staying with who was two hundred years old, and kind of immortal, and how they and this supposedly friendly Japanese sorceress had helped him move on to the next plane of existence or some cobblers or other like that.'
Gothic Heat Page 6
