Dream Under the Hill (Oberon Book 8)

by P. G. Forte

  “Yes.” Liam nodded, hoping she wouldn’t ask him anything else about that night. He only thought he knew what Nick might have been doing out there, and even that had changed recently, thanks to the information he’d been able to piece together from the hints that Lauren had let drop.

  “Thank you,” Scout murmured.

  “De nada,” he replied without thinking.

  There was a moment of utter silence, and then her expression seemed to crumble. She put her head down on her knees as a quiet sob broke from her throat.

  Liam stared at her aghast. Oh, Christ. De nada. For nothing. What in the hell made him say something like that? “I’m sorry, he whispered as he crouched by her chair. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “No.” Scout sat up, brushing tears from her eyes. “I know that. It’s not– It’s just, that’s what Nick always... what he always... ” She broke off on another sob and then, “It’s what he always used to say.”

  Liam caught his breath, shocked at the past tense. He shook his head. “Don’t write him off just yet. I know Nick. He’s a fighter.”

  Scout’s lips trembled. “He’s not fighting now.”

  Maybe not. But, on the other hand– “Look, you know when I said de nada just now, and you said that it was something Nick would say?”

  She nodded, eyeing him warily. “Yes.”

  “Well, it’s not something I’d say. Not ever. Hell, I hardly ever think it, except just now, when it popped into my head. So, I figure it must have come from some place, you know? And if Nick’s still hanging around putting words in my mouth, don’t you think that maybe means he’s not ready to turn up his toes just yet?”

  Scout’s eyes filled with pain. “Maybe. But, hanging around where?” She turned her head to gaze at her husband. “He’s not in there. And, wherever he is, I think it’s a long road back.”

  “He’ll make it,” Liam insisted. Not knowing if it was really true or not, but needing to say it. Needing to believe it.

  Scout stared at him for a moment, and then her shoulders sagged. She shook her head. “I hope you’re right. I really do. But, at this point, I just don’t know if I can believe that anymore.”

  * * *

  “Sam!” Marsha groaned in protest as she felt him pull away from her once again. He sat back on his heels between her open thighs, both of them breathing hard. For almost an hour, he’d been toying with her. Caressing her with skill and finesse. Teasing her with his lips and tongue. With feathers and silk. With a river of warm oil that he’d trickled along the valley of her body; from the hollow of her throat, between the hills of her breasts, down and down to pool in her navel and spread, like an almond scented lake across her belly and over her mound.

  Time and again her body had trembled, as it was doing now, poised on the brink of what promised to be an explosive climax.

  It was at just that point that he’d stop.

  Torture. As he slowly stroked her thighs, easing her once more away from the peak, she was seriously beginning to question her husband’s assertion that that wasn’t what he was attempting. Her legs would not cease quivering, her body was bathed in sweat, her chest heaved. Trying or not, he was doing a good job of torturing her.

  Of torturing us both, she corrected, upon feeling the suppressed tension in his muscles as he leaned across her, reaching toward the nightstand. Blindfolded, with her hands still tied, she could neither see nor feel his chest, but his breathing was as loud as her own, his skin felt just as slick, and she’d bet anything his heart was pounding every bit as hard and as fast as hers. At this rate, the old fool will be lucky if he doesn’t give himself a heart attack.

  Oh, sweet heaven. What if he does? She shivered at the thought. What would happen to them both if he collapsed right now? Could she manage to free herself, if she had to? And, if not, how long before someone thought to look for them? Her mind gnawed uneasily at the questions. She’d never understood how people could play these kinds of bondage games without worrying about such things. Sex was a serious business, after all. It was a life creating, life affirming, life altering force. And–

  No. Her train of thought abruptly derailed as the unmistakable clink of ice cubes reached her ears. Oh, no. He wouldn’t. He’s not–

  He was.

  She sucked in a quick breath. All her nerves screamed at the too sharp, too sudden contrast; at the icy hardness pressed against her warm, sensitive flesh. Cold stung her clit and then moved south, melting as it slid between her swollen labia, melting faster as slipped into her heat. She bucked uselessly against Sam’s hand, seeking escape from the burning cold; but he was already laving her with his tongue, soothing her senses as he warmed her with his breath.

  Bright ribbons of sensation unfurled within her once again and she wriggled beneath his touch; seeking more, seeking less. Her nerves were in such a state of overload, that she could no longer tell what she was feeling. Was this pleasure or pain? Maybe it was neither. Maybe it was both.

  He leaned forward again, this time to brush the ice across her parched lips. Thirsty, she swiped her tongue out, licking greedily, startled by the faint salt tang of her own juices as they mixed with the melting ice.

  Sam’s lips nuzzled her neck. “How do you feel now?” he asked.

  Marsha frowned, but said nothing. She didn’t know how she felt, damn it. She felt hot. She felt horny. She felt frazzled, witless, wet. She felt bombarded by sensation. Her sex was throbbing, her arms were starting to ache, she hated not being able to see. And she was frustrated to the point of wanting to scream. She set her teeth instead, and clamped her lips together. Unless he was ready for her to start bitching at him now, she did not feel like talking.

  Sam sighed loudly. He lifted his head away from her shoulder and peeled off the blindfold so that they were once again eye to eye. “Well, do you still feel numb?” he asked as she blinked, trying to adjust to the dim light. “Still feel like you’re sleeping now? Still feel dead?”

  Oh. That. Guilt pricked at her conscience as she stared back at him, taking in the heat that darkened his eyes, the deadly seriousness in his gaze. No, she didn’t feel numb. She shook her head, noting how the strained uncertainty that lined his face eased into a look of relief.

  Shit, he really wasn’t trying to torture her, was he? He was doing all this for a reason. He was doing it for her. For them. He was trying to make things better. Somehow, she’d lost sight of that along the way.

  Emotions rushed her. Words tumbled from her mouth without thought. “I love you.”

  Sam quirked an eyebrow. He smiled grimly. “Now, how do I know you’re not just saying that so I’ll untie you?”

  He was joking, because that’s generally what she wanted when things got tense. There was nothing like humor for easing things along. But this was one time she wasn’t in the mood for jokes. She continued to gaze into his eyes, wishing she could have had one more minute inside his mind—just one more minute to reassure them both. But maybe he was right. Maybe that was just laziness talking. There had to be other ways for them to communicate their feelings to each other, besides empty, teasing words. Some way to let him know how she felt…

  Maybe he already did. His expression softened and he nodded. “I love you, too, angel.”

  At his words, Marsha’s breath caught. She didn’t need to be psychic. She didn’t need to see inside his mind. She didn’t need to look any further than the expression on his face, and in his eyes to know he spoke the truth. No, even if she were still blindfolded, she’d know. She could hear it in his voice and she felt her heart clutch.

  Heat blazed between them. “Untie me,” she murmured, breathless with the sudden need to touch him.

  He nodded, but it was the merest dip of his head in acquiescence. Neither of them broke off gazing at each other, not even as he slid one hand up her arm to grapple with the silken cord. At last Marsha felt her wrist fall free. She brought her hand down to frame Sam’s cheek. Only then did he blink, his eyes shuttering close
d as a look of bliss mixed with longing suffused his face. She left the same longing, the same bliss. There were no tingling currents of energy, but he was real and warm and solid. He was here. And he was hers, all hers.

  As Sam lowered his mouth to kiss her, Marsha’s breath caught again. Yes, oh, yes. She speared her hand into his hair and arched her body closer to his, desperate for the taste and the feel of him. He deepened the kiss, but still it wasn’t enough.

  It might never be enough again.

  The thought shafted through her mind, but she pushed it away, determined to revel in what they still had together, even if it forever left her yearning for more.

  But she needed it now! “Hurry,” she moaned against his mouth when she felt Sam struggling with her other wrist. Finally, the knot gave way, releasing her wrist. Ignoring the protesting ache of her stiff muscles, Marsha clutched him tightly.

  “Now,” she rasped as she wrenched her mouth away from his. “Take me now.”

  A low growl broke from his throat and he found her lips again. He slanted his head and kissed her. Harder this time, a wet, demanding kiss she was all too happy to return, taking his head in both hands to hold him to her, wrapping her legs around his hips, grinding against him. Until all at once he was pushing away, straightening his arms to hover above her.

  What now, she wondered, eyes opening to gaze at him, almost ready to combust from frustration. Not more games? “Sam,” she whined impatiently, “come on. Please.” Let’s finish this. Now.

  “Together,” he panted. His voice was harsh and as breathless as her own. “I need you coming with me.”

  Despair pierced Marsha’s heart anew, obliterating her annoyance, dampening the heat. She stared at him helplessly. Once upon a time, what he was asking wouldn’t have been a problem. She could have reached inside his mind, let his arousal become her own...

  But now?

  He continued to stare at her. Fierce. Insistent. Implacable. Reluctantly, she nodded, and then gasped as, without warning, he flexed his hips and thrust into her. Yes. Her eyes squeezed shut. Finally! Heat flared again and she moaned in pleasure as she felt her internal muscles begin to tighten around him.

  “Eyes open, angel,” Sam urged. “ Stay with me.”

  Marsha’s eyes slitted open. Her fingers tightened on his shoulders as she gulped for breath trying to slow the frenetic beating of her heart.

  Slowly, much too slowly, he began to move within her. Legs shaking, Marsha planted her feet on the bed on either side of his hips, gazed into his eyes and matched him, thrust for thrust, picking up speed as he did, her nails biting deeper as the tension built and built inside her. Please. Oh, please. Oh–

  “Yes,” he grunted in approval. “That’s it, that’s it.”

  His voice propelled her over the edge. Marsha felt her mouth stretch open wide. Her breath caught. Her body went rigid.

  “Now,” Sam gasped as his neck arched and he stiffened in her arms. And then they were both coming. Together. Wave after scalding wave, until Marsha thought it would never stop. As Sam collapsed at last against her, Marsha gathered him to her and held him close, both of them trembling uncontrollably.

  “I love you, Marsha,” he whispered as his arms tightened around her and he turned until it was she who was cradled in his embrace. “I’ll always love you. And I’ll always be here. No matter what.”

  But she could make no answer. A sob broke from her throat as he began to rock them both slowly, back and forth. And she clutched him even more tightly and wept against his neck.

  Chapter Thirty

  Save me, O God,

  For the waters threaten my life;

  I am sunk in the abysmal swamp

  where there is no foothold.

  Gradual of the Mass

  For the Wednesday in Holy Week

  Gregg came awake with a start. His heart was racing and for a moment he didn’t know where he was. It was morning, a fact he determined based solely on the bird calls filtering in through the velvet draped windows. His room was still the dim, perpetual shade of twilight that he favored. He glanced around for a moment longer, gathering his bearings, feeling his muscles relax as he uncurled his limbs and stretched out on his own, familiar satin sheets, feeling his gut unclench, his heartbeat slow. I’m home. I’m here. I’m okay. Everything’s just as it’s supposed to be.

  But, what the fuck? Had he been dreaming? He couldn’t even recall the last time that had happened. It had been years – no, decades – since he’d had a real dream. Dreams like ordinary people had, with images and sounds, like movies playing in their minds. The kind of dreams you could remember for days, hours, even years afterwards, that haunted your memory and would not be shut out. Dreams that made your heart pound. Or that woke you up.

  He’d long ago given away his ability to dream like that, as part of an ill-fated bid for power and control. He’d given a lot of abilities away in those early years, abilities he would love to regain – and those were just two of the reasons he needed a psychic so badly now.

  Perhaps, if it were possible to regain what he’d lost, all on his own?

  Could he really trust Fate to smile on him so kindly now – right now, when he needed her? He thought not. There were far too many unanswered questions. Like how, and why, had he suddenly begun dreaming again?

  Unless that wasn’t a dream at all?

  He glanced over at Cara, lying pale and peaceful beside him. Impatient to see what the rest of her was looking like, he pulled the covers away. She was wearing that ridiculous orange gown again, but that wasn’t what concerned him this morning. His eyes roved anxiously, taking in the slight rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, her delicate figure, her narrow waist, the sharp jut of her hip bone. He sighed in relief.

  Good. Not pregnant. He wouldn’t have to kill her, then.

  He ran his hand down over her stomach, resisting the urge to ram his fist into her gut – as he’d already done once, last November. To punch her hard, right there, just in case. Her belly was flat now, in his dream it had been rounded, obscenely so. She’d been ripe with child – with his child – and that was something he would not allow.

  She’d been lucky not to get pregnant last November, during those first days they’d been together. Once he’d made the decision to keep her, he’d made sure she went back on the pill.

  He did not want a child. And he wouldn’t have one, either. Which meant she wouldn’t have one. He’d kill her first – and the baby, too – before he let that occur.

  In his dream, he almost had.

  He rolled over onto his back, heart pounding with remembered fury. His body was soaked in sweat; in his dream, it had been blood – her blood – that coated his hands, his arms, his chest. His face.

  He ran a hand over his scalp and was almost surprised at the smooth feel of his own skin. He’d had hair in the dream, too, come to think of it. Blond hair, just like it used to be, but longer than he’d ever worn it and straighter and finer than he recalled it having felt.

  What the hell was going on? Damn it, he needed a psychic. He needed someone to tell him what was going on. Now. He needed someone whose powers he could borrow, or steal.

  “Wake up,” he said as he nudged Cara’s back.

  “Stop,” she mumbled sleepily. “What d’you want?”

  “I want you to wake up. Go get Liam. I need to have a little talk with him.”

  That got her eyes open. A small frown furrowed her brow as she turned and blinked up at him. “But... right now?”

  “No,” he snapped. “Tomorrow. When do you think?”

  Cara licked her lips, still gazing at him, uncertainly. “Wh-what do you want to talk to him about?”

  It was none of her damn business what he wanted to talk about, but he’d made up his mind yesterday to include her in more of his day to day decisions, so he set his teeth and answered, “I told you about that yesterday, remember? I need that psychic slut he’s been seeing.”

  Cara cleared her
throat. “Well, um, he’s not here. I sent him to get her.”

  “Oh. Well, good. Good thinking.” Or was it? There was something about the way she said it. It was too careful, for one thing. Gregg studied her face. “When was this?”

  “Last night.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Cara shrugged. “I dunno. You were sleeping?”

  Sleeping? She’d been right here beside him when he’d closed his eyes last night. The fury he’d woken up with, and which was smoldering still within him, burst into flame.

  Her indrawn breath hissed loudly between her teeth as he grabbed hold of her arm and twisted it up behind her back. “Gregg, stop it!”

  He ignored her. “You waited until I was asleep and then you snuck into his room? Huh? Is that what you’re saying? How long has this been going on? Answer me!”

  “What?” She twisted her head around to stare at him. “I– No! What are you talking about? I went downstairs. For a snack.”

  He glared at her, wanting to believe her, but needing to be convinced. He would not be played for a fool.

  “Gregg, please,” she begged. “That’s all I did.”

  He eased up on her arm. “Yeah? And if that’s the case, what was he doing up?”

  Her eyes shifted nervously, her throat worked, a flush of red painted her cheeks. “I-I don’t know.”

  “Liar,” he growled as he twisted again, imagining her and Liam going at it in the kitchen – on top of the table, perhaps. Pain flared in her eyes. He shoved her, face down into the mattress and pressed on her arm a little harder. If that were the case, he’d kill them both. And then set fire to the table, as well. “Tell me.”

  “It was Lauren,” Cara blurted. “He was worried about Lauren.” With her face all but buried in the bedding, the single sob that broke from her throat sounded muffled. He had to strain hard to catch her next words. “I knew it. I knew it. It’s always about some other bitch. Always.”

  He eased up on her arm, once again. “What about Lauren?”

  Cara tugged her arm free of his grasp and buried it beneath her, clutching it against her chest. “She got sick. He was worried, so he took her downstairs.”