“Turner,” she whispered.
Two fingers moving, pushing deep, pulling back to thrust again and Matty felt herself climbing once more. When Turner curled his finger over hers, hooked upward and pressed in a circle, heat flashed through her.
“Oh f-fuck.” She could barely breathe, let alone speak.
Her fragility increasing every second like a bubble about to burst in the sun, Matty had no choice but to let herself go. Her back arched and she roared into the light, everything bright, clear and perfect. Then Turner’s head was between her legs, his hair tickling her thighs, and he was licking, sucking, stringing her orgasm out like a piece of spun sugar until Matty’s desperation to have him inside her rose like a fountain of fire.
He raised his head, his eyes black as ink and a lump rose in her throat. The moment his cock nudged her folds, she jolted as if she’d been hit with a bolt of lightning. He never took his gaze from her as he hovered at the entrance to her body.
“Before when we— I should have asked. Sorry. I don’t have any condoms. You’re the first for twenty years.”
“Twenty years?” Matty gaped at him.
He blanched. “Twe…twelve—two, I mean.”
“Wow.”
Turner was finding it increasingly difficult to think straight. Matty lay splayed in front of him, eyes wide, pink folds unfurled, and he thought he’d never wanted any woman so much in his life.
“Please,” Matty begged. “I’m desperate to have you inside me. No condom is fine. Seems a bit late to worry about it now. Anyway, I’m not going to get pregnant.”
He found every part of her fascinating, mesmerizing, enticing. She was so soft, so smooth, so curvy, so different to Catch— Fuck.
Not the time to think about a guy long gone when he had this woman beneath him.
“Anytime now would be good,” Matty whispered.
“I’m savoring the moment.”
“I’m going off the boil.”
“Fibber,” Turner growled. “I’ve licked you and sucked you. Please let me just look for a minute.”
“One, two, three…fifty-nine, sixty. Time’s up. Get inside me now.”
“Wait.”
She groaned. “How come you’re so controlled? You must be superhuman.”
Er, yes, he was. “Hardly. You’ve shot my control to hell. I’m worried the moment I slide inside you, fast and furious will become my middle names.”
“Nimrod Fast Furious Turner. Crumbs, what were your parents thinking giving you a name like Nimrod?”
Nimrod? What the fuck had George been thinking? Turner would be having words with his smartarse of a valet if he survived the Chilean desert. The last birth certificate George had come up with had Turner’s Christian name as Hiawatha. Not funny.
“Mind you, my parents weren’t very inventive. I just got the same first name as my mother and you can imagine the joy of being called Hobsbawm. I was frog spawn and worse from day one at school.”
Ouch. Turner opened his mouth.
“Don’t say it hadn’t occurred to you,” Matty said.
“Matty?”
“What?”
“Shhh.”
“Make me.”
Her fingers dug into his arms, her legs curled around his waist and she pulled herself onto him. Watching his cock slide slowly into her moist heat started his balls dancing and when he felt the clasp of her muscles tightening around him, Turner gave in and began to move. At least her chattering had given him a brief reprieve. He might manage a few more seconds of gentle motion without exploding.
Maybe not.
He couldn’t help but pound into her and she jerked up to meet his every lunge. Wet flesh smacking, lungs struggling even though he didn’t need to breathe and neither, he suspected, did she, their gasps, cries and grunts of pleasure filled the attic. Arms and legs entwined, hands flailing, grabbing, squeezing, they rutted together in perfect rhythm, then in no rhythm at all, but they never stopped moving.
Mouths joined, mouths apart, heads together, heads apart, backs arched, they worked themselves off the mattress, back onto the mattress, him on top, her on top, side by side, Matty’s legs up and then down, and Turner could think of nothing but ramming every inch of his cock into her as deep as he could, as fast as he could, for as long as he could, in every possible position. With Matty lying underneath him, he fucked her so fast, his cock blazed from the friction. Their wild and desperate ride to oblivion didn’t stop until Matty’s spasming pussy yanked him to orgasm and his world erupted in a shower of sparks.
Turner thought his brain had exploded, except it was just his balls. Oh God, would he ever stop coming? His cock kept jetting and jetting. How much cum did he have inside him? The last wrenching contraction died away and Turner groaned. He had managed to last more than a couple of minutes, hadn’t he? He really hoped it wasn’t just in his imagination that he’d performed like a wild stallion.
Fuck, he’d really lost it. A stallion?
God, what if I hurt her? He opened his eyes to see her panting below him.
“Seventy-three, seventy-four,” she whispered.
“You’re still counting?” His jaw dropped in horror and the little tadpole laughed.
“You’ve ruined me,” she said.
Instant lump in throat. What did she mean?
“I had no idea men could do that,” Matty said. “Fast and Furious are definitely your middle names. How can I ever be satisfied again?”
Every muscle tensed. No one was going to touch her. Mine. Mine. Mine. The word reverberated in Turner’s head like a hard struck bell.
Ah, well no one could touch her. No one else could even see her. He felt sad that her life had been over so soon. He wondered what had happened. Did he want to know the details of the accident that killed her?
“We’re both sticky now.” Matty pulled him down on top of her, his cock still semi-hard inside her and getting harder.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Happy,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
The lump in his throat grew to the size of a football.
“Like a shower?” she asked.
“Mmm.”
Turner eased out of her and rolled to sit up. He stood, amazed his legs cooperated, and held out his hand. Matty reached for him then cried out as she fell back. Turner dropped to her side. “What’s wrong?”
“’S’okay. It’ll stop…in a minute.”
The color had leached from her face. Ashen, she curled up and dragged her knees to her chest.
Turner stared at her in horror. “What have I done?”
“Not you.” She groaned and he sank his fingernails into his palms. Her pain became his pain. The agony of seeing Matty suffer immobilized him. He wanted to help, but he didn’t know how.
“Where does it hurt? Show me.”
Her hand clutched her chest.
Heart attack? How could a ghost have a heart attack? Why could he hear her heart beating, sense the blood flowing in her veins? Though there was something off about that, his teeth knew it even if he didn’t. So not a ghost but he didn’t have a clue what she was. Turner brushed her hair from her forehead and then held her hand, willed her to feel better.
Matty blinked, the stiffness went out of her body and she gave a heavy sigh. “I’m okay now.”
Turner wasn’t. “How often does that happen?”
“It started off once a week, now it seems like once a day.”
“How long have you been a—been like this?”
“Seven months, three weeks, two days. Approximately.” She gave a rueful smile.
Turner pulled her into his arms and held her tight, his face pressed against her hair. “You remember what happened?”
“I don’t remember an accident. I just woke up here.”
“If we could discover what happened, it might enable you to move on.”
Turner didn’t need to feel her tense to realize that wasn’t the right thing to say.
“
I want to help you,” he whispered.
“Right. Help me leave here,” she said in a dull voice. “Help me leave you.” She wriggled out of his arms and pushed herself upright. “I’m going to have a shower now. Good night.”
Idiot. He’d ruined the best night he’d had in years. Turner opened his mouth and then shut it again. He’d said quite enough.
He gathered his clothes and headed for the door. He spun around when he thought he heard a sob, but the sound of running water covered it, if it had ever been there at all.
* * * * *
“You were right.”
Three words Catch did not want to hear. His cell phone creaked in his fingers and he relaxed his grip as he moved away from his bike.
“Dava’s gone?” he asked, just to be sure.
“No sign of her when the VRB representative went calling,” said Mason, Catch’s boss in the SBI—Supernatural Bureau of Investigation.
“What made them go to see her? I thought they were happy with a visit a week?”
“Apparently their guy didn’t see her yesterday. Someone else did. Someone from the SBI. Care to comment?”
Shit. “I wanted to see if she recognized me.”
“You mean she took one look at your mug and ran for it?”
Catch winced. “She didn’t know me. She isn’t that good an actress.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
“No sign she was planning to disappear?” Mason asked.
“No. What about Gabriel?”
“He’s behaving.”
Not for long, Catch suspected. “Is there a warrant out for her?”
“No. The assholes in the VRB won’t ask. They’re giving her the benefit of the doubt. After all, she was there yesterday when she was supposed to be. We can’t do anything without a warrant. She has one week to get in contact. Enjoy your vacation because if she doesn’t turn up, you’ll be on her case when you get back.”
Catch was on it now, but better that Mason didn’t know.
“I’m going to warn all those she might—get in touch with,” Mason said. “Now I’m warning you. Just because Dava didn’t recognize you doesn’t mean you aren’t in danger.”
“I won’t have a problem snapping her neck.”
Mason huffed. “And then her friends will snap yours. It’s not a bad idea letting her run, so long as we’re on her tail, but the idiots in the VRB couldn’t follow a snail. You have any idea where she’d go? Apart from to Gabriel?”
“No,” Catch lied.
“Watch your back.”
“Always do.”
Maybe Catch was wrong. Maybe those three words, you were right, had been what he needed to hear because now he had an excuse to put things right.
Chapter Ten
Gabriel wanted to snap Dava’s neck. His fingers twitched. Twenty years he’d waited for freedom. All he needed to do was keep a low profile long enough to prove to the socially inept members of the VRB that he’d reformed and was looking forward to a life of quiet contemplation. Now there was a guy without a head in the apartment downstairs, the owner of that apartment apparently lay slumped in an alley with a case of severe anemia at the very least, and the idiot responsible stood in his apartment spattered from head to foot in blood. Vampire blood. Ken Burton’s blood. Gabriel’s VRB agent’s blood.
“Sorry,” Dava whispered yet again.
He wasn’t fooled. She told him everything she’d done since she was released and she didn’t look in the least bit sorry.
“I couldn’t—”
“Shut the fuck up. I’m trying to think.”
Gabriel’s choices were limited. He could call the VRB, tell them the truth and ask them to come and get her. After all, he wasn’t the one who’d ripped the guy’s head off or sucked on the mortal, but even so, Gabriel worried he’d get the blame. He’d sired Dava and was ultimately responsible for her behavior. He was within his rights to destroy her, but then who’d believe he was innocent of the latest carnage?
If he ran, getting caught could be fatal. This time there might be no intervention by friends in high places. He still wondered about that. He watched Dava surreptitiously trying to wipe her bloody fingerprints off the wall using her cuff. She had to be sacrificed. Gabriel had a pang of…maybe not remorse but regret. Of all his followers in the Purelight Calling, she’d been the most loyal. She’d done everything he’d asked without question, and she’d believed every bloody word he said. In and out of bed.
So how could he call the VRB without her realizing? He didn’t want her leaving the apartment.
“I know where the books are,” she said.
And Gabriel’s options changed yet again. Perhaps. “They were destroyed. A pile of ash that’s long gone.”
“I don’t think so.”
The word “think” disappointed him. “Then where are they, my pet?”
“Turner still has them.”
Gabriel made sure he showed no reaction. The claim was ridiculous. She couldn’t know that to be true, but his undead heart beat faster. He’d been surprised when the Court seemed to accept so easily that the books no longer existed. Not that it meant Turner had them, but Gabriel had watched him copy them as he did the translation. Gabriel had never seen anyone so excited as during the period Turner worked on the diaries. They’d had to remind him to feed.
“Why would Turner keep them?” Gabriel asked.
“I know him. You told me to get to know everything about him, and I did. He’d never throw a book away, let alone destroy it. He loves the damn things.”
Gabriel smiled. “More than you?”
Dava glared. “He’s gay.”
Gabriel sighed. So much for her getting to know everything about Turner. The vampire was bisexual. Gabriel had instructed Logan to use Dava to seduce Turner to the cause, and she’d not failed him in that, though it was the diaries that had kept him there, those and Logan. It had irked Dava that Turner liked Logan better than her.
Turner’s reputation as the vampire historian had been too much for Gabriel to resist. Gabriel’s diaries had been too much for Turner to resist. Turner’s support made a massive difference to Purelight’s appeal. Of course when Turner began to ask the wrong questions and finally realized the difference between what Gabriel said he was doing as opposed to what he was actually doing, the guy was doomed. Only the arrival of the SBI had saved him from Dava’s delightfully wicked fingers and joining the fifty lost ones.
“I was under the impression the historian was dead,” Gabriel said. “I was told he’d stepped into the light after the humiliation of the trial.”
“I heard that too. Interesting they should want us to believe that. I researched him on the internet. Turner’s not written another book. He’s not teaching. He’s not been seen in any of the social circles he used to move in.”
“So he is dead.”
Dava shook her head. “I traced him through the Vampire Electoral Role. Then found he’d moved house. His name is on the land registry document.”
Gabriel was impressed. This time her initiative showed intelligence.
“Turner’s had twenty years to work out exactly what the books say.” Dava gripped his arm. Gabriel stared at her fingers and she let him go. “Sorry. I’m excited. Maybe he’s even found a suitable plant. Perhaps he’s building a craft to take us home.”
Then again, maybe the use of the word “intelligence” was going too far. The eagerness in her expression made Gabriel cringe.
“We can get the books and start again.” Dava stared straight at him.
Assuming the books really did still exist, and even then, Gabriel would have to tread carefully.
“They’re waiting for you to lead them. You just have to give the word,” she said in a quiet voice.
Towers were tumbling around Gabriel’s ears. No books meant Gabriel could play the persecuted leader of Purelight whose only wish had been to bring the joy of sunshine to all of his kind. But if the books or copies still
existed… Had Turner lied? To Gabriel’s surprise, Turner had maintained his belief in their validity throughout the trial even though he’d been called a deluded idiot by the Court. Gabriel had found Turner’s insistence and the Court’s condemnation rather entertaining. It made Gabriel reconsider what he believed. Only at the end of the trial, when everyone but Turner had denounced the diaries as fake, did Turner’s head drop to allow an apology and a muttered acquiescence fall from his lips.
Gabriel had been amused by the irony that although he’d underestimated Turner’s susceptibility to Dava, he had been spot-on in knowing the historian would be taken in by the diaries, at least long enough for his support to matter. They’d been worth every penny he’d paid for them. Of course Gabriel now wished he’d had the foresight not to kill the man who’d provided them because he couldn’t ask the question that had been burning in his mind for twenty years.
Were the diaries really fakes?
Maybe he didn’t need to ask. Maybe the Council and the Court’s insistence that they were fakes was enough to convince him otherwise.
Maybe Turner’s claim that they were real was the voice he should believe.
Incredible that Gabriel should have run a scam that wasn’t quite a scam.
“Why are you so quiet?” Dava asked.
“I’m thinking.” Unlike her, he could do it without speaking.
If Turner had kept the books, or copies, and studied them, surely by now he knew whether or not they were forgeries. What had he been doing for the past twenty years? When Purelight had come to an end, Turner had barely started to tell him what the diaries said. Dava was right about one thing. They needed to speak to Turner. If he could be persuaded to say he still believed in the books, that he’d been forced to retract his support for them by the Council, then it would give more gravitas to Purelight.
Though there was still the problem of the body downstairs. If only the myth were true about vampires turning to ash when they finally died, it would make life so much easier. Well, they turned to ash in the sun, but leaving a body out in the open was risky in case it was discovered before dawn. The older ones turned quickly to sludge, but not the young ones. It took ages for them to dissolve.
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