Fever Dreams
Page 20
It hurt. She was stunned at how much it hurt. More than Caroline's criticism, more than Charlotte's hostility, Ransom's matter-of-fact appraisal of her character hurt.
Sensing her hurt, he reached for her hand and drew it to his cheek. He kissed it softly, taking the sting out of his words. “You don't need to be perfect, you know. Or is the thought of being just another flawed human being who makes mistakes too terrible to contemplate?”
“I don't like making mistakes,” she admitted.
“No one does, but we survive it.”
“Not necessarily,” she remarked pointedly.
“Oh, come on, do you really think it's your fault that we're here?”
“Yes.”
“Let me tell you something, Maddie. Shit happens. You can write that down, if you want. You can't control everything. This time, we're just stuck playing the cards we were dealt.”
“You're a fine one to say that. Blaming yourself for Miguel, blaming yourself for Escalante's revenge, blam—”
“I never said anything about—”
“You don't have to. I know you. You're stewing about how I'm going to die at Seguridore headquarters because Escalante hates you.” His silence was admission enough. Smiling faintly, she stroked his hair, wishing she could see his expression. “We're more alike than you admit, Ransom.” He relaxed after a moment and tilted his head to invite another caress. She obliged, but added wryly, “And certainly more alike that I would like to admit.”
“I've got better biceps,” he said complacently, reacting like a big cat to her caress.
“I have better manners,” she pointed out.
“You're just repressed,” he shot back.
“Well...” She sighed. “I suppose that's another way of putting it. My father taught me to always do my duty. My mother taught me to be a perfect lady. That didn't leave a lot of room for.... free expression.”
“You express yourself pretty freely to me.” He added dryly, “Especially when it's something I don't want to hear.”
“That's true,” she said slowly, surprised. Yes, she said things to Ransom she'd never dream of saying to anyone else. And not only criticisms, either; she admitted and revealed things to him that she shared with no one else.
“Still,” he mused, “I suppose it describes you pretty well, on the outside: a perfect lady who dutifully shoulders burdens that would make most men—most people—tremble.”
“I tremble,” she admitted painfully, her voice barely a whisper. “But no one sees.”
He took her hand and held it against his chest, so that her arm draped across him. “I see,” he assured her fiercely. “I saw it the first time I looked at you. I see it every time you're willing to let me see it. Even sometimes when you're not.”
He heard her shaky breath. Felt the quiver in her hand, as if she wanted to withdraw from him.
“That scares you, doesn't it?” he probed.
After a long pause, she admitted in a tight, uneven voice, “Everything about you scares me.”
He'd sensed it before and drawn back for her sake. But he wouldn't let it go this time. “You're afraid of me? Why? Jesus, Maddie, what have I ever done to make you afraid of me?” He tightened his grip on her as a painful thought struck him. “Are you afraid I'll talk about that night?”
She knew which night he meant. “Would you?”
“No! Of course not.”
“But you said—”
“I know what I said,” he snapped. “I was mad enough to bite someone that day. I only said it because ... Shit!”
“Why?” she prodded, listening alertly.
“Because ... I knew it would scare you.” He lowered his head in defeat. “I was fighting dirty. And I'm...” He drew in a quick, steadying breath, then he said it: “I'm sorry.”
She took her time before saying, “Apology accepted.”
He peered suspiciously into the darkness. He had an awful feeling she was smiling. He decided to overlook it. “Some men talk,” he said, “but not me.”
“You told me about that woman,” she challenged.
“What woman?”
“The one you slept with the night before we left New York.”
“Oh, Gwen.”
“That's her name? Gwen?” she pounced.
“Yeah, that's her name. And I didn't tell you about her. All I said was—”
“But what if I'd said I did want you to tell me all about it?”
“You wouldn't have.”
“But if I did?”
“I wouldn't have told you,” he said impatiently. “What goes on between a man and woman is their own business and nobody else's. I don't kiss and tell. Got it?”
She relaxed. “Got it.”
Now he was annoyed. “But there you were, making damn sure I knew that what's-his-face had slept in your bed that night—”
“Preston. And it was his idea to make you come up to the apartment. I didn't want you to know about my private life.”
He had to ask. He had to know. No one could have paid him enough not to ask. “Are you really gonna marry that guy?”
“No.”
“No?” he repeated. “No?”
“No.”
“No?” Her simple answer incensed him. “What do you mean, no?”
“You sound like you had your heart set on giving me away at the wedding,” she snapped.
“No, but I was trying to get used to the idea that you belonged to some other guy, and now you're telling me—”
“Belonged?” she repeated in an awful voice. “Marrying someone and becoming someone's personal property are two different things, Ransom, and the latter has been illegal in the US for over—”
“You know what I mean!”
“I don't like the way you phrase it!”
“Why aren't you going to marry that twit?”
“Because I don't love him!” she hurled at him.
“Oh.” He thought this over and felt rather pleased. “Oh.”
“Satisfied? Is that a good enough reason for you?” Now she was annoyed.
“Well, don't you think you should tell the poor sonofabitch? He seems to think you're going to marry him.”
“I really hate it when you use that tone of voice,” she said through clenched teeth. “And, yes, I'm going to tell him when I get back to New York.” She paused. “Oh, God. If I get back to New York.”
“You'll get back. I have no intention of dying in Montedora.” He kissed her hand again, trying to reassure her.
“And you?” she asked hesitantly. “Is there someone waiting for you back home?”
“A woman, you mean? No.”
“What about—”
“That's over,” he said briefly.
“Over?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You slept with her just three nights ago, and now—”
“We said goodbye that night.”
“Oh.” She thought it over. She had to ask. Nothing could have prevented her from asking. “Was she someone special? Did you ... Were you in love with her?”
She felt him shake his head. She tightened her grip on his hand, feeling the coolness of his ring against her flesh.
“It was just ... Oh, Christ, Maddie, how much sleazier do I have to get in your eyes?”
“What?”
“It was just sex, okay? I mean, I liked her, but basically, we got together for sex. We were both single, busy, lonely...”
“And randy.” Surprised, she laughed at herself.
“That, too,” he admitted dryly.
“Just sex,” she murmured. “I couldn't do that.”
“It's not the best of all possible worlds,” he conceded, “but I could do it until...”
“What?”
“Until I met you,” he said in a rush. “I could ... keep things separated if I needed to. Keep my head clear. But you ... you confuse everything.”
“I do?” Her voice was very small.
“Oh, yeah.” His response wa
s heartfelt.
“I don't mean to.”
“I know. Doesn't make a difference.”
“I knew I confused Preston, because I was so unfair.”
“My heart just bleeds for him,” he said dryly.
“But not you. You never seem confused.”
“Then you're just not paying attention.”
“Oh, I pay attention,” she assured him. “How could I not?”
“To me?”
“All of the time,” she whispered, frightened by her own honesty. Why did she have to tell him the truth? Why did she always give him more ground?
“Maddie, did you...” Hell, show a little courage, take the leap, he chided himself. “Did you ever think about me after the night we spent together?”
He could hear his heart thundering in his ears as he waited for her answer. Christ, was it that important?
Yes, he admitted. Yes. It was that important.
“All of the time,” she whispered at last. “Did you?”
He knew what would happen now. He shouldn't be doing this. He should be resting his battered body, making plans and contingency plans, keeping his head clear for their escape. But all of that faded into insignificance as he felt her shift on the bed.
“Yes,” he whispered. “All of the time.”
And he reached for her.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
This is crazy, she thought, welcoming his weight with open arms and an open heart. Someone could come through that door at any minute. The guards had no reason to bother them again tonight, but that didn't mean they wouldn't. And the bed was narrow and sagging, and they were both filthy, and the hot cell stank with ancient odors she preferred not to think about. She knew he was more injured than he was willing to admit to her, and they were going to risk their lives in a few short hours.
Yes, it was crazy, but she didn't even hesitate as he found her in the dark and kissed her deeply.
I may die tonight.
The realization was sharp and stirring, and this was her last meal. If something went wrong, then she wanted to die with the taste of this man on her mouth, the scent of his skin on her skin, and the feel of his thrusts still aching sweetly inside her body.
He held her face in his hands. The darkness hid their expressions from each other.
“I wish I could see you,” he whispered, arching his hips into hers.
She felt his erection stir between her legs, and she ground herself against it, so relieved to feel him in her arms at last. How had she waited so long for this? How had she borne all those nights without him?
Hungry for him, starving for him, she kissed him until she thought her lungs would burst, then pressed her face against his bare chest, inhaling him with fevered pleasure.
His kisses were demanding, almost frantic. She struggled wildly to get closer, to have more of him. They nipped and bit, aggressive and clumsy in their delirium. He started pushing her slip-on blouse up over her arms and head, and she arched her back to help him, longing to be naked with him. Then he sighed and got distracted. His hot mouth was at her breast and his hands fumbled with her bra, while her arms tangled overhead in the gauzy sleeves of her blouse. Her face was smothered in its folds.
“Ransom,” she squawked in a muffled voice, choking on fine material.
“Hmmmm? God, you taste good.”
She moaned when his mouth closed over her nipple, trembled and sighed as he sucked, squirmed under the rough stroking of his tongue. His hand slid between her legs. She thought she might suffocate. She made a strangled sound of pleasure.
“Oh! Sorry.” He pulled the blouse over her head. “My mistake.”
“You used to be smoother,” she chided, catching her breath and going after his zipper.
“I'm under stress tonight,” he reminded her, unfastening her trousers and pulling them down.
“Not on the floor!” she cautioned, grabbing at her pants before he could toss them aside. “God only knows what's been on that floor.”
“All right, all right.” He shoved all her clothes into the corner behind her head.
She sighed with pleasure and relief when he carelessly kicked away his mud-caked pants and she felt the length of his naked body relax against hers. The scattered rough hair on his legs teased her smooth skin. The dark golden fleece on his chest abraded her breasts, and the contrast delighted her. The smooth warmth of his back, shoulders, and buttocks drugged her senses as she stroked and caressed and revelled in him. His arms were like steel bands around her, possessive and impassioned and excitingly male. His mouth was greedy and wet and restless as he kissed and nibbled and devoured her. Every touch, every whisper, every desperate sigh took her further and further away from herself as she journeyed deeper and deeper into him.
“Now,” she murmured. “Now, now, now.”
She was demanding and insistent. She used her hands and hips to show him exactly what she wanted. It was so easy. She felt so free and uninhibited, so outside of herself and all the wearisome strictures of being Madeleine Barrington. With the merest touch, he had helped her shed all of that, and nothing was left but the essential woman, unburdened and unashamed.
He murmured something unintelligible when she found him with grasping fingers. Breathing raggedly and kissing her over and over and over, he let her lead him where she would, entrusting himself to her less-than-gentle handling. He took the long, deep ride she invited him on, finding his way with no hesitation or awkwardness, filling her with perfect, stunning intimacy. It was more than she could bear in silence. But Ransom put a hand over her mouth to stifle her soft cry.
“I don't want them to hear you,” he whispered fiercely, trembling with restraint.
Eyes squeezed shut with that combination of agonizing pleasure and exquisite torment that he himself had taught her, she rolled her head back and forth, swallowing her moans as he held himself taut and still above her.
“Quietly,” he instructed against her hair, his voice a soft growl.
Desperate and impatient, she shifted her hips against him, moving with a mindless rhythm she couldn't control. He ruthlessly pressed her down and held her still.
“Quietly,” he repeated, nipping her ear. “All right?”
Helpless beneath his weight and his strength, she squirmed restlessly in the dark, knowing she would come in a moment, whether he moved or not, whether he expected it or not. She felt her eyes misting as emotion and sensation tore her apart. She was imploding, heat coursing wildly through her, rushing toward the hidden core of her body. Her muscles contracted in secret, sacred places, massaging him, milking him.
“Oh, Jesus,” he choked, as surprised as she had known he would be. “Jesus, Maddie.” His whole body shook and lost its rigidity in a sudden, convulsive movement. His hand slid away from her mouth and into her hair.
“Ransom,” she sobbed, unable to stop herself. “Ran—”
His hand covered her mouth again, roughly this time, squeezing her jaw and pressing her head into the mattress. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, clinging to him, rising off the bed and then crashing back down into its sagging frame as he thrust into her, his self-control shattered and forgotten.
They struggled together in darkness, her cries silenced by the hand clamped over her mouth, his own groans choked back by sheer effort of will. Tears crept past her tightly shut lids. Everything she thought she knew about herself gave way to everything she really was, as she heaved and strained and fought for satisfaction, locked together with this man in the most primitive embrace of her life.
She climaxed with stunning, wrenching force, her limbs melting, her spine arching wildly, her whole body going blindingly hot in a long, violent orgasm. She felt him shuddering in her arms, his hips pumping compulsively as he came, his teeth sinking into her as he tried to stay silent. His palm pressed even harder over her mouth, smothering her wild moans until they finally subsided into soft, breathless sighs. And by then, he was too weak to have silenced her anyhow.
She turned her head slightly. He shifted in the dark, and pressed his forehead against hers.
After a long moment, he breathed, “I wish I could see you.”
* * * *
She had never known Ransom to be silent for so long when he wasn't actually asleep. And she knew by the rhythm of his breath and the occasional caresses he passed down her body that he was wide awake.
They lay together like spoons, her back against his chest, his arms around her, the tickling hair and velvety flesh of his loins pressed intimately against her buttocks. Occasionally he stroked a hand down her hip and thigh, or leaned slightly forward to kiss her shoulder. Every so often, he rubbed his palm across one of her breasts, squeezing gently, lightly tracing the areola. He'd kept her in this dreamy state of semi-arousal for what seemed like hours. The slow burn he was creating, however, didn't distract her from a million terrifying thoughts and feelings.
“How much longer?” she finally whispered, needing to say something, to hear him say something.
She felt the ever-so-slight tensing of the long, lean, muscular body which lay pressed against her. He shifted a little to study the tiny patch of night sky outside the barred window overhead. The soldiers had stolen his watch, along with almost everything else.
“Another hour,” he said, “hour and a half.”
Limp with pleasure, she practically purred when he smoothed his hard palm over her stomach, paused briefly at the triangle of hair between her legs, and then massaged her hip.
I may die tonight. But it was almost impossible to be afraid when his fingers teased her nipples, as they were doing now, or when they slid away from her breasts like that to knead her neck and shoulders. Oh, it was definitely impossible to think about fear when she felt his soft kisses in her hair or on her back. She pressed her bottom against him and closed her eyes.
But he was so quiet, so unusually quiet. Was he, for once, as overwhelmed as she was by what had just happened between them? Could he possibly be scared, too, for a change?