Demon Lover (13 page)

The growl in his voice warned her. She gave a faint gasp as he pulled her roughly against him, his mouth coming down to cover hers fiercely, almost angrily. When she gave a tiny sigh and parted her lips, he seemed surprised. He hesitated a moment and drew back a little, then gave a throaty growl and found her mouth with a new and deeper union. His tongue flicked at the soft insides of her lips and then thrust deep, a savage penetration almost as shocking as the more intimate one it simulated. Heat shot through her, shattering her reserves and pretenses, tearing a permanent, ragged hole in her pride and self–esteem and settling deep in the core of her body, an aching pool of longing and desire. She answered his primal sound with one of her own—a sound she could never have imagined coming from her own throat—then gave herself up to him.

She felt his fingers rake through her hair and encase her head, holding it still for the hungry thrusts of his tongue;  she felt his arms shift and his hand press hard on the base of her spine, urging her lower body against the raw desire in his. A tormented whimper escaped from her throat, and she arched convulsively into him as jagged bolts of sensation shot through her body.

And then, somehow, his hands were hard on her arms and her body was left cold and bereft. She stared up at him with eyes that wouldn’t focus.

"Was that what you had in mind?" Chayne rasped harshly, breathing like a long–distance runner. "Is that what you wanted?"

Julie could only stare at him, still too shocked to speak. After a moment he touched her moist, swollen lips with his thumb, and said with more control, "You’re full of surprises, Julie Maguire."

He gave a snort of astonishment and tucked her into the curve of his arm, secure against his side. Once more he picked up the lantern, and said dryly, "Just in case anyone’s watching. And now we’re going home."

It seemed miles through the darkness to the lonely adobe he had called home. And when the door had creaked shut behind them, isolating them in that tiny pool of lantern light, Julie couldn’t imagine how they had gotten there so quickly.

While Chayne moved to hang the lantern on its nail in the ceiling beam, Julie stood with her back to him, arms crossed and head bowed, rubbing absently at her upper arms. The silence grew and became ominous. She was acutely conscious of the vulnerability of the nape of her neck; she could almost feel the fine hairs there lift and stir. When at last the tension was broken by the click and hiss of a cigarette lighter, it was almost a relief to turn and face him.

Chayne was half sitting on the windowsill, legs outstretched, arms crossed on his naked chest, squinting at her through smoke. She could see the ice blue glitter of his eyes beneath heavy dark brows. She decided to outwait him and lifted her chin in a silent gesture of challenge.

"All right, Julie," he said, with an exasperated sigh, "now that it’s just us—would you mind telling me what the hell you think you’re up to?"

J
ULIE HELD HER
breath, afraid even to breathe lest it be the wrong thing to do.

What should I say? Oh God, what should I do now?

She had to convince him she truly wanted to change the rules of this game they were playing. She had to convince him now. But if she said the wrong thing…

He’d said it would be up to her. He’d said she was pretty, and that he’d been a long time without a woman. And he hadn’t seemed to mind kissing her. But he was no fool. She’d been so afraid of him before; would he ever believe an about–face now? She’d have to be very careful not to make him suspicious.

She licked her lips and began, "I don’t—" only to be cut off.

"Those clothes, for starters." His eyes raked down her body, and he made an impatient gesture with the hand that held the cigarette. "Why this cheap trampy stuff?"

Julie stared at him in genuine astonishment. She made a small noise of exasperation and shook her head. "Cheap? Trampy? You know, I really don’t understand you. If the role you’ve put me in isn’t cheap and trampy, I don’t know what is. And it’s not exactly something I have experience in. Linda seemed to think what I was wearing was… That it lacked…" She let her voice trail off, smiled ruefully and looked at him from under her lashes. She lifted one shoulder in a shrug and just managed to drop one strap of the tank top over the edge of her shoulder. "I just thought for the sake of credibility I should try to look the part."

Chayne snorted and drew on his cigarette, muttering something unintelligible through his hand. And then harshly, almost angrily, he said, "Play–acting’s one thing. What was that all about back there just now? Just what in the hell did you think you were doing?"

"What I was doing? You—"

He snapped the cigarette to the floor and crushed it with his foot in a gesture of restrained savagery. "I have pretty damn good self–control, but I’m not dead! You wanted me to kiss you. Didn’t you?" Julie’s mouth had gone dry and she couldn’t answer. "You wanted—asked—for it! Didn’t you?"

Riveted by his eyes, Julie nodded.

"Answer me, damn it!"

"Yes," she whispered. "I wanted you to kiss me."

"Why?"

She shrugged helplessly and turned her back on him. His voice came quietly, brushing across the back of her neck like a physical touch. "I can’t figure out whether you’re the world’s biggest tease or just dumb, but for someone who was scared witless at the thought of sleeping in the same bed with me, you are walking on dangerous ground."

Julie took a couple of aimless, unsteady steps away from him. In the confined space of the hut there was no room for pacing, and her movements took her to the edge of the bed. She stood hugging herself and rubbing her arms, and after a moment  heard herself say softly, "I didn’t really sleep much last night."

"What?"

She cleared her throat and repeated it, a little louder. "I said, I didn’t sleep last night."

He made a dry sound, an expulsion of breath that could have been frustration, disbelief, astonishment or all three. She turned to face him and found his eyes burning with that demonic fire. She withstood the gaze unflinchingly, and after a moment he drew a hand over his face; it made a dry, whispery sound on his day’s growth of beard.

"Julie, what are you telling me? You must know you are a very tempting morsel, and I am a hungry man. The way I feel right now, if we share that bed tonight, it won’t be to sleep. Are you trying to tell me that’s what you want?"

Julie had a strange sensation of floating; her bones were hollow, weightless. He hadn’t moved, but she seemed to be moving toward him, impelled by some magnetic force outside her control. He watched her come, his face dark and unreadable, then slowly uncrossed his outstretched feet and guided her between them, drawing her close, so she could reach out and touch the warm resilient bulges of his pectoral muscles with her fingertips. She trailed the sensitive pads of her fingers across one smooth, walnut mound to the darker, rougher furring of hair around a flat brown nipple and traced its circumference. There was a sharp hiss of indrawn breath, and his fingers snatched at her wrist, imprisoning it, holding her hand away from his body.

She opened her mouth to protest, but he gave his head a violent shake and grated, "No. I don’t buy it." His hand closed like a trap on the back of her neck and exerted a slow, steady pressure. The fingers on her wrist eased, his thumb teasing into her palm, opening her clenched fingers like the petals of a flower. He stared at the hand with hooded eyes and murmured thoughtfully, "You know, Guerita…I can’t decide whether you’re a foolish little girl playing with fire…or a much tougher and smarter cop than I gave you credit for. But you know, I’m damned…" he slowly raised her hand, stroking his thumb in the hollow of her palm, a lazy, circling motion "…if I don’t think…" he pressed her palm to his lips and let his tongue assume that delicate torture "…I’m going to find out."

The trembling began then, but it wasn’t fear. That slow, sensuous laving of the nerve endings in her palm touched nerves in points of her body she would never have imagined could explode with such exquisite agony—sharp bursts like sky rockets that melted into sweet, shimmering desire. She closed her eyes and swayed, and his thighs closed tightly on hers.

Just when she thought she wouldn’t be able to stand it any longer, when she knew that she was about to whimper with frustrated desire, he slowly withdrew her hand and laid it, open and moist, against his chest. "Convince me, Julie," he whispered. "Show me who you are: woman…or cop."

Beneath her palm she felt a steady drumming that matched the thunder in her own ears. Her body throbbed to that primitive cadence, pulsing with life–forces too elemental to be questioned or denied. She swallowed cotton and muttered huskily, "I can’t think."

He gave a low chuckle. "Good. I guess that’s strike one against the cop." His forefinger traced the skin of her chest along the line of the tank top. When it reached the purple mark he’d left there it dipped inside and pulled, slowly easing the material down over the pale hemisphere of her breast. His eyes feasted on it as his finger traced its underside and his thumb drew tiny circles around its taut  nipple. Her breathing accelerated, making her breast rise and fall beneath his hand. She opened her eyes and focused them on his mouth, staring at it, wanting it
there
. Her hand crept upward over his collarbone, curved over the vibrant warmth of his neck.

"Please…"

"What, Julie? Tell me."

"I want…"

"What is it you want?"

The hand on her neck slid down to press firmly against her back; the hand on her breast cradled it while his head came forward to meet it. He touched the tip with his tongue, eliciting a gasp of shock and breathless anticipation, then began gentle, encircling strokes that she felt pulling at the deepest part of her body. "I want…"

His mouth opened, lowered with tormenting slowness over that tender peak, closed on it at last and began a gentle, drawing pressure that pulled and tugged at that other place deep within her.

Relief flooded her, relief so acute she was laughing and crying at the same time. "I want you. I want
you
."

He drew back to look into her eyes. She tightened her fingers convulsively on the back of his neck. "Do you, Julie? You, a
cop
, want me, a
criminal?"

Still laughing and crying, shaking with frustration and desire, she cried, "No. Not a cop. Not a cop…just a woman. I want you, Chayne. I don’t care what you are. I need you."

"Strike two," he said softly. His hand slipped down her spine, stopping at the cleft between her buttocks. He pressed her hard into the V of his legs, grinding the sensitive mound of her femininity sharply against the part of him that fit it best. She gave a startled cry, and he responded with a chuckle of triumph. "Yeah…that’s right, Julie. That’s what you’re asking for. Better be sure you mean it. No games. No playacting. Because I’m going to make love to you, Guerita."

"I doubt love has anything to do with this," Julie said breathlessly, burrowing her fingers through the hair on the back of his head. "But it is what I want. You believe me, don’t you?"

His hands were on her hips, guiding her pelvis in slow, grinding movements against his. His eyes were hooded, smoky with passion. "Close enough."

"Then shouldn’t that be…strike three?"

He laughed softly, sliding his hands up across her ribs, hooking his fingers in the stretchy jersey of her shirt and tugging it down. Julie untangled her fingers from his hair and drew her arms out of the straps, and he rolled the scarlet material down to her hips.

"Strike three?" he murmured absently. He lifted his hands and placed one over each breast, gently kneading. Her small breasts were completely covered by his hands; he seemed fascinated by the contrast of his darkly tanned fingers splayed across the ivory of her skin. "Oh, no. Not yet. Your lips tell me you’re a woman, but lips can lie. Bodies don’t lie. What will your body tell me?"

Julie shuddered and closed her eyes, arching her back, pushing her aching breasts into his hands. She was still trembling, but a strange calm had settled over her. She had long ago shut off her mind, so she couldn’t think of such abstracts as right and wrong, good and bad, love and hate. There was only the solid reality of his body and hers, male and female, and the desperate need that cried out through every nerve, fiber and sinew of her body.

Under his hands her nipples shivered and pulled hard and tight. He rubbed his palms across them, chafing them intolerably, and she cried out in distress. He uncovered and kissed each one and then whispered, "Do they hurt, Julie? Do you see now what I mean?"

Julie mumbled, "What?" and swayed toward him. She felt groggy…drunk.

His hands molded her body, curving over her bottom and down the backs of her thighs, then back up again, discovering the legs of the borrowed shorts were wide enough to allow him access to the resilient flesh beneath. As his big hands reached inside the shorts to grasp and knead her buttocks, he straightened and stood up, arching above her, his mouth descending to cover hers, its heat like a brand on her lips. His hands lifted her up and into his body; her hands clung desperately to his shoulders, then found better support at the back of his neck.

Naked chests touched and melded. Her breasts were flattened against hard muscle; his hair rubbed sensitized nipples and set them afire. Her mouth opened, and she welcomed the deep thrusts of his tongue with a fierce, primal growl. There was hunger in the sound, and triumph, too; she could feel the trembling in his muscles, feel the urgency of his passion hard against her.

It couldn’t go on forever. Julie tore her mouth away and buried her face in his chest. "Please—" Her breath sobbed through her in violent shudders. "Please. I want you—"

He was as winded as she was, but his voice held a touch of wry amusement. "I want you, too, believe me, Guerita, but there is the small matter of clothing to be dispensed with. Hold on a minute.
There."