Eden's Spell (12 page)

“You're beautiful,” he told her huskily. “I think I—”

“No!” she cried suddenly, savagely. Because that was when her eyes left his—and fell on the photo on the mantel.

James. She was making a mockery of what they had shared. All the years she had lived on memories, and now, in two days, she was ready and willing and eager! to be with another man!

She was ready to fight him with fury, but she didn't have to. He had rolled away, was gone already, standing with his back to her, staring at the portrait.

“He's dead,” he told her flatly. Then he spun around, hunched down on one knee, taking her hands and bringing her up. “And since you're so concerned about animals, Mrs. Denver, I should remind you that the human being is one. Flesh and blood and instinct and raw nerves, but more too. Much more. Memory and thought and feeling. More than any cat of the jungle, any snake, any predator, a human is an animal to be handled carefully. Don't tread on instinct, Mrs. Denver, and don't tread on emotion. It's a dangerous thing to do, because the most gentle of beasts can be provoked into rage.”

“I didn't provoke you into anything! I—”

“You kissed me back. You almost, almost, came to life. But you don't want that, do you? You think that by being self-sacrificing you can make up for the fact that you're not dead. The lowest animal knows, Mrs. Denver, that that isn't God's way, or nature's.”

“Let me go! I'm not an animal! I'm not a subject for you to study and analyze! Let me—”

“Run, Mrs. Denver? You can't run from life—or from emotion. But if you're so determined, by all means go ahead. I won't stop you.”

She did run. Literally. And she didn't stop until she was in her bedroom, with the door closed and locked.

H
ER HEART WOULD NOT
stop racing; nor would her ragged breathing cease.

She stood at her door awhile, simply feeling. She realized suddenly—or perhaps not so suddenly—that running was not what she had wanted to do at all. She realized that she wanted him, wanted to respond to him, wanted to overcome the guilt and confusion and just touch, and be touched, and …

No! She left the door, scrambled blindly in the top drawer of her dresser, and found a flashlight. A shower would be nice. A cold shower, to remind her that this was not reality, that gentle pink clouds could only embrace one in dreams, that surely, real love happened only once in a lifetime.

The flashlight led her to the bathroom. She shed her jeans and T-shirt and climbed into the stall, glad of the cold, glad of the shocking punishment against her heated flesh. And she stayed there, scrubbing herself over and over again with the bar of soap.

At last she turned the water off. She could hear the wind then, louder than it had seemed during the day. She toweled herself dry with the same heated energy with which she had washed.

And it was then that she paused. She noticed that her skin smelled of the soap: clean, with just a touch of perfume. It made her feel very sleek and feminine, just like a woman who was awaiting a lover.

Lover.
What a funny word. She'd never had a “lover,” only a husband she had loved, a husband who was gone. She was alone now, and she needed to be held. She wanted to explore the man in the next room, who had fascinated her from the very first with his silver eyes, and filled her dreams. And she saw it all again: going to him, entering his room, his arms coming out to her.

He wanted her. Surely, he wanted her. He had kissed her, held her, and only her scream of denial and fury had broken them apart. It could happen; she could just go to him, embrace the darkness, touch him, and feel his touch.

A burst of agony and doubt swept through her then. But she was already moving. Her palms were drenched; she wiped them on the towel she had knotted around herself. The agony, the doubt, stayed with her. In the fantasy she could see herself walking, she could see his arms, but nothing more. She didn't know how to seduce, how to cajole, how to be sultry. It had been too long.

But still, she was moving. Her heart was pounding like a storm.

Her hand was on the doorknob, and then the door was open. The house was dark; the only light was from a flashlight that had been left standing on the coffee table.

She took a step, then another, and another, her bare feet touching the cool tiles.

Right before she reached his door, she panicked. What if he had locked it?

But his door wasn't locked. Her face tightened into a mask of pain as her fingers faltered upon it.
Open it!
she commanded herself.

At last she did; the door swung inward. More darkness greeted her, more and more. Her feet no longer wanted to move, but they did, step after slow, silent step. She could just make out the shape of the bed and the shape of his body beneath the sheets.

And then she was standing over him, and somehow, she knew that he was awake, that he was half sitting up, that he was watching her, and that he saw far more in the dark than she did.

A small sound escaped her; she wanted to run again as his hand came out of the darkness and his fingers wound around her wrist.

“Good evening, Mrs. Denver.”

He wasn't supposed to speak.

“I—I just wanted to say I'm sorry.”

“The hell you did. You came to make love.”

She wanted to die. Or fall to the floor and crawl away.

She could do neither; he was up and next to her and she felt the entire naked length of his body as he swept her into his arms, then down to the bed. In the darkness she could see the silver glow of his eyes and feel the tension that hardened the fine lines of his face into a taut mask.

“I'm not your husband, Mrs. Denver,” he told her bluntly.

“Please—”

“Not this time, Mrs. Denver.”

She felt his hand, tugging at the knot of her towel. The towel fell away; then she felt his fingers again on her cheek, moving between her breasts, stroking her stomach with velvet tenderness.

“I'm more than willing to play stud service for you, Mrs. Denver,” he said so softly that it took seconds for her mesmerized mind to react, for her body to tense, for her hands to lash out to push him away. He didn't appear to notice; his leg was locked over hers, his manhood, hard and alive with a vibrant pulse, touched her thigh. His hands caught hers easily, drew them together, held them as the warm and arousing touch of his lips played over her forehead, against the lobe of her ear, the static pulse at the base of her throat.

“More than willing. But there will be some honesty in the situation.”

Suddenly, he was gone from her. She heard the strike of a match, saw a flare in the night. She closed her eyes with absolute horror, aware that he had lit the candle by his bed and that the glow fell upon her.

She had entered the lion's den, and the lion had no intention of letting her loose.

His arm clamped around her waist; he held her there, forcing her to meet his eyes.

“I didn't want—light!” she managed to choke out, and he smiled, a little grimly.

“Ah! Honesty.”

“All right! I came to—I came to you, but I changed my mind—”

“Too late.”

“Jason! My son is—”

“Sound asleep, Katrina. I checked on him, Katrina. His door is closed—as is this one. You can't hide behind him now.”

She lowered her head and moaned softly. Tears suddenly filled her eyes, but he ignored them, gently forcing her back down to the sheets. She closed her eyes, aware that if she opened them, she would see him studying her in the candle glow from head to toe.

His fingers were on her again, caressing her the way his eyes were caressing her, curving softly around her breasts, grazing her nipples to taut peaks, rubbing over her belly and then her thighs until she was longing for him to touch her further, again and again, deeper.

“Look at me, Katrina.”

“Please …”

“Look at me!”

Her eyes opened at his ruthless command. He was still touching her, arousing her breast with just the stroke of his thumb, barely there, making her ache, burn inside, deep inside.

“Watch me. Watch me touch you.”

“You have no mercy!” she choked out.

He smiled, hiking his left eyebrow slightly. “I've lots of mercy, Katrina. You just can't see that now. But—you will see me.”

His head dipped to her breast. She felt his mouth on her nipple, his tongue sliding around it, a gentle suction that swept into her like molten mercury, making her body shudder and shake, her fingers grasp his hair, a soft cry escape her. Nor did he end it there. With gentle, sweeping force, he administered to her left breast as completely, slid the hard length of his body next to hers, captured her mouth with passion. She was aching; she was not ready for the kiss to break. It did, because his body was moving against hers again, his tongue washing over her belly, his teeth grazing her hip. He moved her and positioned her and she responded to his slightest touch, twisting, catching his hair, gasping, trembling ardently.

She felt his hand moving between her thighs. Then his fingers were teasing her, suddenly inside of her, rhythmic, deep, touching that core that was alive and hot with sweet fire. And his face was against her breasts again, and he was telling her how sweet she smelled, like the flowers after a rain, like the air at sea, like something totally edible and so delicious.

She thought that she would die if he did not ease the hunger that had grown in her. She had lost all fear, all sense of right or wrong, all reason; she wanted him so desperately.

But then he was suddenly gone; not really gone, but no longer touching her. He had risen high above her, his weight held by the corded muscles in his arms. She had writhed and twisted and arched to him, wantonly, shamelessly, and now he was staring at her again. Her lashes fluttered down quickly.

“Open your eyes!” he ordered her.

She did—belligerently, defiantly, ready to cry with fury, with loss, with confusion.

He smiled slowly and lazily, so very aware of what he had done to her, exactly how he had made her feel.

“I'm not your husband. Don't pretend that I am. Touch me. Know that I'm different. That I'm Michael Taylor.”

“Oh!” she choked out miserably, and tried to twist away.

He wouldn't let her. He fell against her, capturing her face between his hands, kissing her long and fully again, and rekindling fires that still burned with a vengeance.

Then he looked at her again, caressing her cheeks with both hunger and tenderness.

“I am not your husband. But I am a man who finds you beautiful and exotic, and so sensually arresting that I would gladly be doomed to a thousand hells just to touch you. A man who could love you every bit as deeply and well, if you would just give him a chance.”

The movement of his mouth against hers was slow and leisurely, open-mouthed kisses that touched and broke away, kisses that she tried to capture, that she returned.

“Touch me,” he told her again, and she did, her fingers shimmering along his sides, along his back.
Know the difference!
he seemed to be commanding her, and she did. He was broad and tautly muscled, and her hands shook to adore the vital, powerful feel of him. He wasn't James; she loved being with him.
Him.
Loved the tapering feel of his torso, the tautness of his waist.

“Want me?” he asked her suddenly, hoarsely.

She nodded, not bothering to close her eyes.

“Take me.”

And she did. Her fingers closed around him, stroking him, drawing him, the hot fluid core within her flaring ever brighter with his shudders, his groans of pleasure.

Then he was sheathed within her, a vital, fluid part of her, with strokes that promised, strokes that withheld, movement, rhythm, swift and powerful, growing. He was drawing her ever higher into a whirlwind of ecstasy, making it last and last, creating a raging sea of sensation, until she thought she would explode with it, until she did explode with it, in a moment so bright that it seemed that stars burst all around her in prisms of beautiful, blinding delight, delight matched only by the feel of him finding that same delight within her, flooding her with a sea of himself.

And even then, even then, she felt as if she were cradled within the beautiful, warm depths of a tropic sea, held, cherished, soothed. She was floating down on clouds—not pink ones, but clouds that were as sheer as silk, tender, gentle clouds, easing the beat of her heart, the gasp of her breath.

He touched her hair, smoothed it from her face. Then he smiled at her, tenderly and openly.

And then, only then, did he snuff out the candle. And then, only then, did it seem he had no words.

But neither did she. She was content to lie beside him, savoring the feel of his body, basking in the knowledge of his masculinity. She loved the strength of his arm, so comfortable around her.

But in time, she stirred.

“I've got to get back to my own room. Jason—”

He held her tight and kissed her forehead. “Trust me. I awake at exactly six
A.M.
like clockwork. Stay beside me.”

“But—”

His mouth found hers. He spoke between kisses. “Trust me. Let me love you again.”

Trust me.
She clung to the words, because she couldn't deny him. She was attuned to him, alive to his touch, and already she was more than eager to be loved again.

Apparently, Mike Taylor did have a body alarm clock; he awoke her at exactly six. She desisted at first, lazily trying to curl back into his arms, then glanced at her wristwatch. Two minutes past six on the nose.

She kissed him quickly, was pulled back into his warm, warm embrace, and then released. Grabbing her towel, she retreated to her own room and promptly, very contentedly, returned to a deep sleep.

She awoke again because it was light, beautifully, brilliantly light. The storm was past, and Mike had apparently reopened the shutters.