Weeping Angel (41 page)

She felt Frank close in behind her. He slid his wide hands around her middle and put his chin on the curve of her shoulder. The stubby bristles of his evening beard caught in her hair, and he smoothed a curl over her ear. She shivered, fighting against closing her eyes; she couldn't help leaning into him, pressing her back against the supple muscles of his chest. His arms were like an iron vise, gently squeezing her waist, keeping her close and giving her a sense of protection.

He nestled his open mouth on the side of her throat, kissing her lightly. “Don't run away from me. I won't hurt you like that again. I swear.”

She ached with an inner pain, a thirst left unquenched. “It's all right.”

“No it's not.”

His words of apology coiled around her breasts, disintegrating her willpower. Her eyes shut, locking out the flickering shadows; the flood tide of blackness behind her eyelids intensified her other senses. She could hear him breathing low and deep. She could smell the salt of his sated sweat and a vague trace of liquor and tobacco that lingered on his skin molded over the sinewy slabs of muscle and bone that defined his torso beneath his thin shirt.

The roughness of his hands snagged the delicate material of her wrapper. “This time, I promise, you'll feel like one of the skyrockets Beamguard shot up on the Fourth.”

She responded to the resonant inflection of his voice; she angled her head back. The reaction was involuntary. She didn't think she could take getting all heated up again without letting go. Without finding some kind of release. Inasmuch as she wanted to
believe him, she didn't think feeling like a shooting rocket was possible. “It's all right,” she said again. “I can make us some tea and we can forget about it.”

“It?
It's called making love, Amelia.” His palm supported her chin and he kissed her jaw. “And I don't want to forget. I want you to come apart, sweetheart. Let go.”

A groan went by her throat. She wanted to let go. She'd tried to let go, but Amelia Ruth Marshall Brody was apparently too much like her mother and aunt. She was as rigid as a washboard and just as stiff as a collar with too much starch.

Rather than be unsatisfied a second time, she fought against Frank. Not very hard. She put her hands on his arms and tried to pry them off her. He only held on tighter, his lips searing the side of her neck.

“Frank . . . really . . . we don't have to.”

Before she could realize what he was doing, he lifted her off her feet and carried her to the bed. “We have to.”

The tired springs, the worn-in sounds that had been a nightly comfort at the end of a long day, now grated like a shameless hussy in her ears. She hadn't been oblivious to the noise they'd made when Frank had been moving above her.

He put his knees on either side of her hips, straddling her, but not lowering his weight on her. His thick black hair spilled over his brow and brushed her temple when he leaned over to kiss her forehead.

She shivered, the ends of his hair on her skin tickling her, exciting her. His thumbs and fingertips fell on her collarbone and shoulders, and he began to massage the tension out of her muscles. The urge to resist him reduced. The stiff way in which she'd locked her legs to keep them together tapered off. Her knees softened, hitting the insides of Frank's thighs.

She didn't want him to see her, so she closed her eyes tight. She felt the muscles in his legs as he moved
his upper body; she heard the slow slide of linen as he slid his shirt down his arms. Then his lips were on hers. She opened her mouth in a last ditch effort to tell him this really wasn't necessary. Instead of words coming out, she felt a sleek texture, a sweep of her mouth with a tongue. He flicked her teeth, tasted and teased her until her hands rose to grip his straining biceps. His arms were smooth and cool as marble.

He caught her lower lip with his teeth. “Open your eyes.”

She did. Her hands spread wide on his chest, her fingers twining through the coarse dark hair that grew around his flat brown nipples.

He leaned back on his knees and began to unbutton the waist of her wrapper. His knuckles skimmed her throat as the dainty lawn separated. She watched his eyes, staying focused on them as he pulled her gown open. His pupils grew dark, ringed by a blue that looked smoky in the skimpy light.

She reacted to him. To her embarrassment, her nipples turned tight and pronounced. He cupped her breasts in his hands, gently kneading them, intermittently flicking his thumbs over the hard areolas. Her back arched off the bed.

He bent his head and suckled her nipple, stimulating her with his tongue until she was helplessly squirming and moaning beneath him. She clutched at him, that fierce heat threatening to bubble over inside her again. She forgot to be modest and proper. Her hands came to rest in his hair, ensnaring the flowing mane between her fingers to keep his head close to her breast.

“Are you seeing any colors yet, Amelia?” he asked, his wet tongue darting over her, moist and hot.

“Y-Yes.”

“Good.” He kneeled back and tugged on the half belt that kept her wrapper together. She was barely aware of him pulling her arms out of the sleeves.

Her gaze fell to the indentation of his navel and the line of hair that dipped into his waistband. She saw the impression of his body, thick and long. Her pulse skipped a beat. She was hit with the strongest urge to tell him no.

The flat of his hands came to rest on her stomach, and she jolted when he lowered his fingertips to her most private place. She was too shocked to move. “You're so warm.” He found the center and traced her with the pad of his thumb.

“You can't do that!” she gasped. She tried to sit up, but he put his hand on her shoulder to keep her still.

“I can.” He began to rub her back and forth, in unhurried strokes.

She knew things weren't going to be any different this time. How could they be? She was feeling the same swirling sensations as before. And before she'd been let down by her own body. She wanted to hold back. She tried. But he kept touching her; that intimate part of her that was exposed and sensitive. He stroked her faster until her entire being was on fire. The flames fanned across her skin, assaulting her with a tide of heat that radiated from her every pore. She squeezed her legs together and grabbed for Frank. Her fingers gripped his waist while she struggled to capture and unleash the feeling that was at the threshold of her senses.

Just when she felt the first waves, he took his hands away.

She might as well have fallen off the bed when he ceased. “Why did you stop?” she panted. “I think I could have . . . I would have . . .”

“You will.” The caress of his lips on her parched mouth didn't make her feel any better. “We will together.”

Frank unfastened his trousers, pulled them down over his hips and kicked them off his legs. He wore white drawers. The crotch was tight, and the finely
combed cotton cupped him like the palm of a glove. Her mind burned with the memory of seeing him in a pair similar to these with the buttons undone and fitting him so snugly, they stayed up.

Using just his right hand, he popped open the three pearl fasteners with his thumbnail. The first time they'd done this, she hadn't seen anything. She'd only felt him.

A dark wedge of tight curls contrasted next to the snowy band of his drawers as he slipped them lower. Before she could even think to breathe, he pushed his underwear off and pitched it over the side of the bed to the floor.

She hadn't realized she'd closed her eyes again until his low voice melted through her. “Look at me.”

She gazed at his face, cast in half shadow, unable to look any lower. His chiseled expression encouraged her to explore. She didn't dare. Instead she said in a tiny voice, “Maybe if you kiss me . . .”

“Where?” he asked, changing the position of their legs and separating her thighs with his knees. “Where do you want me to kiss you?”

“Don't make me say it.”

He held his upper body over hers, keeping his arms straight so the flat of his belly didn't touch her. His mouth came down on hers, his teeth nipped at her lower lip. “Here?” He bent his head lower, his tongue flicking over one of her nipples. “Here?” He moved between her breasts and kissed her breastbone. “Here?” He went lower and she suddenly realized his intentions.

“No! Not . . . no!”

“Don't you want to feel what it's like to be kissed . . . here?” His hands spread her inner thighs wide, his knuckles brushing her skin until they reached between her pliant legs.

“No . . . I . . . it's too . . . no. Don't.”

“I won't if you don't want me to.” His fingers began
to move over her nest of hair the same way they had before. He made swirling patterns with his thumbs, over and over, that made her blood pound in her head.

She braced her hands on his chest, her palms on his rigid nipples.

“Come apart, Amelia,” he directed. “Let go.” Sweat bathed his face, the hair crowning his forehead. The veins in his taut arms stood out on his tanned skin. She could see he fought to control the rhythm that was sending her over the edge. She struggled to take what he was giving her. She began to unravel; her desire overrode everything else.

She gasped when his fiery heat probed her entrance. He burrowed into her, and she waited for the discomfort. There was a moment's dull pain, but he kept massaging her, making her feel so good, she didn't recognize the soreness. He thrust again. She tried to keep her hips on the bed, but in an instinctive movement, they raised to meet him.

He fit neatly into her this time, rocking her against him. The friction of his movements, his body and hands, undulated through her. Each time he withdrew, he went deeper when he settled back inside.

It was his hoarse voice that finally broke her down. He kept urging her, “Let go. Let go. Let go,” between the chanting squeak of the bedsprings.

At last, her breath came in long surrendering moans. His seduction had worked. He freed her in a bursting of sensations. She fell into a vortex of light, an explosion of dazzling color that had showered the Fourth of July night.

He lowered his head, kissed her hard, catching her sighs on his mouth. She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him close. Groaning, he pushed hard, clinging to her. She felt the muscles on his back bunch and strain as he shuddered.

And then he stilled.

The tiny bedroom was filled with the sounds of their heavy breathing and rampant heartbeats; with the musky scents of their sex-spent bodies.

To Amelia's utter chagrin, she started quietly crying.

*  *  *

“You're not going to run to the water closet again, are you?” Frank had withdrawn from her and put the bulk of his torso on his elbow, his face creased with concern.

She shook her head no, but she was thoroughly shaken.

“Then why are you crying?”

She blinked her lashes, hot tears spilling into the shells of her ears and tickling them.

“What's the matter, sweetheart?” Frank pushed her rumpled hair from her brows. “Jesus. I didn't hurt you again, did I? I thought . . . ah, hell. I felt you . . . so I . . .”

She gulped loudly, trying not to outright sob.

“Amelia, Amelia, Amelia,” he shushed. “Don't cry.”

“I can't help it.” She gazed into his eyes. “It's just that . . . I love you, Frank.”

He stared at her, speechless.

It wounded her that he didn't say the words back, but she wasn't sorry she'd said them. “I just wanted you to know . . . that's all.”

A tender smile lurked on the corners of his mouth as his thumb wiped her tears from her skin. “I'm glad you told me.” His lips touched hers. Softly, warmly, barely brushing. Then he laid on his side, put his left hand on her shoulder, and turned her to face him. His fingers stroked her arm, caressing, cuddling.

The light from the lamp silhouetted him from behind. His hair appeared darker than pitch and fell over his neck. The shadow of his beard put a rugged strength on his face that she appreciated. The full lines
of his brows bridged his mellow blue eyes. Within their depths, she saw fragments of all the emotion-charged expressions he'd ever given her.

It was easy to get lost in the way he looked, and it was no wonder every girl in town thought he was handsome. She felt a glorified sense of satisfaction knowing that when they stared longingly at him now, they'd be staring at her man.

“There's something I've been wondering,” she said, reaching out to him, too tempted by his disordered hair not to touch the cool thickness.

“What?”

“How did you get the middle name Wolfgang?”

He laughed with a dry and mildly humorous sound. “That's what the Rev wanted to know when he asked me for my full name.”

“Well?”

“Have you ever heard of the poetic drama
Faust?”

“Is it about someone who enters a pact with the devil?”

“Yes. A magician, to be exact.” He inhaled, his nostrils flaring. His deep breath sounded more like a shiver of vivid recollection. “Johann Wolfgang von Goethe wrote
Faust.
My parents were performing the play at the Haymarket Theater in San Francisco when my mother went into labor.” His gaze lowered, as did his voice. “I was born in the orchestra pit. As my mother told it, my father cursed her ill timing and would have nothing to do with my delivery. So the conductor shouted for something to wrap me in. He was handed his stack of sheet music, and I was swaddled in the melody he'd written for the performance. For all I know, he was the one who named me,” he said, trailing his fingertips down her forearm and raising her gooseflesh.

“Hmm.” She longed to ask him other questions—personal ones about his childhood, why it had been cut short, and more about his parents, about Harry.
She sensed his mother and father held the key to why he'd said he didn't care either way about children. She didn't want to believe he wouldn't desire a child because she so hoped to have one with him.