Charmed (20 page)

He caught her hair, pulling her head back. His eyes. Oh, Lord, his eyes, she thought, trembling with
something much deeper than fear. The heat in them seared through to her soul.

“The hell with the car.” His mouth swooped down, plundered hers until she was dazed and dizzy and fighting to breathe. “Do you know what you do to me?” he said between strangled gasps for air. “Every time I see you.” He pulled her up the steps, touching her, always touching her. “Soft, serene, with something smoldering just behind your eyes.”

He pushed her back against the door, crushing, conquering, those full, luscious lips with his. There was something more in her eyes now. He could see that she was afraid. And that she was aroused. It was as if they both were fully aware that the animal he’d kept ruthlessly on a choke chain for weeks had broken free.

With the breath coming harsh through his lips, he caught her face in his hands. “Tell me. Ana, tell me you want me. Now. My way.”

She was afraid she wouldn’t be able to speak, her throat was so dry and this new need so huge. “I want you.” The husky sound of her voice had the flames in his gut leaping higher. “Now. Any way.”

He hooked his hands in her blouse, watched her eyes go to smoke just before he rent it in two. When he kicked the door open, she staggered back, then was caught up in a torrid embrace. Like her blouse, his control was in shreds. His hands tight at her waist, he lifted her off her feet to take her silk-covered breast in his mouth. As crazed now as he, she arched back, her hands fisted in his hair.

“Boone. Please.” The plea was sobbed out, though she had no idea what she was asking for. Unless it was more.

He lowered her, only so that he could capture her mouth again. His teeth scraped erotically over her swollen lips, and his tongue dived deep. Then his heart seemed to explode in his chest as she began to tug frantically at his clothes.

He stumbled toward the stairs, shedding his shirt as he went. Buttons popped and scattered. But his greedy hands reached for her again, yanking the thin chemise down to her waist as they reached the landing. “Here.” He dragged her down with him. “Right here.”

At last, he feasted, racing his mouth over her quivering flesh, ruthlessly exploiting her secrets, relentlessly
driving her with him where he so desperately needed her to go. No patience here, no rigid control for the sake of her fragility. Indeed, the woman writhing beneath him on the stairs was anything but fragile. There was strength in the hands that gripped him, searing passion in the mouth that tasted him so eagerly, whiplike agility in the body that strained under his.

She felt invincible, immortal, impossibly free. Her body was alive, never more alive, with heat pumping crazily through her blood. The world was spinning around her, a blur of color and blinding lights, whirling faster, faster, until she was forced to grip the pickets of the banister to keep from falling off the edge of the earth.

Her knuckles whitened against the wood as he tore her slacks away, then the thin swatch of lace beneath. His mouth, oh, his mouth, greedy, frantic, fevered. Ana bit back a scream as he sent her flying into hot, airless space.

Her mindless murmurs were in no language he could understand, but he knew he had taken her beyond the boundaries of the sane, of the rational. He wanted her there, right there with him as they catapulted into the madness of vivid, lawless passion.

He’d waited. He’d waited. Now her slim white body bucked. A thoroughbred ready to ride. Quivering like a stallion, he mounted her, driving himself into that wet, waiting heat. She arched to meet him and, hips moving like lightning, raced with him into the roaring dark.

*  *  *

Her hands slid weakly off his damp back. She was too numb to feel the slap of wood against them as they fell against the stairs. She wanted to hold him, but her strength was gone. It wasn’t possible to focus her mind on what had happened. All that came were flashes of sensations, bursts of emotions.

If this was the darker side of love, nothing could have prepared her for it. If this terrible need was what had lived inside him, she couldn’t comprehend how he could have strapped it back for so long.

For her sake. She turned her damp face into his throat. All for her sake.

Beneath his still-shuddering body, she was as limp as water. Boone struggled to get a grip on reality. He needed to move. After everything else he’d done to her, he was probably crushing her. But when he started to shift, she made a little sound of distress that scraped at his conscience.

“Here, baby, let me help you.”

He eased away, picking up a tattered sleeve of her blouse with some idea to cover her. Biting off an oath, he tossed it down again. She’d turned slightly on her side, obviously seeking some kind of comfort. For God’s sake, he thought in disgust, he’d taken her like some kind of fiend, and on the stairs.
On the stairs.

“Ana.” He found what was left of his own shirt and tried to wrap it around her shoulders. “Anastasia, I don’t know how to explain.”

“Explain?” The word was barely audible. Her throat was wild with thirst.

“There’s no possible … Let me help you up.” Her body slid like wax through his arms. “I’ll get you some clothes, or … Oh, hell.”

“I don’t think I can get up.” She moistened her lips, and tasted him. “Not for a day or two. This is fine, though. I’ll just stay right here.”

Frowning at her, he tried to interpret what he heard in her voice. It wasn’t anger. It didn’t sound like distress. It sounded like—very much like—satisfaction. “You’re not upset?”

“Hmmm? Am I supposed to be?”

“Well, for … I practically attacked you. Hell, I
did
attack you, almost taking you in the front seat of the car, tearing off your clothes, dragging you in here and devouring what was left of you on the stairs.”

With her eyes still closed, she drew in a deep breath, then let it out again on a sigh through curved lips. “You certainly did. And it’s the first time I’ve been devoured. I don’t think I’ll ever go up and down a staircase the same way again.”

Gently he tipped a finger under her chin until her eyes opened. “I had intended to at least make it to the bedroom.”

“I guess we’ll get there eventually.” Recognizing concern, she put a hand on his wrist. “Boone, do you
think I could be upset because you wanted me that much?”

“I thought you might be upset because this wasn’t what you’re used to.”

Making the effort, she sat up, wincing a little at the aches that would surely be bruises before much longer. “I’m not made of glass. There’s no way we could love each other that wouldn’t be right. But …” She linked her arms around his neck and her smile was wicked around the edges. “Under the circumstances, I’m glad we made it into the house.”

He skimmed his hands down to her hips for the pleasure of bringing her body against his. “My neighbor’s very open-minded.”

“I’ve heard that.” Experimentally she caught his lower lip between her teeth. Remembering how much pleasure it gave her to feel his lips cruise over her face and throat, she began a lazy journey over his. “Fortunately, my neighbor’s very understanding of passions. I doubt anything would shock him. Even if I told him I often fantasize about him at night, when I’m alone, in bed.”

It was impossible, but he felt himself stir against her. The deep, dark wanting began to smolder again. “Really? What kind of fantasies?”

“Of having him come to me.” Her breath began to quicken as his mouth roamed over her shoulder. “Come to my bed like an incubus in the night, when a storm cracks the air. I can see his eyes, cobalt blue in a flash of lightning, and I know that he wants me the way no one else ever has, or ever will.”

Knowing very well that if he didn’t take some kind of action now they’d remain sprawled on the stairs, he gathered her up. “I can’t give you the lightning.”

She smiled as he carried her up. “You already have.”

*  *  *

Later, hours later, they knelt on the tumbled bed, feasting on pizza by candlelight. Ana had lost track of time and had no need to know if it was midnight or approaching dawn. They had loved and talked and laughed and loved
again. No night in her life had been more perfect. What did time matter here?

“Guinevere was no heroine.” Ana licked sauce from her fingers. They had discussed epic poetry, modern animation, ancient legends and folklore and classic horror. She wasn’t sure how they had wound their way back to Arthur and Camelot, but on the subject of Arthur’s queen, Ana stood firm. “And she certainly wasn’t a tragic figure.”

“I’d think a woman, especially one with your compassion, would have more sympathy with her situation.” Boone debated having a last piece from the cardboard box they’d plopped in the center of the bed.

“Why?” Ana picked it up herself and began to feed it to him. “She betrayed her husband, helped bring down a kingdom, all because she was weak-willed and self-indulgent.”

“She was in love.”

“Love doesn’t excuse all actions.” Amused, she tilted her head and studied him in the flickering light. He looked gloriously masculine in nothing but a pair of gym shorts, his hair tousled, his face shadowed with stubble. “Isn’t that just like a man? Finding excuses for a woman’s infidelity just because it’s written about in romantic terms.”

He didn’t think it was precisely an insult, but it made him squirm a little. “I just don’t think she had control of the situation.”

“Of course she did. She had a choice, and she chose poorly, just as Lancelot did. All that flowery business about gallantry and chivalry and heroism and loyalty, and the two of them justified betraying a man who loved them both because they couldn’t control themselves?” She tossed her hair back. “That’s bull.”

He laughed before he sipped his wine. “You amaze me. Here I’ve been thinking you were a romantic. A woman who picks flowers by moonlight, who collects statues of fairies and wizards, and she condemns poor Guinevere because she loved unwisely.”

She fired up. “Poor Guinevere—”

“Hold on.” He was chuckling, enjoying himself immensely. It didn’t occur to either of them that they were debating about people most considered fictional. “Let’s not forget some of the other players. Merlin was
supposed to be watching over the whole business. Why didn’t he do anything about it?”

Fastidiously she brushed crumbs from her bare legs. “It’s not a sorcerer’s place to interfere with destiny.”

“Come on, we’re talking about the champ here. One little spell and he could’ve fixed it up.”

“And altered countless lives,” she pointed out, gesturing with her glass. “Skewed history. No, he couldn’t do it, not even for Arthur. People—witches, kings, mortals—are responsible for their own fates.”

“He didn’t have any problem abetting adultery by disguising Uther as the duke of Cornwall and taking Tintagel so that Igraine conceived Arthur in the first place.”

“Because that was destiny,” she said patiently, as she might have to Jessie. “That was the purpose. For all Merlin’s power, all his greatness, his single most vital act was bringing Arthur into being.”

“Sounds like splitting hairs to me.” He swallowed the last bite of pizza. “One spell’s okay, but another isn’t.”

“When you’re given a gift, it’s your responsibility to know how and when to use it, how and when not to. Can you imagine how he suffered, watching someone he loved destroyed? Knowing, even as Arthur was being conceived, how it would end? Magic doesn’t divorce you from emotion or pain. It rarely protects the one who owns it.”

“I guess not.” He’d certainly had witches and wizards suffering in the stories he wrote. It gave them a human element he found appealing. “When I was a kid, I used to daydream about living back then.”

“Rescuing fair maidens from fiery dragons?”

“Sure. Going on quests, challenging the Black Knight and beating the hell out of him.”

“Naturally”

“Then I grew up and discovered I could have the best of both worlds, living there up here”—he tapped his head with a fingertip—“when I was writing. And having the creature comforts of the twentieth century.”

“Like pizza.”

“Like pizza,” he agreed. “A computer instead of a quill, cotton underwear. Hot running water. Speaking of which …” he said, fingering the hem of the T-shirt he’d given her to wear. He moved on impulse, and had her
shrieking out a laugh as he tossed her over his shoulder and climbed out of bed.

“What are you doing?”

“Hot running water,” he repeated. “I think it’s time I showed you what I can do in the shower.”

“You’re going to sing?”

“Maybe later.” In the bathroom, he opened the glass shower doors and turned on the tap. “Hope you like it hot.”

“Well, I—” She was still over his shoulder when he stepped inside. With the crisscrossing sprays raining, she was immediately drenched, front and back. “Boone.” She sputtered. “You’re drowning me.”

“Sorry.” He shifted, reaching for the soap. “You know, this shower really sold me on the house. It’s roomy.” He slicked the wet bar of soap up her calf. “Pretty great having the twin showerheads.”

Despite the heat of the water, Ana shivered when he soaped lazy circles at the back of her knee. “It’s a little difficult for me to appreciate it from this position.” Then she shoved her dripping hair out of her face and noticed that the floor was mirrored tiles. “Oh, my.”

He grinned, and moved slowly up to her thigh. “Check out the ceiling.”

She did, tilting her head and staring at their reflections. “Ah, doesn’t it just steam up?”

“Treated glass. Does get a little foggy if you’re in here long enough.” And he intended to be in there just long enough. He began sliding her down his body, inch by dangerous inch. “But that only adds to the atmosphere.” Gently he pressed her against the back wall, cupping her breasts through the clinging shirt. “Want to hear one of my fantasies?”

“It— Oh.” He was rubbing a thumb over an aching nipple. “Seems only fair.”

“Better idea.” He brushed his lips over hers, teasing, retreating, until her breath began to hitch. “Why don’t I show you? First we get rid of this.” He dragged the wet shirt over her head, tossing it aside. It landed with a plop that had another tremor jerking through her system. “And I start here.” Toying with her mouth, he rubbed the slick soap over her shoulders. “And I don’t stop until I get to your toes.”