Shadow Lover (18 page)

She was almost there when he pulled away, and she let out a cry of loss and despair, her eyes flying open to see him stretch out over her, his body hot now, burning hot, slippery with sweat as he caught her face with his hands, his eyes burning down into hers. "You sure you want me to stop?"

She stared up at him, unable to say a word. She was hot, trembling, shaking with a need more powerful than any she'd ever known. He touched her lip, and his fingers had blood on them. "You bit your lip," he said. "Bite mine." And he covered her mouth with his.

It should have hurt, but she was past the point of thinking about it. When he pulled away there was blood on his mouth as well, and his kisses were hot and wet along the side of her neck. She wondered if he left a trail of blood, like a vampire. She wondered if she even cared.

She couldn't breathe. When his strong hands finally covered her breasts she arched her back as a little convulsion washed over her, and she reached for him, trying to pull him down to her, needing him to finish this, finish her.

"Slowly, Carolyn," he whispered, pushing her back against the pillows. "No need to rush, we have all the time in the world."

"No," she said in a strangled voice. She opened her eyes, and she could see the firelight flickering over their bodies, dark, pagan, magical. "Don't make me … beg."

He slid his hands up her legs, pulling them apart. "Oh, angel, I don't want you to beg," he whispered. "I want to be the one to beg you."

She caught his shoulders, digging her nails into the smooth, sleek flesh. "You don't need to. I'll do whatever you want me to do."

"Maybe next time," he whispered. He touched her between her legs, and she jerked, fighting back a tiny scream. "Hold on tight, angel."

She braced herself, certain he was going to slam into her, hurt her.

He didn't. She could feel the head of his cock, hot and hard against her, but he didn't move, he waited, patient, rigid, utterly still, until she thought she would scream.

"Now you can open your eyes, Carolyn," he whispered.

Her eyes flew open, and she stared up at him in breathless, heartless silence as he slowly, slowly pushed against her, stretching her, filling her with such fierce deliberation that she was shuddering before he'd even halted.

Her breath was coming in strangled gasps, and she could feel sweat and tears pour down her face. She gripped his shoulders so tightly her hands were numb, and everything was centered
around
his inexorable invasion, like nothing she had ever felt before.

It was too much, more than she could stand, and she tried to pull away, but he caught her hips with his hands, pinning her against the mattress. "Take me, Carolyn," he whispered. "You know you can. Don't be afraid of me. Take me."

She stopped struggling. She stopped breathing, her heart stopped beating, as he pushed the rest of the way into her, hard, shoving her back across the bed.

She had no idea what she screamed as the first convulsion ripped through her body. It wouldn't stop, wave after wave of shimmering, smothering, shattering delight that tore her from her body and dissolved her. He covered her mouth with his hand, muffling the noise, as he surged into her, again and again, until he went rigid in her arms, spilling into her tightly clenching body. Somehow in the distance she felt him join her, flooding her, and she knew she was totally lost.

It was a long time before he moved. His first word was a curse, as he pulled away from her and climbed down from the high bed. "Christ," he muttered, and through her fog Carolyn could sense his disbelief and sudden, inexplicable anger.

She waited until the bathroom door closed quietly behind him, and then she scrambled off the bed in desperation.

She almost collapsed on the floor, her legs like rubber bands. She caught herself on the edge of the mattress, taking a deep, steadying breath and forcing whatever stray reserves of strength back into her body.

She didn't have the energy to pull her jeans on. She simply grabbed her nightshirt and yanked it over her head, then headed for the door to the hall. If she ran into anyone she'd come up with an excuse. No one would ever suspect what she'd been doing. Even she couldn't believe it.

She had to escape, get away from him, away from this room, from the bed, from the sight and smell and feel of him. She felt broken, lost, and shattered, and she had no idea why. She only knew she had to escape before he touched her again.

* * *

Alex stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He looked like holy hell, like death warmed over, like the total son of a bitch that he knew he was. It didn't matter that she'd almost killed him just a few hours earlier. It didn't matter that he'd clearly given her the ride of her life. He looked in his bloodshot eyes and knew he'd made a grave, tactical error.

An error he was going to repeat, again and again, if he didn't get his crazy hormones under control before he left this bathroom. She would be asleep in that bed, curled up like a kid, maybe even sucking her thumb. There'd be dried tears on her pale face, and a smile on her pale mouth, and he wouldn't be able to leave her alone.

Jesus Fucking Christ, why couldn't he learn? That hadn't been a casual roll in the hay, guaranteed to screw her into complacent acceptance. It hadn't been a nice, lazy fuck to scratch an itch left over from adolescence.

That had been a major, Grade A, megaton, force five, point eight on the Richter scale act of sexual intimacy that was totally unlike anything he'd ever experienced before, and he had a pretty damned good idea it had shaken her even more than it had totaled him.

And he didn't know what the hell to do about it. He knew what he wanted to do about it. Tie her to the bedstead, lock the door and screw her until they were both too worn out to think or care or want. He wanted to fuck her so long and hard that by the middle of next week she was still climaxing. He wanted to take her every way he could think of, and even ways that hadn't yet been invented, and then walk away and never be tempted again.

It wasn't going to happen. But he was damned if he knew what was.

He couldn't remember what the hell he'd felt like at seventeen, but he could make a good guess that it was something pretty damned close to what he was feeling now. He was already hard again.

One day at a time, he reminded himself. One night at a time. Tomorrow, in the cold light of day, he'd figure out how to repair the damage the little episode would cause. With any luck he could get rid of her, talk her into going away for a while, leaving him a clear shot with Sally and her family. If he played his cards right she'd be too embarrassed to be anywhere near him, and that just might overwhelm her feelings of loyalty for Sally enough to get her to take a short vacation. Just long enough for him to do what he came here to do.

He had to find the truth about what happened eighteen years ago, when someone had put a bullet in Alexander
MacDowell
. He wasn't going to find anything more from Carolyn—if she even knew any more it was so deeply buried in her subconscious that nothing would ever drag it out.

He was going to have to redirect his efforts. George and Tessa had been there that night, and George was someone who'd always been skulking around, watching. Maybe he'd seen something.

Warren and Patsy had been there, as well as Patsy's current boyfriend. Had there been anyone else, watching, waiting for a chance to put an end to the
MacDowell
hellion? He had to find out, to stop wasting his time with Carolyn Smith when she wasn't going to give him anything but the best sex of his life.

But it was only a little after two in the morning. They had hours before dawn, hours he could spend wearing down her resistance and getting her to do exactly what he wanted, with no more
semivirginal
protests or shyness.

Shit. He may have screwed Carolyn Smith with efficient thoroughness, but he had the unpleasant suspicion that he might have screwed himself and his plans even more effectively.

The fire had died down, leaving the large bedroom in darkness. He should lock the door—he'd been a fool not to take care of that little detail before he put his hands on her.
Warren
was entirely capable of showing up with a bottle of Scotch and a tedious desire to go over things one more time. While Alex wasn't sure he would have minded
,
it might have put a damper on Carolyn's already shaky ardor.

He started toward the door and then stopped, suddenly aware that things had changed. The bed was empty. The room was empty. Carolyn had taken her clothes and bolted.

Relief, he told himself. He was feeling relief. She'd run away before things could get any more complicated. He was already far too vulnerable, too caught up in her clear blue eyes and pale mouth, in her long silky hair and her inexpert, absolutely lovely body. He had no doubt whatsoever he'd have been able to perform for the rest of the night with admirable inventiveness and still manage to keep himself aloof. But it was much easier not to be tempted.

So where had she run to? He doubted she'd gone back to the fold-out bed in the library—right now she'd be scared shitless of facing him, and she wouldn't want to go anywhere he'd find her. She was probably in the shower, scrubbing all traces of sex from her pristine body. She was probably crying.

Of course, she wasn't the kind of woman who usually succumbed to tears. She cried when she came, when she had no control of her body or her emotions. The rest of the time her emotions were held coolly in check.

But he was willing to bet anything she was standing in a shower somewhere in this house and crying. And there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it.

He'd figure out how to deal with it tomorrow when he came face to face with her again. His instincts were practically infallible—he'd know how to handle it when he saw her. Maybe a faint leer and a pat on the butt would be the most effective way of getting rid of her.
That,
and he could tell Sally about it.

Sally wouldn't give a shit. She'd let the teenaged Alex
MacDowell
torment Carolyn without doing a damned thing about it. If it would keep her long-lost son by her side she would be willing to sacrifice Carolyn a thousand times over. And Carolyn knew it, whether she admitted it or not.

Maybe Carolyn would already be gone. Maybe he'd wander down to breakfast and be greeted with the news that Carolyn had gone to visit college friends. He wouldn't be surprised. She was brave, she was strong, she was determined. But he'd ripped away every defense she owned.

He stretched out on the bed. He could smell the rich scent of sex and sweat and Carolyn. He wanted her back, wanted her with a need so powerful it made him shake.

Thank God she'd run away.

* * *

Carolyn was in the shower, crying. She was covered with the feel of his lovemaking, the marks he'd left. There were traces of blood on her neck and throat, from his mouth, from hers. She could see the marks on her hips where he'd held her. She could still feel him, inside her, and she doubted the feeling would ever go away.

No one could hear her. The shower was off of the exercise room that no one, with the occasional exception of George, ever used. She could howl to her heart's content, and no one would come looking for her. No one would worry about her.

She'd told herself when she turned twenty that she wouldn't feel sorry for herself any longer, and she'd kept that promise, until Alexander
MacDowell
had returned and reminded her of everything she wanted and could never have. A family. A real mother.

And the love of Alexander
MacDowell
.

She tilted her head back, letting the heavy streams of hot water sluice down over her face, through her hair, wanting it to wash the taste of him from her mouth, wanting it to wash her tears away along with the touch and the scent of him. Wanting it to swirl down the drain, out of her life, until she could pretend that it had never happened.

It wasn't as if she'd never had sex before. She had, occasionally, and usually enjoyed it. It wasn't as if she'd never had an orgasm before. She was a normal, healthy young woman, perfectly capable of seeing to her own needs if she wasn't involved with someone.

And yet it had been nothing, nothing, like what had happened tonight in the bedroom up under the eaves. It was compelling, frightening,
a
tantalizing taste of something so powerful and profound that she wanted to pull the covers up over her head and hide until he left.

The hot water was endless, pouring down over her, but there still wasn't enough to wash him away. She knew it, with a bleak desperation. He would cling to her
skin,
stay in her blood, until she had no choice but to run away from it, from him. And from the only family she had ever known.

She turned off the shower, standing motionless in the tiled stall as the steam settled around her in enveloping clouds. She pushed her hair back away from her face, squaring her shoulders. She'd figure a way out of this mess. If she had to leave, for a day or two, just to get her bearings back, then she would.

But she wouldn't let him touch her again. That had been a mistake of such monumental proportions that it still boggled her mind. She'd dreamed of Alexander
MacDowell
, willingly and unwillingly, for most of her life. There was just too much history between them to make sex a reasonable alternative.