Starry Knight (32 page)

His erection poked her, giving her another shuddering thrill. Slipping a hand between her legs, he teased her clit before pushing the finger inside her. She moaned with pleasure as he masterfully stimulated her g-spot.

God, he knew exactly how to please her.

Just as she reached the brink of climax, he withdrew the finger and ran his hand down her thigh to the top of her stocking. Then, to her surprise, he swatted her, though playfully.

“Go put on the shoes you wore to the book signing.”

Knowing which pair he meant, she climbed off his lap, hurried to the closet, and stepped into the pumps he’d requested.

Returning to the bed, she found him stretched out, hands behind his head on the pillows, still in his trousers and open shirt. Apparently, he wanted to prolong the performance as much as she did.

Good.

As she approached him, his blazing golden gaze swept over her, scorching her flesh and heating her blood.

“Come, my bonny butterfly.” He reached for her. “Alight on your lion.”

She got onto the bed on all fours, crawled to where he lay, and straddled his hips. He let out a breath, but didn’t move. She ran her hands over him, hungry for bare skin and the hard plains of his chest. She stroked his hair and teased his nipples until they stood up. Making a sound low in his throat, he rolled his pelvis under her weight.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

He smiled. “I’m way past thinking,
mo dearbadan-de
.”

Dissatisfied with his answer, she bent over him, pressed her breasts against his chest, and kissed him deeply. As their tongues entwined, he ran his hands down her back and over her frill-covered buttocks before snapping both her garters.

In retaliation, she seized his tongue between her lips and bit down. He grunted in surprise, but didn’t pull away. The meaty brine of his blood danced across her taste buds, provoking an onrush of moisture between her legs.

Forget feelings. Forget the future. For now, she’d settle for giving and receiving succor in the form of erotic pleasure. She slid down him, raking his chest with her fingers as she went. Stopping on his thighs, she unfastened his belt and trousers, freeing his erection.

Sliding farther down his legs, she bent over and dragged her tongue down the length of his cock and around his balls, gently suckling each egg-like testicle in turn. He squirmed under her and made a pleased sound deep in his throat. Spurred by his response, she licked and flicked until his bell-end glistened with saliva and pre-ejaculate. She then blew softly everywhere her mouth had moistened. He shivered and made another carnal noise that set off scrumptious sparks between her legs.

“Do you like that?” she whispered.

A smile danced on his mouth. “Do you have to ask?”

She lifted her gaze, meeting his hungry eyes. Holding his stare, she flicked her tongue ruthlessly against the divot in the underside of his glans.

“Would you like me to suck your cock until you come?”

He made a sound, half cough, half laugh. “Is that a trick question?”

Fighting a smile, she drew his dome into her mouth and pressed the tip of her tongue into him. His body quivered, his breath caught, and his eyelids fluttered. As she took him deeper, he grabbed her head, pressed his fingers into her scalp, and pushed his cock to her tonsils.

Gagging, she expelled his member and fixed him with a disapproving glare. “Who do you think I am, Anastasia Steele?”

His eyebrows drew together. “Who’s Anastasia Steele?”

“The girl in
Fifty Shades of Grey
. Haven’t you read it?”

“I can’t say I have.”

Feeling foolish, she stammered, “Oh. Well. The point is, she had no gag reflex—and I do.”

“Sorry,” he said, looking sheepish. “It just felt so bloody amazing.”

Shrugging it off, she climbed off the bed and set about removing his shoes, socks, and trousers. After dropping them on the floor, she held out a hand.

“Now the shirt, Fifty.”

Pushing up with a puzzled expression, he squirmed out of his shirt and tossed it to her. After depositing it with the rest of his things, she took a minute to admire his naked physique. He was a gorgeous hunk of man to be sure, but also so much more. Being with him was like basking in the sunshine. He added rather than subtracted. She’d never felt that with anyone before; never dreamed such feelings were possible.

Holy shit. Was she actually in love?

Mortified, she climbed onto the bed and stalked up his body like a lioness until she was even with his face. He reached up, through her hanging hair, and brushed her cheek with a tenderness that made her want to cry.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

Panic slithered through her like a cold-blooded snake. If she shared her thoughts, it could ruin everything.

“I’m way past thinking, Fifty.”

She sat down on his cock, taking his full measure into her. He groaned and shuddered, sending a torrent of thrills through her body.

When he reared up and rolled over her, she welcomed his weight, the driving rhythm of his thrusts, the animalistic sounds of his pleasure, and the pulsing release of their mutual orgasms.

The sex, as usual, had been glorious, so why did she feel so unfulfilled? When it was over and he lay softly panting against her breast, she wrapped her arms around him and clung to him as if he was a part of her she feared might break away and become lost. They stayed like that for a long time, her arms wrapped round him, his head on her chest, before she was seized by the unsettling feeling he was a stranger to her. She still knew so little about him, about his life before they met, about all the cold-hearted fucking he’d done over the centuries to satiate his voracious libido. Was that all she was to him? A convenient way to scratch a never-ending itch? Was that why he’d asked her to stay in Scotland as his mistress?

“When are you going back?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

He disentangled himself and sat up, propping himself against the wooden headboard. He looked grim, which worried her. What was he going to say?

He sat there an impossibly long moment staring at his hands as he wrestled within himself. Finally, without looking at her, he said, “There are things I need to tell you.”

Her stomach clenched. Oh, dear. Nothing good could follow such an ominous statement. Was he dumping her? It would be just her luck to be kicked to the curb the minute she finally fell in love with someone.

“It’s to do with the election,” he began with a cautious tone. “I’m having second thoughts.”

“But—you’ve already announced your intention to run.”

“Aye, which is the bugger of it.”

“You’ve changed your mind? Since yesterday?”

“Aye, well. To tell the truth, I’ve had my doubts all along.”

“Doubts about what?”

“Meddling in the affairs of the human world. Putting myself in the public eye. Don’t get me wrong. I want to be more engaged, but not at the risk of everything I hold dear.”

Guilt sent tiny barbed tentacles through her body. “Callum, I only encouraged you because I wanted you to be happy.”

“I was happy.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“Says the pot to the kettle.”

He was right. She wasn’t happy. Happy people were settled and she was always chasing an ideal, running away from a threat, or challenging the status quo. At some level, she knew happiness came from within, but she had no idea where it might be hiding among the shadows of her psyche.

“My father won’t like it if you withdraw.”

“He might if he knew my other reason.”

She looked up at him. “What other reason?”

“I’m being blackmailed. By that bastard Sinclair. He says he’ll release some damaging photos to the media if I don’t withdraw from the race.”

She blinked at him, startled. That he was being blackmailed was the last thing she’d expected him to say. Then, fear set in. “What kind of pictures does Sinclair have of you?”

“They’re not of me; they’re of your father.”

The chime of surprise rapidly crescendoed into a booming chord of horror. “With another woman, I presume.”

Callum’s eyebrows shot up. “You know about your father’s philandering?”

“I’d have to be deaf not to. As seldom as I was at home, I still heard my share of rows about his bits of stuff on the side.”

“I see,” he said crisply.

“What does Sinclair plan to do with these pictures?”

“Sell them to the newspapers—unless I drop out of the race.”

She took a minute to consult her conscience before turning to look him dead in the eye. “Don’t drop out of the race to protect my father. He’s already done enough harm with his indiscretions.”

“If I drop out of the race, it won’t be solely to protect your father’s reputation, though he is the leader of my party, philanderer or not.”

He slipped an arm around her shoulder, pulled her against him, and kissed the top of her head. The tenderness of the gesture brought tears to her eyes. “Callum, can I ask you something?”

“Aye, of course.”

“What makes men cheat?”

Taking a breath, he tightened his hold on her, which assuaged her inner turmoil some. “Truthfully, I think most men—most
people
—cheat because there’s some lack inside. So they spend their lives trying to fill up the deficit with something outside themselves—drugs, alcohol, sex, or love, which is like a euphoric high for chronic cheaters. And when the high wears off, they jump into another bed for a new fix.”

“Is that why you think my father cheats?—because he’s got a hole inside?”

“Aye,” he said, kissing her part. “And it’s got nothing to do with your mother or you and everything to do with his own unhealed psychic wounds.”

She could see that. Maybe for the first time in her life, she could almost perceive her father as a fallible human being instead of a faultless authority figure to be feared, appeased, and rebelled against. It was a liberating realization that made her feel as if she’d finally stepped across the threshold into adulthood.

She nuzzled against his chest and held him tighter, grateful he was there. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.”

A long silence descended before she mustered the courage to say what she’d wanted to tell him before hearing the news about her father. “I want this to work, Callum. Truly I do. But I need to do more with my life,
be
more in this world, than just your mistress.”

He let her go and drew back until he could look her in the eye. Embarrassed by her tears, she dashed them away.

“Vanessa,” he said, looking into her soul, “have I ever tried to stop you from doing what you wanted?”

“Well, no.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Her lip trembled, infuriating her as much as her inarticulateness. “I wish I knew.”

* * * *

It was now early morning and Callum lay awake, his mind uneasy. Vanessa was beside him, curled against his body, her head resting on his chest as he stroked her hair. His reason told him not to push too hard. His heart, however, craved assurances.

He bent to kiss her brow, unable to resist expressing his need of her in some small way. Fire needed air, but air did not need fire. She’d made that crystal clear from the outset.

The knife of longing twisted in his gut. Would she ever grow to love him? Was she even capable of falling in love? And what about his own feelings? Were they real or did he only want her so much because he couldn’t have her?

They laid there in silence until he could bear it no longer. If he was willing to accommodate her contradictory Aquarian nature, she’d have to put up with his Leonine traits as well.

“I have tried, lass. To be the way you want me to be—to give you your freedom and all. But, well, the thing is, I can only be what I am.”

“Oh?” She met his gaze. “And what’s that?”

“A lion.”

She ran her hand across his chest. He cradled her skull in his big hand and pressed his lips to her forehead. The hand on his chest moved to his jaw and stroked his sandpaper stubble.

He bit back the urge to pin her down. Better to revel in the moment and keep his feelings unsaid. He stroked her face. “Come here and give me a kiss.”

No need to ask twice. The next moment, she was on top of him with her lips pressing his as she stroked his jaw. He captured her hand, holding it to his face as he deepened the kiss. He’d had her several times that night already, but it wasn’t enough. When it came to his butterfly, there was no such thing as enough.

Releasing her hand, he ran both of his down her body, reveling in the silky warmth of her skin. He cupped her buttocks, holding her against him as he rocked his hips to let her feel his hardness.

“Again?” she asked with a smile.

“Oh, aye. Again and again, until all the seas gang dry.”

They made love with a vengeance and when it was over, she dozed off while he continued to hold her. Blinding sunlight streamed through the bedroom window and, except for the rattle and hum of the air-conditioner, the house was quiet.

So were his thoughts, remarkably enough. He lay there, soaking in the sunshine while enjoying her closeness, her familiar scent, the cheerful birdsong outside, and generally feeling as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

Then, suddenly and without mercy, reality crashed through his blissful bubble like a wrecking ball. There was Armstrong to deal with and Duncan and Alasdair Sinclair. And he should probably call Lord Bentley to let him know about the threat. Vanessa might be ready to throw her adulterous father to the tabloid jackals, but he wasn’t. Not without at least attempting to find another way.

And there was Vanessa. What would she do now that her employer had been turned? Surely, she wouldn’t continue the charade of being a paranormal investigator. But would she return to Britain? If he had his druthers, she’d come back to Scotland with him—as his wife. Not that she’d agree. Madam Butterfly valued her freedom above her heart—and above him. She’d made that plain from the outset. Why hadn’t he listened?

He shook his head to clear it. There wasn’t time to dwell on their star-crossed relationship when he had far more pressing matters to attend to this morning. Slipping his arm out from under her, he climbed out of bed, pulled on his trousers, and padded out of the bedroom.