Symphony of Light and Winter (3 page)

My red locks had fallen free from the pin, and my skirt had worked its way around my waist. With three small freckles exposed, the lacy strap of my thong highlighted my bare ass.

His body cocooned mine, but it was the ever-so-slight swirling motion of his hips rubbing his cock between my cheeks that precipitated my groan.

I raised my eyes to make contact with the brilliant pools of blue. Finally he broke the silence, but not his gaze.

“Are you going to start explaining, or do I need to find other means of persuasion?” He thrust his hips in warning.

I moaned. Somewhere deep in my mind, beyond the fear and intense lust, I knew I should start talking, but another part of me wanted to feel, more than anything, what it would be like to be fucked into submission—to be possessed by him. I had been cold and alone inside for so long. He was life, sex, and death in one dangerous package.

Fortunately, the sensible side of me won the battle. I forced myself to think as clearly as possible. “Cyril, I…I…mean Morgan, ah…shit… Whatever your name is, tell me what it is you want. I’ll give it to you.”

He laughed, low and mocking. “You can’t give it back. Did you not consider the consequences?” He lowered his face to my neck and nipped gently. “Was it your goal to weaken me? I will not suffer weakness!” He bellowed a whisper, his mouth close to my ear. “The Awakening was wrong. I thought it might have been the ritual, wondered if the magics were incompatible. Then I felt you tonight and all the pieces fell into place. Your attempts to compromise me will not work. The question now is what to do about it? Perhaps I should kill you?” He blew a soft stream air into my ear, sending shivers through me. “Or I could take my time and savor you first?” He paused and ran his nose along my throat. His rough stubble scraped my skin, leaving behind a sinful burn. “Oh, the possibilities. I bet you’d even thank me for it.” He placed a kiss under my jaw. “But before I decide, I need to know how you did it? Are you one of Myghal’s? Tell me!”

I had no doubt about his conviction. He was dead serious.

I trembled. Wetness flowed freely from my eyes as anger consumed me. Like a woman possessed, I couldn’t stop myself. Sealing my fate, I rambled, “What about me, you bastard? How dare you demand answers? It’s been ten years. I watched you die! I would have given my life to save you.” I panted. “What are you?”

He shifted and his grip softened.

My body shook. I sucked air through my teeth. “They found me covered in blood, with no explanation. The police thought I staged everything for attention, assuming it was a suicide attempt, because all evidence, including your body, disappeared. The only thing they saw was my sliced wrist. If not for Michael, they would have taken me to the psych ward.”

He showed no emotion, but his attention remained focused on my lips.

“The coma lasted seven months. Not one doctor could explain it. A psychotic break, they called it.” Tears cascaded over my cheeks and landed on the tops of my breasts. “Michael tried to convince me you didn’t exist. I suffered your death in silence. No one believed me, but in my soul, I knew you were real.” A sob caught in my throat, but I choked it back. My body stiffened, steeling my resolve. “So, fuck you! Go ahead. Kill me. I don’t care. Because what you did to me makes dying the lesser of two evils. You cursed me. Anyone close to me dies. You stole my future, you son of a bitch.” I tilted my head to give him better access to my throat.

He inhaled a shaky breath.

Rigid, I awaited his response, wanting it to be over. “Take what you want because the only thing I own is my regret at ever meeting you.”

He didn’t move and remained expressionless.

“But I should warn you, if you fuck me, it might not end so well. The last man didn’t live to regret it.”

He said nothing while watching my cleansing tears expel grief, anger, and regret. My chest heaved with rapid breaths, bracing myself for his strike.

His hold loosened, releasing my hands from above my head.

My arms hung limp at my sides in defeat. He bent, placing tender kisses along my neck. He grasped my chin, turned my head, and captured my lips. His kiss started soft, but built as he rocked against me. He kissed me like a long-lost lover, the lover I had always wished him to be. There was no doubt about it now. He was Cyril.

His kiss was nothing like our first. Full, soft lips laced with electric sin traveled straight to my depths. I had dreamed of experiencing him as much more. Not the chaste kiss he placed upon my lips while dying, but rather a man desperate to affirm life.

I inhaled. His scent intoxicated me, clouding my head and igniting the liquid heat between my legs, welcoming him.

He paused and tilted his head as if listening for something, then resumed his kiss. His teeth tugged gently on my lower lip as he caressed the edge with the tip of his velvet tongue.

His mouth met my lips, neck, cheeks, and shoulders, in a shower of passion-filled caresses.

I expected sharp teeth to pierce my skin at any moment. Instead, he ground his erection against me. He moaned, sighed, and panted rhythmically in my ear. His knee seated between my thighs became saturated with my arousal as he rubbed sensitive flesh, keeping time with his breaths.

His thrusts against my body suggested the need for release. Thinking of his impending orgasm brought me closer to the edge. I closed my eyes, feeling the escalating warmth. To feel him shudder and groan from absolute pleasure would be too much. “Oh, Cyri—”

A loud female gasp stunned me. Margie, the orchestra assistant, stood with her mouth gaping at finding me nearly naked and pressed against the wall by a commanding stranger. It didn’t help that Margie had the well-earned title of office gossip.

He peeled away and turned me to help right my clothes, positioning himself between Margie and me as if to shield my modesty. I tried to steady my breathing. Slapping his hands away, I peered around him to glare at Margie, who remained frozen in place. I tucked in my breasts, pulled down my skirt, cleared my throat, and attempted to speak through gritted teeth. “Something you need, Margie?”

“Oh… No. Sorry, Linden.” She headed for a stall. Wait. She wasn’t leaving? Bitch!

His disheveled appearance, accentuated by a light coat of sweat and a large wet spot on his right knee, made my breath catch. His pupils dilated and his breathing labored as he stared back with eyes ringed in sapphire.

I blushed and shook my head to dislodge the lust. I stared at him and whispered, “I guess you’re going to have to kill me quietly or increase the body count?”

His gaze raked over my body before he bent to place a light kiss on the top of my head. Searching my face for a moment, his lips pulled at the edges in a wicked smile.

He bent, speaking close to my ear in an overly formal tone. “Mrs. Green, nice to make your acquaintance. It certainly has been a
pleasure
meeting you. Good evening.” He turned and left, his departure a blur.

Too stunned to follow, I stood transfixed.

Margie vacated the stall, pushing past my motionless form, and began to wash her hands. I wanted to slap her and thank her at the same time. Exiting the restroom, she appeared rattled, but the smirk didn’t go unnoticed.

Standing still, trying to gather my wits, my body trembled from overstimulation and fear. So much deserved contemplation, but my mind kept repeating the same words over and over again.

What the fuck?

Chapter Two

Aftermath

The mental haze surrounding me proved thick and dense. I didn’t remember getting into the car, or the drive home. So preoccupied. My five-year old Pontiac felt like a refuge from the evening’s events.

Not sure why my mind chose that moment to crumble, but as I opened the door, the crisp night air whisked in, and my last remnants of strength shattered. Tears began to flow as I faced my new reality.

He was alive. Not a dream—had never been a dream.

My vision clouded. I walked up the stairs from the street lined with elegant, oversize Victorian mansions dating back to the turn of the twentieth century, to my small, first-floor apartment. The peeling paint I asked the landlord to fix three months ago no longer screamed at me. It was a shame he continued to let the maintenance on the beautiful old home slip, but I had bigger problems.

After closing the door, I took a deep, cleansing breath and began my ritual. I removed my coat, hung it on the door, and tossed my keys into the wooden bowl I had carved in high school shop class. Lastly, I switched on the Bose music system that sat on a table just inside the door. Chopin’s
Impromptu
filled the air.

Tears streamed down my face as I paused on the way to the kitchen to stare at the painting above my sofa. The soothing colors couldn’t penetrate my mood. I opened the refrigerator and grabbed the bottle of red wine I opened two days prior but never finished. Normally I drank red wine at room temperature, but I had no desire to wait for the soothing elixir to warm.

Resting my elbows on the counter with the glass in hand, I sobbed. Tears dripped from my chin, making ripples in the wine as they fell one by one. My life resembled the disruptive waves the salty droplets made on the smooth surface. Neither the wakes nor the tears should exist.

A sensation, much like free fall, permeated my chest. Standing, I took a gulp of wine and made my way to the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror was far from pleasant, my face pale and splotchy with redness. For a moment, I wondered if I had hallucinated the entire evening, but the brush burn from Cyril’s five o’clock shadow was evidence. His grasp on my neck had been forceful, but the only blemish remaining was the circular irritation left by Michael’s necklace.

I washed down two sleeping pills with wine. As I pulled the shirt over my head, his scent, heady, masculine, and raw, stopped me. It was mixed with something else. Perhaps cologne, maybe soap or aftershave, which added a touch of spice. I finished undressing but lifted the discarded clothing to my nose, inhaling deeply. I sighed. The pain in my chest eased and a sense of calm rushed over me. How can the aroma of such a turbulent man bring me peace?

On one hand, I hated him for what he did. He controlled, accused, and dominated me. On the other hand, for the first time in ten years, I felt alive, as though looking through my eyes instead of those of a stranger.

My eyelids grew heavy from the pills. I showered, dried off, and slipped into a T-shirt and panties. Upon leaving the bathroom, I reached down to retrieve the shirt that held Cyril’s scent.

After making my way to the bed, I laid the shirt beside my pillow. So many questions filled my mind. What did he think I stole? How did he survive? When did he come back, and why wait so long to contact me? Why the Morgan Peters routine? Did he think I wouldn’t recognize him?

But the most important thing: what was he?

Inhaling Cyril’s essence, I closed my eyes, summoning our previous time together, looking for answers. But all I remembered was how sensual yet platonic our encounters had been, nothing like tonight. The butterflies in my stomach, the tightening of my jaw, and the anxiety filling my chest had nothing to do with his size or intimidation, but rather longing and desire. Was it possible…love? Those feelings frightened me more than he did. With my head resting on the shirt, my eyes closed, I hoped the morning sunrise would bring clarity.

* * *

Another cloud-covered, rainy Monday morning in Pittsburgh. I dreaded returning to work. Maybe Margie didn’t say anything.

Not a chance.

A small tear escaped. Wiping it away, I closed the door of my apartment, and vowed it would be my final tear.

My corner office on the third floor held large, ornate windows, consisting of beveled glass in black-painted iron frames. I placed my leather messenger bag on the desk blotter, which contained numerous neon-colored Post-it notes with to-do items and random scribbles. My office had no need for personal items.

I booted up my computer from behind the elegant mahogany desk and answered a few overdue e-mails. I thought of the best way to get another meeting with Overton, sans Cyril. Everything was peaceful and quiet until ten minutes before eight, when Clarence peeked in the doorway.

“Sooo…”

“Yes?”

“You know I was impressed by how you smoothed over Willoughby, right? Well, that’s nothing compared to when I heard you let Peters take you against the wall. I think you might be my hero.” His tone mocked, but was sandwiched in true admiration. He could be such a twisted little bastard.

“Is that what you think I did?”

Clarence had shaved his goatee, enhancing his boyish charm. “If you ever want to delegate Peters to someone else, I volunteer,” he offered, almost giddy.

My eyes stung with tears I refused to shed. I would not give in. “Very funny.”

“Come on, you can’t leave it at that. Margie posted on Facebook that you were pretty much naked and he had you mounted against the wall.”

“That is not what happened. Margie doesn’t understand. I’m going to have a talk with her.”

Clarence took a step back in surprise at my reaction, but quickly recovered. “Oh, come on—”

“No. End of story. I doubt we’ll have to worry about Morgan Peters ever again, anyway. Now, why don’t you tell me what you and Overton talked about?”

Clarence blinked with frustration. “Not going to dish, are you?”

I shook my head.

“Fine.” He let his arms hang free at his sides. “He asked about the renovations. He seemed most interested in how you and Peters were getting along. Little did he know…”

“Clarence!”

“Yes, well, I told him you need the final amount to close out the year, and he said he’d help. I didn’t have time to officially close the deal because Peters came back so fast, so I don’t know what he’s committing to. You’ll still need to set up a meeting with him.”

“OK, thanks.” I nudged my chin toward the door, expecting him to take my cue.

Clarence stood waiting with crossed arms.