TheSmallPrint (5 page)

Breasts made for his mouth.

Turner gasped as his finger slid inside up to the webbing. His hands worked in unison, teasing, tightening, thrusting until he felt the beast coming, racing toward him, hooves pounding, dark mouth widening to swallow him whole. Orgasm started in his head—maybe a few feet higher than that through a layer of plaster and floorboards—and roared down his spine to bathe his balls in liquid fire. His cum seethed, boiled and overflowed to shoot down his cock and spray onto the glass wall opposite.

His breathy cries echoed in the shower stall as he emptied himself in long, wrenching spasms. Turner watched the streaks of his cum slide down the glass. He sighed. He could think of a better home. Somewhere warm and snug.

He washed the shower then himself, and switched off the water. Turner stuck out his hand, waiting for the towel until he remembered two things—George wasn’t there and Turner hadn’t yet found the box with the bath towels.

Shit.

* * * * *

Matty woke with a crushing pain in her chest and air locked tight in her lungs. She struggled to sit and then fought to breathe while white dots danced in front of her eyes. Her fists clenched and she shook. Then with one deep gulp, oxygen rushed in and her world righted itself—only to tip and fall over with a crash when she looked to her left.

Her bedside light—not that it cast much light—was on. She hadn’t left it on. She never did. It was a habit borne of blowing out the candle before she went to sleep during the period when there’d been no electricity supply. Matty looked around but nothing seemed to have been disturbed. Her mess was still a mess. Maybe she was wrong and she
had
left the light on. But the sense of unease remained.

She turned the clock so she could see the time. Eight in the morning. Another day and time to try again with Operation Turner.

Make myself indispensible.
Turner needed an assistant and his assistant was away, ergo he needed her.

Matty dressed in a lurid pink miniskirt that sat low on her hips and a baggy, hooded red sweater spotted with white snowflakes. She had nothing that fit properly, nothing that matched. As she padded downstairs, she expected to hear Turner pottering about, but the house was silent. A peep through a front window told her his car sat where he’d parked it last night. Was he still asleep?

She wandered into the library, looked at the large number of boxes stacked there then glanced at the empty shelves and smiled. She could tell a huge amount about someone from the books they read
and
she’d be doing him a favor. She ripped open the first container.

Matty’s heart sang when she discovered thrillers she’d enjoyed then sank when she saw the number of history books. If that was his passion, she’d struggle. It had taken her ages to figure out how the Romans had first come to Britain in 55 BC, and had then come again in 54 BC. Well, math wasn’t her strong point either.

She unpacked and slotted the books on the shelves. It took hours. Partly because each time she opened another box, she had to rearrange the books she’d already shelved and partly because she got engrossed in some of them. Turner had some ancient, musty-smelling volumes about plants and a set of encyclopedias that looked even older, plus books in a language she didn’t recognize. They looked really ancient. One book turned out to be a box and inside she found three small hand-written volumes with a page of the weird language opposite a page of English. Matty assumed it was a translation.

“In ordinary circumstances, contradictions among those who remain are not antagonistic. To achieve survival, we must be tempered in the storm of evolution.”

Huh?
A couple of lines and she’d had enough. She put them back in the book box and on the shelf with the rest.

After she’d flattened the empty cartons and taken them to the garage, the library looked really nice, a little as it had when she was a child, except her father’s passion had been botany. It seemed to be some sort of family tradition. One that Matty hadn’t inherited. She’d managed to save a few of her father’s older volumes but only for sentimental reasons. She had little interest in plants.

When Matty looked at the time, she was staggered to see it was after five. There had been no sign or sound of Turner. She hoped he wasn’t sick. What if he’d gone out walking and fallen in the river? He might have got snagged up on a submerged shopping cart and drowned. Or he could have fallen into an opencast mineshaft and got stuck in a hole. Her heart pounded. She’d spent all day enjoying herself when he might be in trouble.

Matty raced upstairs and opened the door of the master bedroom. Wow, it was dark in there but the light coming from the landing revealed a man-sized shape under the duvet. She blew out the breath she’d been holding.

Her relief didn’t last long. Why would he still be in bed? How sick was he?

She tiptoed across the room to his side. No movement. No sound. What if he’d had a brain hemorrhage and lay paralyzed? What if he could only blink to communicate? What if he was
dead
?

Matty eased back the cover from his head, exposing tousled black hair, closed eyes, strong nose, lovely lips. Would a kiss wake Sleeping Beauty? She nearly giggled and then remembered she was worried. She held her hand over his mouth but could feel no expiration of air.
Oh God. Now I
am
worried.

“Are you dead?” Matty whispered.

“Yes. Go away.”

She yelped and jumped backward.

Turner pushed himself upright and the duvet fell to his waist.
Looks like he sleeps naked like me. Something we have in common. Yippee.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” he snapped. “How did you get in? The door was locked.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Yes, it was.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

Turner glared at her. “Let’s go with the first question.”

“Well, obviously you’re not dead.” Matty grinned.

“I didn’t mean that one. I asked what the hell you were doing in here.”

She winced. “You said you were sick and I thought you might need help. You’ve been in bed all day.”

“I’m not that sort of sick. This happens to be the way I like to live. Unsocial hours—remember? I work better at night if I sleep
undisturbed
during the day.”

“Oh sorry.”

“Go away.”

“Right.” Matty didn’t move.

“You want to leave Milford Hall and never come back,” he said in a weird, lilting voice.

“Oh no I don’t.” Matty used the same slow voice to reply.

He groaned. “You were supposed to be out of here by now.”

Matty chewed her nail.
Be indispensible.
“Are you hungry? Would you like me to make you something to eat?”

“I’m hungry enough to eat you, Red Riding Hood,” he growled. “Better run.”

Chapter Four

The bedroom door closed behind Little Red and Turner sank back onto the bed. The door
had
been locked. He never, ever made that kind of mistake, and he certainly wouldn’t have forgotten now that George was away and Dava and Gabriel were out of prison. Not that they could burst in on him uninvited, but they could use others who needed no invite. Someone like Matty. So how had she gotten in? Secret passageway? Picked the lock? Turned into mist and drifted through the bloody keyhole?

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Why was she immune to his thrall? He needed George. How could the bloody Izaruba tribe be more important than his boss’s welfare? Turner scowled—well, clearly it was, otherwise George would be there. Then he remembered he didn’t want George here. Nor did he want Matty here. He had to get rid of the tadpole on his own. Turner lifted his head and looked at the large tent his cock had erected under the duvet. He
really
had to get rid of her.

What to do first? Shower, food or wank? Turner clenched his jaw. Since when did wank come into his waking routine? His hand closed around his cock and he dragged his fingers up his length and squeezed. He needed to— Turner snapped his eyes open and removed his hand.

He flung off the duvet, stamped to the shower and turned the dial to cold. When he’d reduced his cock to a quivering shrimp, he turned the water to warm. How the hell could he get rid of her? Well, he could think of several ways, scaring her away with a show of his fangs being top of the list, but none of them made as much sense as pointing out she wasn’t legally entitled to be there. He’d go for “shock and awe” after he’d waved the contract in her face.

First port of call was the kitchen. Turner wasn’t going to attempt anything when he was hungry.

That issue quickly resolved, he made for the library.

One step into the room and Turner froze. The room looked—orderly. The cartons had all gone, his books unpacked and shelved.
Oh Christ,
all
my books.
He yanked down
The Search for Order
. The three books were still inside. Turner slid the box back in place.

She must have done this while he was sleeping. Trying to help? The act both pleased and annoyed him. He ran his gaze over the lines of books and frowned. No, he was wrong. It totally annoyed him.

Turner felt her come up behind him, the soft aroma of roses wafting ahead of her, teasing his nostrils, enticing him.
Shit.

“You have some lovely books,” she said. “I like the one with the pictures of polar bears.”

“The books with words too tricky?”

She released a strangled laugh.

“Would you care to explain the system?” Turner stared at the shelves.

Matty moved in front of him and pointed. “They’re sorted by color.”

“Ah.” Dear God.

“And by size.”

“Mmm.” Turner felt his mouth start to twitch. “It didn’t occur to you to shelve them alphabetically by author name or even title?”

“Well, yes, but no.”

He barely managed to stifle his snort, unsure whether he wanted to laugh or scream.

“The thing is, you have so many. I organized one boxful only to find the next box wrecked what I’d done so I thought they’d look nicer if all the same color spines sat together. I tried to follow the colors of the spectrum. Look, the books go up and down in waves.”

He’d noticed. It made him feel seasick.

“But the most important thing is that you’ll have fun trying to find the book you want,” Matty said with a broad smile. “It will be a whole new experience.”

Turner spotted
How to Avoid Huge Ships
shelved between
Dining Posture in Ancient Societies
and
Primeval Plants
and growled.

“You don’t like it,” she said in a small voice, disappointment all over her face. “Sorry. I was only trying to help. I could do it again.”

“No, you’ve done quite enough.”

“Please let me put things right. You want all the thrillers together? I can do that.”

She dodged around him and clambered up the ladder that leaned against the shelves. Turner stared at the strip of flesh exposed on her lower back, and then his gaze dropped to her feet. Old-fashioned shoes but tiny, beautiful ankles, the gentle curves of her calves, the delicate skin at the back of her knees, smooth thighs…
Oh God, her legs go on forever
. If he moved a little closer, he’d be able to see— Turner groaned and jerked away from her toward the desk. His foot snagged the base of the ladder and knocked it askew.

Matty squeaked and Turner flung himself toward her as she tumbled. He just managed to get his arms around her before she hit the floor. But in the process he ended up there with her, lying on his back with her on top. When she didn’t move, he rolled so she lay beneath him, intending to push himself up, but then didn’t. Their faces were six inches apart.

Five inches.

What the fuck am I doing? I don’t even like her.

Four inches.

She smells so sweet. And drives me crazy—not in a good way. Though…

Three inches.

One taste. Then I’ll be put off for good.

Two inches.

I could pretend I slipped.

One inch.

I am so fucked.

Turner told himself no, but as his fingers speared her weird hair above her pixie ears and his lips touched hers, the last vestiges of his control evaporated, the dam broke and lust went on the rampage. He covered her mouth with his and fucked her with his tongue. Some tiny corner of his brain yelled, “Slow, tender, gentle,” but his marauding Viking tongue went for “pillage, thrust and ravage”.

Her hands slid over his back, her fingers kneading his spine through his shirt and it was like pouring fuel on a fire. Blazing hot in an instant, Turner was caught in an inferno. He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t think beyond satisfying his desperation to bury himself inside her, pound into her over and over until they came, screaming together.

Oh hell.

When Turner felt her struggling to breathe, he managed to pull his mouth back, but only as far as her chin, and from there his lips slid inexorably onto the delicate column of her neck.
Oh yes.