Kiss Across Time (Kiss Across Time Series) (3 page)

“Are you kidding?” she yelled back at Andy.
 
She had no intention of giving up now. “How do I get backstage?”

He looked like he was choking. “Are you fucking kidding?” He waved a hand toward the stage. “This is
Nocturnal Rain
! You don’t just wander backstage!”

“I have to talk to them!” she screamed in his ear. “I have to find out where they got those lyrics!”

He shook his head, mulish. “Not unless you fuck one of ’em, Taylor! It ain’t happening. Not with their security.”

Taylor gripped the railing of the first tier balcony and stared down at the stage in pure frustration. She had to find a way to speak to Brody Gallagher, because he’d had access to the works of Inigo Domhnall and that made him her new best friend.

The lead singer, Gallagher, was gyrating at the crowd and the mosh pit was going crazy. From where she stood on the second balcony, most of the pit seemed to be women and those women were showing a dazzling amount of cleavage.

A couple of wranglers were on the stage now, working on something behind the singer.

“Shit…damn.” Andy turned to Taylor. “Stick your chest out, Taylor,” he yelled in her ear.

“What?”

“I forgot about this. Look as fuckable as you can manage.” Andy lifted his hands as if he was going to arrange her clothing to add to the fuckable quotient, then he dropped them, as if the task was beyond his capabilities. “What about just smiling, then, huh?” he suggested.
 
When he was sober and straight, Andy was smart and quite good company.
 
Since she had barged into his apartment yesterday morning, she had come to like his quiet intelligence.
 
He was not in the slightest dazzled by her academic credentials, or his lack of them and that impressed her a lot.

“Thanks,” Taylor said, gritting her teeth and smiling. She turned to face the stage.

The singer had been attached to a pair of wires and now he began to soar into the air above the heads of the audience, out beyond the stage. The crowd went wild, screaming and waving. Everyone around Taylor began to shove and press closer to the balcony and she realized that they were trying to get the singer’s attention.

The singer was coming closer. The hysteria around her seemed to rise in exponential proportion. Now she could get a much better look at the guy. He was older than she had first thought. Perhaps it was her complete ignorance of heavy metal in general and death metal in particular but she had assumed that only teenagers and people in their very early twenties would want to listen to the stuff or play it. This guy looked like he was his early thirties. That put him just a few years older than her.

He was gorgeous. No wonder the audience was packed with women verging on hysteria. Dark hair, darker eyes, white skin. She classified the combination almost automatically as classic Celtic looks. He was broad shouldered, defying what she was sure was supposed to be a wasted, frail look for head-bangers. Black jeans, black designer tee shirt, with designer rips and tears and chains looped across the open spaces. Touches of red among the black. A black iron belt buckle down low over an impressive bulge.

Then she blinked. He was looking directly at her and floating on the wires straight toward her.

Andy was tugging on her arm. “Taylor, he’s spotted you!”

She barely heard him.

The man’s hand came up and pointed at her, obviously giving the people controlling the wires directions. At once, he drifted toward her and the hysteria around her intensified. Everyone was screaming, not just the women. Even Andy was banging on the balcony rail.

The man’s hand curled around the back of Taylor’s head. She understood that this was probably a standard ritual at these concerts and tried not to freeze or look bewildered, even though she didn’t know for sure what was going to happen next. But her runaway heart had a pretty good idea and her suddenly throbbing clit actually thought it was a good idea, and that horrified her.

He kissed her and Taylor closed her eyes. She could still hear the screaming but it changed in quality and became fear-filled. That made her open her eyes again. Fear was not good.

She was not at the concert any more. She looked around the rustic room, blinking.
What the hell?

The singer had her in his arms still. There was no balcony between them now.

His hands slid into her hair, keeping her head still. “Not yet,” he begged, sliding his lips down her throat, nuzzling her jaw. “There’s time yet, Toiréasa,” he murmured. “Time to say fare thee well properly.”

“We should have returned to Ireland, Breandán,” she whispered, as he loosened the ties on her gown and dropped it from her shoulders. The words came to her naturally, even as a tiny voice was raging in her mind, “W
hat on earth are you saying, Taylor?”
But that voice was being drowned out by the pure sensuousness he was stirring in her.

“Arthur would have been short a good officer if we had,” he said against her breast, just before his teeth caught the nipple. His hands stripped her gown from her and in the soft morning light pouring through the cloth over the door, he lowered her to the bed in the little cot that had been theirs for the last few years. He unbuckled his sword belt and put it to one side, watching her as she lay waiting for him. He stripped his tunic, trews and boots. He was stiff and ready for her, his manhood throbbing.

He lay next to her and pulled her to him, his thigh thrusting between hers. She was moist and ready for him, aching to feel him slide into her. “Take me, Breandán,” she coaxed, tugging at his hip.

His full lips curled in a smile. “Yer a wanton, Toiréasa, lass and I’ve always lo—”

She quickly covered his lips. “No. Don’t speak of it.” She shook her head. “Tell me later, you understand?”

His dark brows came together. “Later then,” he said, his voice thick. He lifted himself and drove into her with a powerful thrust, his hand under her hip, the tendons in his neck straining with the effort.

Toiréasa gasped, her hands gripping his shoulders, her eyes closing. Breandán’s mouth came down upon hers, his lips demanding, his tongue thrusting inside. She opened up to him in every way, knowing it might be the last time, even though neither of them could voice that thought aloud.

Outside the cot, the fear-filled screams of their neighbors went on and on, as the Saxons came closer.

Abruptly the screams shifted and changed in cadence.

Taylor blinked. Opened her eyes again.

It was the death metal concert. Nocturnal Rain. The lead singer was hanging from wires eighteen inches away from her. He had just kissed her. He was staring at her while eighteen thousand death metal fans went ballistic around her.

She licked her lips. What the hell had just happened? Did that happen to every fan he kissed?

Gallagher pointed to her again. He dropped his chin down and said something into a tiny voice pickup on his shoulder.

Andy was tugging on her arm again and she had a feeling she was going to be very sore tomorrow, thanks to his yanking. “You did it, Taylor! You did it! You got yourself a backstage pass!” He was screaming in her ear.

“I did?” Great. Now the last thing on earth she wanted to do was face that Brody Gallagher backstage. She never wanted to look him in the eye again.

Hands were on her arms, big hands.

She was being hustled out of the audience by beefy security guys. Her backstage pass was being put into immediate action.

Fabulous
. Didn’t she even get a say in this?
 
Most fans wouldn’t think twice about this, she realized. A chance to meet Brody Gallagher of Nocturnal Rain?

Was his real name Breandán? Her heart thudded as she wondered about that. If it was, she was going to just about pass out on the spot.

The two security guys, wearing jeans and black tee shirts with “security” written on the front and back of them, eased her through the auditorium and out into the front foyer, where they relaxed a little.

The screaming metal music faded to a pulsing beat and scratching throb.

“What’s yer name, miss?” one asked, with a distinct Australian accent, letting her arm go.

“Taylor,” she said.

The other security guy let her other arm go and waved forward. “This way then.”

“To where?”

They both looked surprised. “Backstage,” the Aussie said.

“Why?” she asked.

The other guy, the non-Australian, stepped back close to her and she shivered.

“Brody wants to talk to you,” the Aussie said.

Well at least his name wasn’t Breandán.

“You’re not a Nocturnal fan, are you?” the other one asked.

Taylor rolled her eyes at the Aussie. “I came with a friend. He’ll be worried if I don’t go back.” The implied warning and the male gender were security stoppers of her own.

“The eighty pound runt next to you? We’ll make sure he gets home safely,” the non-Aussie said.

So much for security. Taylor sighed. “Okay. Where do I go?”

They took her through a series of plain cinder-block and linoleum passageways, passing dozens of people who wore either jeans and black tee shirts, or gaudy variations of death metal fashion. Hangers-on, groupies, hopeful wanna-bees. There were some bored-looking media people, obvious by their equipment and normal street clothes. Eventually, the security guys opened a gray metal door and showed her inside. There were a few chairs and a coffee table. Mini fridge, coffee machine. Magazines. Very little else. “Please wait here,” Aussie said.

She stepped in and they shut the door. She had a feeling that if she tried to open the door, she’d find them right outside it and she wouldn’t get too far beyond it.

Taylor took a breath, organizing her thoughts. She’d wanted to get backstage, to speak to Gallagher about that song. Well, now she was here. It wasn’t the way she’d wanted to get here but she may as well capitalize on the opportunity.

She would just ignore the unwelcome whatever-it-was that had happened out there when he had kissed her. After tonight, she never had to deal with this death metal world and this Brody person ever again.

Her decision made, she found it easier to perch on the edge of one of the uncomfortable chairs and wait. The laced up sides of the skirt creaked as she sat and she kept her knees together. The skirt wasn’t an aid to modesty.

After forty minutes by the clock over the door and twenty minutes after the throbbing music stopped, the door opened again and Aussie stuck his head in. “Taylor,” he said softly. “Come this way.”

She got to her feet and took a shaky breath. Aussie walked a pace in front of her, leading her through more passageways. They were far more crowded now, telling her she was closer to the center of power. Eyes followed her.

Aussie opened a door and ushered her into a room full of people. She looked around. There was at least one of the band members here, but not Gallagher.

Aussie was still moving though, leading her through the room, around people who Taylor knew were measuring her and mentally stripping her as she stepped between them. She longed to be back in her apartment and dealing with just the ordinary problem of being suddenly unemployed. She didn’t belong here.

Aussie tapped on another door, paused, then pushed it open and jerked his head, indicating she should go in. He made no move to enter himself and she knew she’d reached the inner sanctum.

She stepped in and he shut the door behind her. The door was sealed against noise, for the conversation on the other side instantly dropped down to a quiet murmur.

The room was empty. Dark colors on the wall, a bookcase in dark wood in front of her and low lighting from two lamps made it seem elegant and completely out of place compared to the concrete and linoleum decor she’d seen so far. A wide, comfortable sofa took up the width of the room to the left, and a rose-colored wooden coffee table sat in front of it. There was a club chair pulled up beside the table.
 
A suit jacket had been thrown over the arm.

Another door led off to the right and there was the sound of running water. A bathroom. The water cut off as she listened.

Taylor tried to tug her skirt into place but the leather stayed obstinately where it was.

The bathroom door opened and Brody Gallagher stepped out, wrapping a silky-looking bathrobe around him. He halted when he saw her, his eyes narrowing.

“It
was
you,” he said flatly.

Her heart squeezed. It was him. Breandán. In the vision, dream, whatever it was that she’d had when this Brody had kissed her. Long hair and everything.

“You even have a scar on your chest,” she said and lifted her hand to touch, just under her own left breast. “Just like Breandán did.”

His eyes widened. “Jesus,” he breathed, staring at her. After a second or two he stirred. “I guess I don’t have to ask if you experienced what I did out there, then.”

She licked her lips. “That isn’t…usual, then?”

He gave a low laugh. “God, no!”

He came toward her and stopped just in front of her.
 
He lifted a hand to her face but hesitated just before he touched it. “May I?”

She appreciated his sensitivity. “Yes.”

His thumb stroked her cheekbone. “Your name is not really Toiréasa, is it?” His voice was low.

She shivered. He’d been there. He’d really been there with her.

“Taylor,” she said.

“I want to kiss you again, Taylor. I want to see what happens this time.”

She focused on his full lips and she remembered him sliding his cock into her. Even though it had been a dream or a vision, or whatever it had been, she recalled it like it had actually happened. She could
feel
it. Her clit throbbed.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Curiously, she believed him. She nodded.

His mouth touched hers hesitantly and she knew there was a pocket of fear in him, too. That made her believe, more than anything, that this…whatever it was…was just as strange and weird for him, too.

Then his lips grew firmer.
 
More demanding.
 
His tongue thrust into her mouth.

Taylor forgot about visions and daydreams and simply enjoyed the kiss. Brody was a damn fine kisser and she hadn’t been kissed like this in a long, long time. She threw herself into the kiss, letting herself be seduced by its power. She pressed up against him, enjoying the pleasure of simply being held by a man, the scent of a man. She wound her arms about his neck and rubbed herself against him with a soft little moan.

He gasped and lifted his head up, looking at her. “No visions,” he said softly. “But both of us experienced it, the first time.”

“Yes,” she agreed. Then she realized that she was draped against him like she was a willing participant.

Worse, his cock was beating between them, signaling his arousal in the most obvious way.

She tried to stand up but he held her still. “Wait,” he said. “There’s no rush, is there?” His hand was stroking the back of her thigh, making it quiver.

“I have to go home.” She tried to make it sound convincing. But she really wanted to stay right where she was and continue kissing him.

She had no idea who he was beyond his name and profession. But she already knew what his cock looked like and what it felt like to fuck him. If the vision they had shared had any sort of truth in it, he had loved her once.

Before she had been fired two days ago, Taylor had been within half an inch of being a tenured history professor. She hadn’t believed in past lives and all that sort of bullshit. But right now she was willing to grasp it in order to give herself enough justification just to fuck the brains out of this man because kissing him felt so damn good. But that wouldn’t make her feel any better tomorrow morning.

She bit her lip. “I can’t stay,” she said regretfully. “I would love to. I would. But that isn’t a good enough reason.”

Brody held up his hand. “Before you go,” he said. “Would you do me one small favor?”

She stepped away from him. “It depends.”

“I want you to kiss my friend. I want to see if it…this…whatever it is when we kissed the first time…I want to see if it works on him.”

Taylor laughed. “Why on earth would it?” Then something in Brody’s expression registered on her. “Oh…he’s your lover, isn’t he?”

Brody lifted a brow.

“A very long-term lover,” Taylor concluded with growing wonder. She tilted her head to study him. “What is his name?”

“Most people call me Veris, because they can’t pronounce my real name.”

She whirled around to face the voice.

He was sitting on the arm of the chair where the suit jacket had been a few moments before. Blond hair, blue eyes, six foot two inches of self-assured, very broad-shouldered male.

“You!” Shock made her struggle to recall his name. “Dr. Gerhardsson. You consulted with me last week, about the Domhnall plays.”

“Jesus, you son of a bitch,” Brody said behind her. “You went and did it after all.”

Veris smiled. “I did.”

Brody brushed past Taylor and threw himself into the lounge chair. He looked at Taylor. “You’re a history professor?”

“I nearly was,” she said flatly.

“You don’t look like one,” Brody commented.

“Neither does he,” she said, pointing at Veris. He looked nothing like he had when he had first appeared in her university office.
 
Right now he was wearing leather pants and a sleeveless white cotton overshirt that made the most of the tanned, rounded caps of his shoulders and the bunches of muscles of his arms. Veris crossed his arms over his chest, which just seemed to multiply the amount of tanned muscle on display. His blue eyes twinkled.

Brody seemed more than mildly pissed about Veris’ consultation, which had been utterly professional in nature. He had not indicated by so much as an inch that he even recognized that Taylor was a woman.

Even so, Taylor had been left feeling edgy and weak-kneed after the evening consultation and had fallen into bed and indulged in a rare session of masturbation that featured Gerhardsson and his blue eyes and broad shoulders and various parts of his magnificent anatomy, over and over again.

Brody glared at Veris now. “I can see now why you came home in such a muck-sweat that night…the seventeenth, right?”

Taylor jumped. That was the night.

Veris just shrugged a little. No pride lost there. “I have no objections to kissing the lady now, if that’s what you want.” He smiled a little but his eyes were dancing with merriment.

Brody glared for a moment longer, then gave up. Taylor knew he had tabled the argument for later. He sat forward on the seat and spoke to Veris. “I told you what happened during the concert. I want to see if it happens to you when you kiss Taylor, because of our bond. If it does, then we’re going to have to tell Taylor.”

Veris glanced at Taylor. “And that won’t have tipped her off at all,” he said.

“Like consulting her about the Domhnall plays won’t have?” Brody shot back.

Veris grimaced. “I see your point.” He got to his feet and walked toward her and Taylor knew that the equivalent of a nuclear explosion would have to go off before she would move from the spot.

Veris stopped in front of her. “May I?” he asked. He seemed to tower over her five-foot-nine frame, even with her spiked boots.

She thought her knees would give out. “Yes,” she said, her voice hoarse.

He slid his hand around her waist and the other under her hair. This close, his blue eyes were mesmerizing and she could feel her heart thundering. It hurt as it slammed against her chest. She gripped Veris’ shirt almost convulsively, suddenly afraid.

“It’s all right,” he whispered, his lips brushing hers, his breath fanning her. “I have you.”

He kissed her.

His lips were surprisingly soft. But just for a moment. Then his mouth hardened against hers and his tongue thrust inside, sweeping against her tongue and teeth, exploring.

Taylor moaned. She couldn’t help it. This was better than she had imagined in her lonely bed last week. She spread her fingers over the cotton shirt to feel the muscles beneath, as she had longed to do all through the meeting. But instead of cotton, she felt leather.