Moon Cursed (18 page)

She was open to him in a way she’d never been open to anyone else. He’d seen her fear; he’d kissed away her terror. He’d protected her, saved her, and now he would make her forget everything but this moment and him.

His thrusts quickened. He lifted her knees higher and wider, and they became deeper. She was making desperate, begging sounds, her head thrown back, his mouth at her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts.

“I cannae reach.” His teeth grazed her skin.

“Harder,” she gasped, surprising herself. “More.”

“Aye,” he said. “Lift them,
mo bhilis.
Bring them to my mouth, and I’ll give ye all that ye ask.”

His hips thrust, once, then stilled.

She wiggled, tightened her legs, the muscles of her thighs flexing against the bones of his hips, drawing him closer, but he would not move; he would not give her what she wanted, what she must have.

“Open yer eyes.”

If possible his had gone even bluer. They shone like neon in the night.

His tongue shot out, and he licked the swell of her right breast and then the left. “I cannae reach,” he repeated, sliding his arms along her back to support her. “Lift them.”

She understood what he wanted, and heat shot through her at the image of what she must do. Their gazes locked; she lifted her breasts and watched as he took a nipple into his mouth and suckled, first gently, his tongue slipping over and back like warm water in a bath, then faster and rougher, pressing her against the roof of his mouth, squeezing and taunting, even as his hips began to move.

She cupped her breasts in her palms, relishing the movement of his jaw against her fingers as he worked her above, the slide of his hips against her straining thighs as he did the same down below. Cradled in his embrace, with him cradled in hers, they rose, then fell together, gasping, thrusting, coming.

They stayed that way until the tremors died; then he lifted his head, kissed her brow, disentangled himself, and went to the shower, his hair spreading across his shoulders like an ebony curtain.

Kris sat there, the lovely languor dying as she waited for him to either turn it off and leave or get in, wash up.

Then leave.

Instead, he checked the temperature, turned, and stretched out his hand.

CHAPTER 13

“Le do thoil,” Liam murmured. “Kill me.”

Kris slept at his side, so warm and soft, so willing. But then how could she
not
be willing? He was seduction in human form. She’d had little choice once he’d kissed her.

He’d had her again after the shower, this time in the bed, and the sex had been as good as he remembered sex being.

No. That wasn’t true. The sex was much
better
than he ever remembered sex being.

She’d tasted of the sun on the water and smelled like the moon in the rain. He’d wanted to stay inside of her forever, to hear her sweet cries for the rest of his life, to feel her breath on his face and her skin pressed to his as the years alone melted away.

*   *   *

Kris dreamed of Nessie.

Long and gray and sleek, she slid beneath the water as Kris watched, and filmed, from above.

In her sleep Kris shifted, murmured, and was soothed by cool hands on her fevered skin, gentle lips on a furrowed brow. She settled back into the dream.

Where she fell and fell, then kept on falling. What would she find at the bottom?

Water, and a lot of it. Kris slammed through the surface and shot into the deep. She couldn’t see; she couldn’t breathe. Her chin hurt; she tasted blood, and in the gloom something slithered.

She jerked toward it, but the murky mill of the loch prevented her from seeing just what it was. She was bumped in the back. She tried to swim away, to kick upward toward air. Instead, a whirlwind surrounded her, throwing her every which way, then pulling her back. Right before she passed out, she saw eyes shining from the face of a snake.

Kris came awake gasping, choking, swimming, or trying to. But she wasn’t in water; she was in bed, and her legs were tangled in the sheets. She wasn’t drowning; she was breathing—great, greedy gulps of blessed air.

She also wasn’t any more alone now than she’d been then.

“A thaisgidh,” Liam murmured. “Yer safe. Yer safe here with me. I willnae let anything bring ye harm.”

She clung to him, letting him pull her against his chest, murmuring words that flowed like a song.

She did feel safe. She wasn’t quite sure why.

“What did ye dream, lass?”

Kris, who’d been slowly relaxing in the warm, sweet cocoon that they’d made, stiffened. Liam ran a palm down her back and whispered, “Shhh.”

Why did the soft burr of his voice in her hair make her want to
shhh
? She’d never been one for cuddling or comfort. Perhaps because she’d hadn’t had either one in a very long time.

“Ye don’t have t’ tell me if ye dinnae want to.”

“I—” She took a breath, thrilled when it didn’t catch in the middle and make her feel again like a child. “I do.”

Perhaps it would help.

“I was in the loch,” she said. “But I wasn’t alone. I think I saw…” She paused, unwilling to admit it but unable to stop. “Nessie.”

“Understandable,” he said, still petting her.

Kris looked into his face, but the night was so dark she could see nothing but the shimmer of his eyes. They reminded her of the shimmer of eyes she’d seen in the depths of the loch, and she didn’t like it.

“Why is that understandable?” she demanded.

“Ye are here for her, are ye not?”

“How do you know that?”

“Lass.” He ran a hand over her hair. “Everyone in Drumnadrochit knows that.”

She sighed. He was right.

“Go on,” he said.

“I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t find the surface. She came, and she whirled around me, and I think…” She paused, searching her mind for the dream, or had it been a memory? “I think she saved me.”

“Did she now?”

Kris sat up, and Liam let her go, keeping one hand on her back and rubbing. “She pushed me, and I fought because I thought she pushed me down, but really she pushed me up. Without her, I would have flailed around in the water, thinking up was down and down was up until I drowned. But why would she do that?”

“ ’Twas just a dream,” he said. “Do ye truly think the Loch Ness Monster saved ye from drowning?”

Kris stared into the darkness and admitted the truth: “Something did.”

“I thought ye didnae believe in Nessie.”

Kris tilted her head. “You’re the one who said you’d never seen her.”

“I havenae.”

“And strangely, no one around here has ever seen you but me.”

He laughed. “That’s not true.”

“No matter who I ask, they haven’t heard of you. There are no Grants in Drumnadrochit named Liam. Although perhaps you might be one of the Grants in Dores.”

“Is that so?” he murmured.

Question with a question. He was definitely hiding something. But then, wasn’t she?

“What’s your secret?” she asked.

“No secret. Ye’ve merely been asking the wrong questions.”

“I’m pretty good with questions.”

“I suppose being a writer, ye’d have to be.”

Kris narrowed her eyes, but she still couldn’t see his face, so she could not tell if he was mocking her. Had he gone searching for
her
secret and found the truth? Why would he? Unless he had something even bigger to hide?

Kris turned the lamp on the bedside table to low. “I need to know who you are, Liam.”

His eyes appeared almost black in the half-light. “Ye do.”

He tangled his fingers with hers, and her stomach turned over with … what? Like? Lust? It certainly wasn’t love. Not now. Not him. Not yet.

“Ye know more of me than anyone else has in a very long time.”

“Ditto,” she murmured.

Liam tilted his head, and his sleek, smooth dark hair slid over his equally sleek, smooth shoulder. She was struck by the memory of holding on to those shoulders as he rose above her, his image but a shadow against the night.

“Ye truly think someone pushed ye into the loch?” he asked.

She hadn’t been sure until she’d had the dream. But in contrast to everything she’d ever known about dreams, the more time that passed since she’d had it the more real the dream became.

“Yes,” she answered.

He ran a hand over her no doubt frizzy, billowing hair. “Do ye think it was me?”

She jerked back. “Why would I think that?”

“Ye said yerself, ye don’t know who I am.”

“That doesn’t mean I think you’re trying to kill me.”

“Who
would
try to kill ye?” he wondered. “Ye just got here.”

“In other words, I haven’t been here long enough for anyone to want to kill me yet?”

His lips curved. “Something like that.”

“I doubt whoever killed those girls knew them very well, either.”

His brow creased. “Have ye noticed anyone following ye about?”

“No,” she said automatically, then— “Wait.”

He stiffened, the muscles in his arms and chest and stomach rippling, distracting, seducing. “Ye have?”

She shook the foggy
give me
thoughts from her brain and told him about the American who had been asking after her.

“I dinnae like that at all,” he said.

“I’m not wild about it, either.”

“Ye think he pushed ye in?”

“Since I don’t know who he is, maybe.”

“Have ye had any trouble like this before? I hear writers have stalkers. The man who shot John Lennon was also obsessed with Stephen King.”

“I’m not Stephen King,” Kris said dryly. And she never would be.

“Still, ye never know what kind of madmen are out there until they…” He paused.

Kris filled in the blank. “Kill you?”

He glanced at the window where the curtain had been turned back to reveal just a sliver of night. “Maybe ye should leave. Go on home to … wherever home is.”

“Chicago,” Kris said, then frowned. Why had she told him that? Hell. Why not just tell him everything?

“I’m not a writer,” she said. “I’m a journalist. I do a show…” She paused and corrected herself, “
Did
a show called
Hoax Hunters
for public TV.”

Confusion flickered over his face. “I dinnae understand.”

“I expose hoaxes. Like Nessie.”

“Nessie isnae a hoax.”

“You said you’d never seen her.”

“Seeing and believing are two different things.”

“You think she’s there?”

“I do.”

“Want to help me prove it?” Kris hadn’t known she was going to say that until it popped right out of her mouth.

“Prove Nessie exists?”

“Yes.” It would be a bigger story than proving she didn’t.

“Ye know that’s been tried before?”

Kris smiled. “It hasn’t been tried by me.”

She could do this. She felt more confident proving there
was
a Nessie than proving there wasn’t. What was it that Edward had said?

You do realize it is impossible to prove something does not exist? You can merely prove it has not yet been found.

She suddenly understood what he’d meant.

“How will ye find her?” Liam asked.

Kris shrugged. “I’m gonna look.”

*   *   *

They slept again, and when they awoke, the sky had begun to lighten. Kris trailed her hand up Liam’s thigh.

“I have to go.” He brought her palm to his lips and pressed a kiss to the center.

“Go?” she repeated, unable to think when he did stuff like that.

“I’ll see ye tonight.”

Kris pulled her hand free. “You’re leaving?”

He was already out of bed, ducking into the bathroom to retrieve his clothes, coming back out again buttoning his jeans, his shirt hanging from his hand. “I have work.”

“What kind of work?”

He glanced up at the suspicion in her voice. “Don’t ye trust me?”

“Yes.…”

“Yer mouth says, ‘Yes,’ while yer face says,
But
…”

“You don’t tell me anything.”

“Then why would ye trust me?”

Why did she?
Simple.
“If you don’t tell me anything, at least you aren’t lying.”

A shadow crossed his face, and her stomach clenched. He
was
lying. His name probably wasn’t even Liam Grant. No wonder no one knew who he was.