Authors: Christina Dodd
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Paranormal, #General
Storm of Shadows (24 page)
“Intoxicating. I feel as if the world is spinning away from me. Is it possible to get tipsy from champagne . . . there?”
“I don’t know. Let me see.” In one easy motion, he slid out from underneath her, leaving her wedged into the warm place in the leather that he had just vacated. He spread her legs wider, pushed his arm under her bottom, tilted her hips up, and leaned forward to taste her.
And there it was, on the pale skin of her inner thigh—an orchid, genus phalaenopsis, opening its pink petals just for him.
“Aaron. No!” She tried to push him away.
But this time he wouldn’t allow her to escape. “Shh,” he whispered against her skin. “I’m getting tipsy on champagne. And you.” He tasted her, controlling her struggles, then pressed his tongue inside, long, slow, damp thrusts of his tongue that matched the ancient, primitive rhythm of sex. Dimly he heard her moans, small and quiet at first; then as she lost control, they grew deeper, longer, more desperate.
Taking his glass, he took a sip of champagne; then with the cool liquid still on his tongue, he kissed her nether lips again.
Never had champagne tasted so much like an aphrodisiac.
Her legs moved restlessly around him. She put one foot flat on the seat, the other against the floor. With one hand, she held his head in place, while the other dug divots into the leather seat. She lifted herself to his mouth, over and over, demanding, without words, that he give her what he had promised. That he give her satisfaction.
He took another sip of champagne, held it in his mouth, and lavished the bubbly wine into the most intimate places of her body.
She hovered on the brink for a long, long minute. Then he took her clit and sucked the champagne, and her clit, and at the same time thrust his finger inside her—
Just as he had known she would, she screamed, screamed and arched as if he’d branded her with his tongue.
And maybe he had.
Her orgasmic spasms went on and on, clutching at his finger, filling his mouth, feeding his need to make her happy and his desperate desire to make her his own.
And he would. Now. Here. On the seat. He wanted to wrap her in his arms, to feel her buck against him. He wanted to thrust his knee between her legs to prolong her pleasure. He wanted to know how it would be for him when he pressed his cock inside her. And why not? She was ripe, ready, damp and halfway to another climax.
He pulled her down on the seat and under him. He reached for his fly and—
That dumb son of a bitch Claude tapped on the window between the seats.
Chapter 24
“W
hat the hell?” Aaron lifted his head. The car was slowing.
hat the hell?” Aaron lifted his head. The car was slowing.
“What is it?” Rosamund’s voice sounded blurred, uncertain.
He lifted himself on one elbow.
They had turned into the long, lighted driveway that led to the château.
They were here. At the party.
Now
.
Now
.
“That liar Philippe said it would take an hour.” Aaron looked at his watch and swore viciously. “It’s been an hour and fifteen minutes.”
“Oh, no.” Rosamund pushed her hair out of her eyes. “We’ve been doing, um, this for over an hour?”
“Time flies when you’re having fun.” He was ten minutes away from his own satisfaction, and the château was two minutes away. Hell, he could get off in two minutes, but—He looked down at Rosamund.
She had barely finished the kind of orgasm that made him want to polish his good lover merit badge. If he jumped her and finished in two minutes, he’d deserve to lose that badge forever. She needed more than a quickie and a pat on the butt. She needed a chance to find herself again. And she obviously didn’t have a clue how to do that because virgins didn’t know how to play at sophistication, pretend sex was nothing more than a game, recover from a quick romp and go on to another.
That’s what he liked about her being a virgin. Right?
Right?
Right?
Somehow, his own pep talk wasn’t convincing him at all.
But the lights along the length of the drive were shining in the windows, the evening was fading into night, and they had a job to do.
The manuscript. They needed that manuscript.
Focus, Aaron.
Somehow, he needed to forget the demands of his libido and concentrate on a prophecy that would save his life, and hers, and maybe every one of the Chosen.
“Come on, darling, let’s help you up.” With his hands under her arms, he slid Rosamund into the seated position. “That wasn’t the best way to end lovemaking, was it?” He found her tiny excuse for a pair of panties on the floor and slid them up her legs, trying desperately to ignore the garter belt and the scent of champagne and willing woman that wafted to his nose. “Lift up so we can put these on.”
She pressed herself more firmly into the seat and whispered, “I’m . . . wet.”
Well, of course she was. He’d been using champagne on her and she’d been coming into his mouth. . . .
No! Don’t think of that.
Because if he did, when Claude opened the door, Aaron would be on her and in her, and wouldn’t give a damn who saw his bare butt pumping away. . . .
“Is there a napkin or something I could use to . . . ?” She looked so humiliated he had to kiss her again. Just a quick, soft kiss to her lips.
Pulling his handkerchief from his pocket, he pressed it between her legs.
Her swift intake of breath told him she hadn’t quite finished her climax, and he was torn between regret and triumph. Regret that she would be frustrated; triumph that she would be helpless to resist him when he made his way to her bedroom later.
For now, he tried for matter-of-fact and kind, drying her with tender touches that he kept strictly dispassionate. “How’s that?”
“I can get dressed now.” She waited until he withdrew his hands, then in a flurry pulled up her panties and pulled down her skirt.
He tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket, located her glasses in the door pocket, and slid them on her nose. “Is that better?”
“I can see. But my hair. How’s my hair?” She raked her fingers through it. “Philippe will kill me if my hair doesn’t fall correctly.”
“He must have done something right, because it looks just like it did when we left the salon.” He found the mirror on the ceiling and flipped it down so she could see.
Her hand flew to her swollen mouth. “My lipstick! Where—”
Aaron unclicked the latch and handed her the purse, and watched as she got out the compact. But when she tried to apply the lipstick, her hands were shaking. “ I don’t know how to do this even when I haven’t been—” She hung up on the word.
“Coming?” He took the lipstick out of her fingers, knelt in front of her, carefully applied the color, and tried to find the right words to help her face the ordeal ahead. “I want you to promise me something.”
“What?”
Claude stopped the car at the front step.
“I don’t want you to feel guilty for finding pleasure, or be embarrassed because you found it with me.”
She stared at him, hanging on his words as if he were reciting a lover’s poem.
He continued. “What we did was wonderful. Every moment was bliss. But the experience was private between you and me and no one, I repeat, no one, will ever know what we did back here.”
“Really?”
“I’m not going to tell them. You’re not going to tell them.” He cupped her cheek in his hand. “And if you can manage not to blush every time I look at you, no one will ever guess.”
She leaned into his palm, a trusting gesture he treasured. “I’ll try.”
“That’s good.” She looked so relieved, he couldn’t help adding, “Next time, I promise we’ll do something worth being embarrassed about.”
He should have been sorry to make her blush again, but damn it. He was suffering, and how was he going to get out of this car with his trousers looking like a one-man tent? “You look lovely.” He pushed her hair out of her face. “Philippe’s right. You’re going to be the hit of the party. Women are going to want to be you and men are going to simply . . . want you.”
“I guess that’s true.” She put the lipstick away. “This outfit worked with you.”
He sighed. “I wish that was all there was to it.” Because right now, even in her couch upholstery dress, she could lead him anywhere, into any danger.
Claude discreetly knocked on the door. Obviously the chauffeur had a suspicion what had been going on in the backseat.
Aaron unlocked the door and opened it. “Please assist Dr. Hall,” he instructed.
Claude held the umbrella and offered his hand to Rosamund. As she slid her legs out, Claude very carefully didn’t look at her.
Smart man.
Taking a breath, Aaron calmed his rampaging body, then joined her at the bottom of the long sweep of steps.
“How was the champagne, sir?” Claude asked.
“I can unequivocally say it was the best I’ve ever had.” Aaron smiled, a slash of savage humor. Taking Rosamund’s arm, he walked with her up the stairs.
Aaron had been in a lot of grand houses in Paris, but not Fournier’s home. The seventeenth-century château had been constructed of pale marble by one of Louis XIV’s nobles. A cacophony of elaborate towers, spires, and mansard roofs, surrounded by a sizable park planted in mazes and formal gardens, the place was a monument to Louis Fournier, the financier, and his rise to riches. Even more telling was the string of limousines that snaked down the drive, waiting to deliver noble and affluent guests to the home of a man who had risen from the deepest poverty to the greatest heights . . . by any means possible.
Fournier had a reputation as a son of a bitch with shady connections to the underworld and a ruthless streak that didn’t shrink at blackmail. He was also a well-known old goat with a reputation for buying en-viably beautiful mistresses, using them for a time, and discarding them. All in all, the kind of man Aaron took care to avoid.
Yet for all that, Fournier was well-known in the antiquities world for his library of ancient manuscripts and his collection of ancient art.
So here they were. Rosamund would be beautiful and fashionable and provide a distraction. Aaron would find the manuscript and steal it. Together, they would work as a team, and if all went well, after tonight they would return to New York City with the knowledge that would assist the Chosen Ones in their battle.
If only she were more worldly, he would feel better about leaving her to fend for herself.
“Listen,” he said in an undertone. “The people at this party are rich and decadent. They come to these parties to see and be seen. They have no employment, they drink too much, they experiment with drugs, they revel in every kind of sexual excess.”
“I understand. This is the Roman Empire at its most decayed.” She nodded.
“Exactly.” He could speak her language. “And Louis Fournier is Caligula.”
“Insane?”
“No. Corrupt. The ultimate debaucher of innocents.” Aaron swallowed.
Innocents like Rosamund.
The top of the stairway grew closer and closer. He had too little time to properly warn her, and he talked faster. “At some point, I’ll have to leave you to get my hands on the manuscript—”
Innocents like Rosamund.
The top of the stairway grew closer and closer. He had too little time to properly warn her, and he talked faster. “At some point, I’ll have to leave you to get my hands on the manuscript—”
“You’re going to coerce some poor employee to show you the manuscript,” she corrected.
She really did think he was the Godfather.
How cool was that?
“It has to be done,” he reminded her. “There’s no other way. Now listen. Be careful who you talk to and what you say. Don’t go into any unoccupied rooms with anyone. Drink only bottled water with the top still screwed on—”
“All right. I’ve got it. Avoid date rape and date rape drugs.” She placed her hand on his arm. “I’ll be wary.”
“Yes. Good.” She could never be wary enough to satisfy him. After all,
he
knew she was wearing a garter belt and a lace thong.
he
knew she was wearing a garter belt and a lace thong.
As they reached the top and the lights of the château reached out to encompass them, she glanced at him. Once. Twice. “You’ve got my lipstick all over your mouth,” she whispered frantically.
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