Authors: Christina Dodd
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Paranormal, #General
Storm of Shadows (31 page)
His mouth moved to the other nipple.
“Aaron,” she said again. She stroked his bottom, cheeks hollow and taut, then his thighs, athletic and sturdy.
His hand reached between her legs. His fingers pushed the thong aside and explored her, touching places only she—and he—had touched before.
She would do for him what he did for her.
She stroked his belly, taking pleasure in each muscular ripple. She cupped his testicles, marveling at the texture and the weight. Finally, as he stood frozen beneath her touch, she found his penis, silky, heated, with ridges and veins she wished she could see. He filled her hands, filled her fantasy of how he would ride her—with determination, and patience, and fire.
Taking her down to the floor, he rolled her under him. The down-filled coats crinkled beneath them. He pushed her panties down her legs, freed her from the garter belt and stockings. He opened her thighs, and kissed her as he had done in the limo—deeply, using his tongue to penetrate her body, rolling her clit between his lips like a piece of hard candy. The sensations she had experienced earlier with such caution and wonder hovered close to the surface, and having discovered them once, the ache of passion returned easily, bringing her heartbeat up, wringing small moans from her throat.
“Now . . . I’m going to satisfy you in a way no other man could ever do.” His low, husky, confident tone made her toes curl with anticipation.
Then somehow, everything changed.
He changed.
He was no longer a weight on her, no longer a mouth that tasted her, no longer hands that caressed her.
Instead, he was over her. He was around her. He kissed her lips, her throat, her fingers, her toes. His embrace was a breeze, stroking her belly, her shoulders, her thighs, her spine, so lightly that every nerve clenched in response. He molded her breasts, tasted her nipples, her navel, her clit. He brushed her hair away from her face and slid subtle fingers around the shell of her ear. Blindly she tried to grasp him, to hold him, but he was everywhere, and he was nowhere. He lifted her legs and slid between them, smooth as silk and warm as water, and as he did, sensation flowed along her bottom and between her buttocks, then surged into her passage as smoothly as a spring torrent. As the heat and strength of him touched the deepest part of her womb, she couldn’t restrain her small cries of desperation and pleasure, nor the movements of her hips as her body demanded to be filled. He grew inside her, longer, thicker, stretching her, making her wild and damp with need. She pressed her hands behind her head and against the closet wall, in suspense, desperate, straining to have more—more heat, more passion, more . . . him.
“Rosamund.” His voice sounded deep and rich in her ears. “Give yourself. Give everything. Move for me. Breathe for me. Be part of me . . . forever.”
His urging was all she needed to push her over the edge. Her blood thundered in her veins. Her orgasm caught her, lifted her, gasping, struggling, in anguish and in joy.
And suddenly, Aaron was there, a man’s weight on top of her: muscles and sweat and need. He moved forcefully on her, thrusting deep, groaning with need, and through the glory of her orgasm, she felt the power and the pain of this man inside her. She cried out, startled, but he held her hips and moved her with him, and her next climax roared through her, sweeping away the last remnants of her innocence.
He groaned in magnificient agony, caught in the glory of her body, his body, clasped in the primitive embrace that welded them into one.
Wrapping her legs around him, she lifted herself, opened herself, gave herself to him in every way possible.
This was it. This was unity. This was love.
This was all she had ever dreamed of, hoped for, imagined.
As he finished, subsided, and slipped beside her to hold her in his arms, somewhere in the depths of the closet, her phone rang.
A text message.
He grew tense in her embrace. “What is it?”
Without a single thought, she lied. “It’s my alarm. I can’t figure out how to reset it.”
He chuckled and relaxed. “I’ll do it for you . . . later.” He lightly kissed her forehead, her cheek, her lips.
“Much, much later,” she murmured, and kissed him back.
Before she slipped into slumber, she thought about Lance, and how unfair she had been to him, and that she would have to tell him the truth about loving Aaron.
But she would worry about that much, much later, too.
Because right now, all that mattered to her was Aaron. Being with Aaron. Holding Aaron. Loving Aaron.
Chapter 31
A
aron and Rosamund slept, huddled together in a stack of coats in Louis Fournier ’s closet, and when Aaron woke, he smiled into the darkness. Perhaps this hadn’t been the most elegant of lovemakings, and certainly it wasn’t the most comfortable, but as long as he lived, he would treasure these moments with Rosamund. Here, in the deepest dark, he had become his other self, his dark mist. He had caressed her everywhere at once, given her pleasure inside and out, until the moment when his climax swept all control away, and he became a man once more.
aron and Rosamund slept, huddled together in a stack of coats in Louis Fournier ’s closet, and when Aaron woke, he smiled into the darkness. Perhaps this hadn’t been the most elegant of lovemakings, and certainly it wasn’t the most comfortable, but as long as he lived, he would treasure these moments with Rosamund. Here, in the deepest dark, he had become his other self, his dark mist. He had caressed her everywhere at once, given her pleasure inside and out, until the moment when his climax swept all control away, and he became a man once more.
Now he gently woke her. “Rosamund. We have to go.”
She moaned and stretched as sensuously as a cat. She kissed his shoulders and murmured, “I just went to sleep.”
“Two hours ago. It’s past midnight. We need to go.”
“No. Not yet. I want you again.”
“You, my little virgin, are through for the evening.” But he knew that in the dark, he wore a stupid grin. She was warm and satisfied, and he had done that. He had made her first time good. “Besides, we have a prophecy to chase.”
“Oh. No. Darling.” Her fingers slid through his hair at the back of his neck. “Another few hours won’t hurt anything.”
He helped her sit up. “We’re not going to get another few hours in Louis Fournier’s guest closet. Somebody’s going to find us.” Remembering Pinhead Number Two’s reptilian looks provided Aaron with a shot of adrenaline. He covered her and stood up. “In fact, we’re running on borrowed time now.” He groped his way to the door. “Close your eyes. I’m going to turn on the light.”
“Okay.” She sounded sulky.
He flicked the switch and glanced her way. She was nothing but a tumble of carrot-colored hair peeking out of a pile of coats.
Good. She was concealed.
In a series of rapid forays through the chest of drawers, he found them both jeans, tops, and socks. He managed to locate a pair of boyleg panties he thought would fit her—although it went against his inclination to let her wear underwear at all—and after flipping through a bunch of bras and realizing he couldn’t begin to guess what would be comfortable, he grabbed an exercise bra that involved no snaps or cups, just pure elastic that pulled over the head.
“What are you doing?” She peeked at him from beneath the coats.
“Being a guy. I mean, I understand about sizes, but how do you women know which bra to use when?” He tossed her the clothes. “Do you think you can dress without showing any skin?”
“Sure. It’s like camping in Alaska. Duck under the covers and rumble around. It simply has to be done with care.”
He dressed, found a pair of boots that fit and laced them on, and all the while he watched as the coats rose and fell, twisted and flipped, and when she rose, Rosamund had once more been transformed. No longer the prim librarian, no longer the oblivious man-trap, she was now Rosamund, the adventurer, and she fit this role as easily as the others. The first time he’d seen her, he’d placed her in the niche of a dreamer. Then he’d seen the sadness she used as a barrier between her and the world, and he wondered what had broken her spirit.
Now the sadness was vanquished; her face was alight with eagerness for life, with passion for him, with love as yet undeclared.
Helpless to stop himself, he strode across the closet and kissed her.
And when he did, the lights blinked out.
They pulled apart, startled.
“Did you do that?” she asked.
“No.” More important, rich men like Fournier owned generators and power companies. They didn’t have power outages, and he didn’t like what this might portend.
“Stay here.” As he walked to the door, his mind leaped from one scenario to another.
Fujimoto had found him.
Louis was playing games.
The closet was monitored by the Pinhead Security Team, and they were moving in for the kill.
The Others had tracked them down.
Shoving the coat away from the bottom of the door, he knelt and listened, straining to hear what was happening beyond the closet. He heard distant screams from the ballroom. Running feet. Men shouting.
“Oh, no.” She had heard them, too.
“Rosamund, I don’t care how, but find some boots that fit and a coat, and put them on.” He knocked out orders like a general. “I’m going out to recon noiter.”
She comprehended the urgency in his voice all too well. They had lingered when they should have gone.
But God, how sweet this interlude had been.
She fumbled for her glasses, found them on a shelf above the coatrack and put them on, then groped her way toward the pile of shoes on the floor. “I’ll find gloves and hats for us both, too. Did you find a coat?”
He didn’t answer.
The lights blinked on again.
She glanced around. Stared.
He was gone.
“Aaron?” She hadn’t heard him open the door and shut it behind him. Had she really been so focused on those boots? “Aaron . . .” Apparently he’d somehow slipped away.
Very well. She would wait for him, and question him later.
Meanwhile, the light made it easier to find her shoe size, and within a few minutes she was ready to go, and had put aside down-filled coats for them both. She found a travel pack, too, similar to the one she’d worn from New York to Casablanca and then to Paris, and she transferred Bala’s Stone from her purse to the pack. She was strapping it around her waist when there was a light tap on the door.
She took a quick, frightened breath.
Aaron stepped in and shut the door behind him. She’d never seen him look so bleak, but before she could question him, he said in clipped tones, “We’re going to make a run for the car Fournier left us. The house must be running on a generator, or maybe there’s a fire somewhere, because the light out there is misty and dark.”
“Okay. That’s weird.” She was referring to the fact that he wasn’t telling her what they were screaming about out there.
Aaron misunderstood her. “The smoke or whatever it is makes it hard to see, and we want to get out as quickly as possible. Walk in front of me. Don’t talk to anyone. The people are panicked—they won’t notice us at all.”
“I hope not.” Something awful had happened, and Aaron wanted them out of here.
“We’re heading for the north entrance. Remember, I’ll be directly behind you.” He smiled at her, but it was a lopsided smile that only slightly eased the severity of his expression. “Listen to my instructions, and we’ll get through all right. Are you ready?”
“Yes.” And scared, but now wasn’t the time to admit it.
He stepped behind her. “Open the door now, and remember—walk steadily, don’t talk to anyone, and don’t look around at me.”
She put her hand on the knob and opened the door. As soon as she did, it was exactly as he said. A mist covered her vision, and it was as if she were looking through a screen or walking through smoke.
Aaron spoke directly into her ear. “To the right.”
It felt as if he was all around her, touching her everywhere as he had done when they made love. But now, he hurried her along as she walked down the corridor, away from the commotion in the ballroom. In grim silence, guards were running toward the noise. One guy, ugly and cold in a way that made the hair lift on her neck, walked along shouting, “Shut down the house. Shut down the house!” Guests had broken through the velvet rope, and were streaming away from the ballroom, babbling, “They say he’s dead.” “He is dead.” “They’re going to kill us all.”
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