Grave Phantoms
Page 64
“Not very well.” But what he said with his eyes was: I adore even the less-than-admirable things about you.
She tried to respond, but he was taking off his suit jacket, and she was suddenly very, very nervous. Her throat wasn’t working correctly. She didn’t seem to be able to swallow, and her mouth was dry.
He removed the leather shoulder holster that held his gun and stepped closer. He didn’t take his eyes off her as his hand went to his necktie. He wriggled it back and forth to loosen it and then tugged until it fell apart and slid off his neck. After tossing it aside, he opened the top two buttons of his shirt and dipped his head to speak into her ear. “I know you’re nervous,” he said sympathetically, but with no hint of compromise. His nose grazed a few strands of hair, and that tiny motion sent a single chill down her neck, like a lone scout riding out to survey a battlefield.
His hand cupped the side of her face, and he spoke in a low, calm voice. “Just because we came all the way out here doesn’t mean you can’t change your mind. If you want me to take you back home, tell me now.”
“No,” she said softly. “I haven’t changed my mind.”
“Do you still want me?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
He placed a small kiss on her temple and released her face to remove the silver clip from her hair. He threw it on their growing pile of discarded clothing and combed her hair out with his fingers, sending more chills through her. A little warmth sparked low in her belly. Her shoulders relaxed.
“This is what’s going to happen,” he said in voice that sounded like the low purr of a big cat. Like someone who was calculating, very certain of himself, and unconcerned with trying to hide it. “I need to be in charge now. You’ve got to let go and give me the reins. You’ve got to trust me. Whatever I say, you do.”
“Are we pretending?” she said in hushed voice.
“No,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “No more pretending.”
She was confused. “Why, then?”
He exhaled slowly through his nose and made a small contemplative noise in the back of his throat. “I can’t explain it, but whatever things are like outside this room . . . right now, when it’s just us, I just need to be in control. And I think maybe you need that, too.”
Maybe she did, because she thought she might just understand what he meant. Out there, he conceded and compromised every day. Bit his tongue when he wanted to speak. Bowed his head when he wanted to fight. Out there, he did it because he had to. Alone with her, he wanted to be himself.
As for her, and what she needed . . . well, the idea of yielding to him was oddly pleasing. A relief, even. And a bit thrilling. “All right,” she said.
“Yes?”
“Tell me what you want me to do.”
Dark pupils dilated. He nodded once, the matter settled, and stuffed his hands in his pants pockets. The way he looked at her now was predatory. Startlingly so. She fought the urge to back away from him and felt her heart gallop inside her chest. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, and when he finally did, it staggered her.
“Take off your dress.”
TWENTY-TWO
They stood together for several moments, and he didn’t lower his gaze. Didn’t offer her a way out or ask if she wanted to change her mind again. No quarter whatsoever. The cottage was quiet but for the distant waves crashing against the cliff below the lighthouse and the crackle of wood in the heater.
“Take off your dress,” he repeated.
A little shudder went through her. He meant it.
And she meant to comply.
She pulled the top of her tunic dress over her head, unbuttoned the skirt, and let it drop in a puddle on his shoe. Goose bumps rippled over her arms. Her nipples pebbled beneath the silk of a shell pink step-in chemise that was lacy and frothy and very, very expensive—but not nearly enough armor to shield her from the intensity of his heavy gaze. Her head felt light. She wasn’t sure if she had the nerve to do this . . .
Until she heard the change in his breathing.
Her eyes dropped. An intimidating erection strained the front of his pants. Like an echo, heat bloomed between her thighs.
“Very good,” he said in a steady voice that had a new layer of huskiness that wasn’t there before. “Now the rest.”
She slipped off the outer silk garters at the tops of her stockings and wiggled off the elastic roll garters beneath; without support, pale pink silk slipped down her thighs and fell to her knees. Her fingers trembled as she bent to push them off her feet along with her heels.
When she stood, Bo undid the buttons on his vest and tossed it aside.
“Get those off for me.” He extended a cuff toward her as his free hand tugged the hem of his shirt from his belted pants. She unfastened a silver cuff link engraved with a dragon, a task that was both intimate and mindless, all at once. She was glad for it, because it settled her nerves. After repeating the process on his other cuff, she dropped both cuff links in his waiting hand.
He pocketed them. Rolled out of his shirt. Pulled his undershirt up his back and over his head. A slash of black hair swung over one eye. He pushed it back and unbuckled his belt and left the ends dangling like an invitation while he tugged off his shoes.
She surveyed the elegant bone and hard muscle of his body. The lines of his stitches were railroad tracks across his side. The cut was now a raised, reddened scar, slightly puffy and still smelling faintly of mint, but looking much better than Astrid expected. Velma’s magical poultice was a small miracle. Astrid longed to touch him—there, to make sure he was okay, and other places. She wanted to feel his skin beneath her fingers, but when she reached for him, he stopped her.
She tried to respond, but he was taking off his suit jacket, and she was suddenly very, very nervous. Her throat wasn’t working correctly. She didn’t seem to be able to swallow, and her mouth was dry.
He removed the leather shoulder holster that held his gun and stepped closer. He didn’t take his eyes off her as his hand went to his necktie. He wriggled it back and forth to loosen it and then tugged until it fell apart and slid off his neck. After tossing it aside, he opened the top two buttons of his shirt and dipped his head to speak into her ear. “I know you’re nervous,” he said sympathetically, but with no hint of compromise. His nose grazed a few strands of hair, and that tiny motion sent a single chill down her neck, like a lone scout riding out to survey a battlefield.
His hand cupped the side of her face, and he spoke in a low, calm voice. “Just because we came all the way out here doesn’t mean you can’t change your mind. If you want me to take you back home, tell me now.”
“No,” she said softly. “I haven’t changed my mind.”
“Do you still want me?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
He placed a small kiss on her temple and released her face to remove the silver clip from her hair. He threw it on their growing pile of discarded clothing and combed her hair out with his fingers, sending more chills through her. A little warmth sparked low in her belly. Her shoulders relaxed.
“This is what’s going to happen,” he said in voice that sounded like the low purr of a big cat. Like someone who was calculating, very certain of himself, and unconcerned with trying to hide it. “I need to be in charge now. You’ve got to let go and give me the reins. You’ve got to trust me. Whatever I say, you do.”
“Are we pretending?” she said in hushed voice.
“No,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “No more pretending.”
She was confused. “Why, then?”
He exhaled slowly through his nose and made a small contemplative noise in the back of his throat. “I can’t explain it, but whatever things are like outside this room . . . right now, when it’s just us, I just need to be in control. And I think maybe you need that, too.”
Maybe she did, because she thought she might just understand what he meant. Out there, he conceded and compromised every day. Bit his tongue when he wanted to speak. Bowed his head when he wanted to fight. Out there, he did it because he had to. Alone with her, he wanted to be himself.
As for her, and what she needed . . . well, the idea of yielding to him was oddly pleasing. A relief, even. And a bit thrilling. “All right,” she said.
“Yes?”
“Tell me what you want me to do.”
Dark pupils dilated. He nodded once, the matter settled, and stuffed his hands in his pants pockets. The way he looked at her now was predatory. Startlingly so. She fought the urge to back away from him and felt her heart gallop inside her chest. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, and when he finally did, it staggered her.
“Take off your dress.”
TWENTY-TWO
They stood together for several moments, and he didn’t lower his gaze. Didn’t offer her a way out or ask if she wanted to change her mind again. No quarter whatsoever. The cottage was quiet but for the distant waves crashing against the cliff below the lighthouse and the crackle of wood in the heater.
“Take off your dress,” he repeated.
A little shudder went through her. He meant it.
And she meant to comply.
She pulled the top of her tunic dress over her head, unbuttoned the skirt, and let it drop in a puddle on his shoe. Goose bumps rippled over her arms. Her nipples pebbled beneath the silk of a shell pink step-in chemise that was lacy and frothy and very, very expensive—but not nearly enough armor to shield her from the intensity of his heavy gaze. Her head felt light. She wasn’t sure if she had the nerve to do this . . .
Until she heard the change in his breathing.
Her eyes dropped. An intimidating erection strained the front of his pants. Like an echo, heat bloomed between her thighs.
“Very good,” he said in a steady voice that had a new layer of huskiness that wasn’t there before. “Now the rest.”
She slipped off the outer silk garters at the tops of her stockings and wiggled off the elastic roll garters beneath; without support, pale pink silk slipped down her thighs and fell to her knees. Her fingers trembled as she bent to push them off her feet along with her heels.
When she stood, Bo undid the buttons on his vest and tossed it aside.
“Get those off for me.” He extended a cuff toward her as his free hand tugged the hem of his shirt from his belted pants. She unfastened a silver cuff link engraved with a dragon, a task that was both intimate and mindless, all at once. She was glad for it, because it settled her nerves. After repeating the process on his other cuff, she dropped both cuff links in his waiting hand.
He pocketed them. Rolled out of his shirt. Pulled his undershirt up his back and over his head. A slash of black hair swung over one eye. He pushed it back and unbuckled his belt and left the ends dangling like an invitation while he tugged off his shoes.
She surveyed the elegant bone and hard muscle of his body. The lines of his stitches were railroad tracks across his side. The cut was now a raised, reddened scar, slightly puffy and still smelling faintly of mint, but looking much better than Astrid expected. Velma’s magical poultice was a small miracle. Astrid longed to touch him—there, to make sure he was okay, and other places. She wanted to feel his skin beneath her fingers, but when she reached for him, he stopped her.
