Grim Shadows
Page 80
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Come for me.”
He slipped his hand around her hip, to plunder her damp curls. His middle finger grazed the tight bud once, twice . . . She gasped for a breath. Jerked. Clutched around his cock until he groaned and thrust harder. And then . . .
Yes.
There it was: the bewildered, broken wail. He pushed her through the orgasm, hips pumping, finger rubbing her clitoris until her cries calmed and she pulsed around him. Thrust her hand over his to signal that she couldn’t take any more.
A possessive joy rang inside his chest as warmth gathered at the base of his spine. Christ, his balls were ready to explode. Picking up speed, he drove into her with hellbent purpose, ready to join her. And, oh, God—no.
No wonder it felt so good. He’d forgotten the goddamn condom.
How didn’t matter. He just had to pull out. Now.
Acting on some crazed, feral impulse, he groaned and jerked himself out of her wet heat—a fucking saint, he was—and grabbed her arm. He vaguely heard a surprised moan as he urged her onto her knees, one hand on the back of her head. Christ, she had every right to hate him for this, but he just couldn’t stop as he took himself in hand and prodded the tip of his cock against her mouth.
“Hadley,” he begged. He was a dog, and he knew it, but please just . . .
Her lips parted. Wide brown eyes locked with his as she closed her mouth around him and sucked.
His mind emptied. Head tipped back. Ecstasy rushed forward. He thrust into her mouth and came.
And came.
Gods above, it felt like he was spilling his very soul into her. He shuddered, nearly losing his footing as he swayed over her, hand fisted in her hair. Christ! He could barely breathe. But as heady gratification pulsed in his veins, the outer edges of his world bled back into view. And with that, a slow, heavy shame moved into his chest.
Any second she’d push him away and tell him to go to hell. Any second. He was sure of it. So when she extracted him from her lips, he didn’t expect the loose, tender strokes from her hand. Or the light kiss on the tip of his cock that sent frantic tremors through his legs, intense enough to make him rock forward on his toes.
And when she finally released him, and pushed herself to her feet, he definitely did not expect the playful smile. Gods above, that smile! Wicked and shy, all at once. It bowled him over. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her head, repeating her name like a sacrament as they swayed together on unsteady legs.
“I don’t know what I was thinking. I forgot the condom,” he mumbled against the citrusy perfume of her hair. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.”
He lifted her face to his and said, in wonder, “You really aren’t.”
She shook her head.
He exhaled heavily, a stupid grin spreading across his face as he tucked himself into his pants and buttoned back up.
She tucked his shirt a little tighter. “And what’s more, it jostled a thought out of my brain.”
“Eh?” It jostled a lot of things in him, but thoughts weren’t one of them.
She explained. “When I was, well, bent over the glass, I kept thinking that there was something wrong with the third name.”
“And here I was, thinking I was transporting you to euphoric bliss.”
“Oh, you did. Believe me,” she said dreamily, a lusty satisfaction weighing down her eyelids. “But after, when you pulled me off the glass like some kind of violent marauder—”
He groaned.
“No need to be sorry. I rather enjoyed it. Quite a lot, actually,” she said with one brow cocked and a brief, sheepish smile. “But—”
“But?”
“I guess I had ‘clock’ on the brain, and your teasing me about my poor spelling skills, and I realized the problem with the name. Our interpretation of the pictograms wasn’t wrong. My mother misspelled the name.”
“She did?”
Hadley gripped the lapels of his jacket and spoke in an excited voice. “Lowe, I know exactly where the third canopic jar is, and it’s not anywhere near a grave.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
“IT’S NOT L-E-V-I-N-E. IT’S L-E-V-I-N. Five letters, not six.”
“Levin?” He studied her face, still a little dazed and stupid from the massive orgasm. “I don’t remember a Levin on the list.”
“That’s because there wasn’t one. But I was just reading an article in the Chronicle yesterday about all the movie theaters being built around San Francisco. Quite a few of them have been financed by the Levin brothers. Including the one in the Richmond District. The Alexandria. Pet project for Sammy Levin.”
“Why does that name ring a bell?”
“Because he shares an obsession.” She straightened the knot on his necktie. “We have one mojo bag left?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll need it. The newspaper mentioned a gala being held Sunday night. The owner’s trying to court Hollywood to film more pictures in San Francisco, and he’s putting his personal collection on display. Bet you anything we’ll find the Qebehsenuef jar there.”
Definitely worth a try.
And try, they did . . .
Early Sunday evening, Lowe held open the silver Packard’s passenger door and helped Hadley onto the curb, where other well-heeled gala attendees were gathered in front of the Alexandria Theater. Walking through lotus-topped columns, they stepped beneath the Egyptian-revival entrance and got in line near a ticket booth that was closed for the night—a tuxedoed man collected private invitations at the door. Nearby, reporters snapped photographs of a handsome couple—motion-picture stars, according to the buzzing chatter. But even the minor Hollywood dazzle couldn’t distract Lowe from the strange, prickling sensation that they were being watched. He’d used Velma’s last mojo bag, so they should be safely hidden. But he just couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.
He slipped his hand around her hip, to plunder her damp curls. His middle finger grazed the tight bud once, twice . . . She gasped for a breath. Jerked. Clutched around his cock until he groaned and thrust harder. And then . . .
Yes.
There it was: the bewildered, broken wail. He pushed her through the orgasm, hips pumping, finger rubbing her clitoris until her cries calmed and she pulsed around him. Thrust her hand over his to signal that she couldn’t take any more.
A possessive joy rang inside his chest as warmth gathered at the base of his spine. Christ, his balls were ready to explode. Picking up speed, he drove into her with hellbent purpose, ready to join her. And, oh, God—no.
No wonder it felt so good. He’d forgotten the goddamn condom.
How didn’t matter. He just had to pull out. Now.
Acting on some crazed, feral impulse, he groaned and jerked himself out of her wet heat—a fucking saint, he was—and grabbed her arm. He vaguely heard a surprised moan as he urged her onto her knees, one hand on the back of her head. Christ, she had every right to hate him for this, but he just couldn’t stop as he took himself in hand and prodded the tip of his cock against her mouth.
“Hadley,” he begged. He was a dog, and he knew it, but please just . . .
Her lips parted. Wide brown eyes locked with his as she closed her mouth around him and sucked.
His mind emptied. Head tipped back. Ecstasy rushed forward. He thrust into her mouth and came.
And came.
Gods above, it felt like he was spilling his very soul into her. He shuddered, nearly losing his footing as he swayed over her, hand fisted in her hair. Christ! He could barely breathe. But as heady gratification pulsed in his veins, the outer edges of his world bled back into view. And with that, a slow, heavy shame moved into his chest.
Any second she’d push him away and tell him to go to hell. Any second. He was sure of it. So when she extracted him from her lips, he didn’t expect the loose, tender strokes from her hand. Or the light kiss on the tip of his cock that sent frantic tremors through his legs, intense enough to make him rock forward on his toes.
And when she finally released him, and pushed herself to her feet, he definitely did not expect the playful smile. Gods above, that smile! Wicked and shy, all at once. It bowled him over. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her head, repeating her name like a sacrament as they swayed together on unsteady legs.
“I don’t know what I was thinking. I forgot the condom,” he mumbled against the citrusy perfume of her hair. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.”
He lifted her face to his and said, in wonder, “You really aren’t.”
She shook her head.
He exhaled heavily, a stupid grin spreading across his face as he tucked himself into his pants and buttoned back up.
She tucked his shirt a little tighter. “And what’s more, it jostled a thought out of my brain.”
“Eh?” It jostled a lot of things in him, but thoughts weren’t one of them.
She explained. “When I was, well, bent over the glass, I kept thinking that there was something wrong with the third name.”
“And here I was, thinking I was transporting you to euphoric bliss.”
“Oh, you did. Believe me,” she said dreamily, a lusty satisfaction weighing down her eyelids. “But after, when you pulled me off the glass like some kind of violent marauder—”
He groaned.
“No need to be sorry. I rather enjoyed it. Quite a lot, actually,” she said with one brow cocked and a brief, sheepish smile. “But—”
“But?”
“I guess I had ‘clock’ on the brain, and your teasing me about my poor spelling skills, and I realized the problem with the name. Our interpretation of the pictograms wasn’t wrong. My mother misspelled the name.”
“She did?”
Hadley gripped the lapels of his jacket and spoke in an excited voice. “Lowe, I know exactly where the third canopic jar is, and it’s not anywhere near a grave.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
“IT’S NOT L-E-V-I-N-E. IT’S L-E-V-I-N. Five letters, not six.”
“Levin?” He studied her face, still a little dazed and stupid from the massive orgasm. “I don’t remember a Levin on the list.”
“That’s because there wasn’t one. But I was just reading an article in the Chronicle yesterday about all the movie theaters being built around San Francisco. Quite a few of them have been financed by the Levin brothers. Including the one in the Richmond District. The Alexandria. Pet project for Sammy Levin.”
“Why does that name ring a bell?”
“Because he shares an obsession.” She straightened the knot on his necktie. “We have one mojo bag left?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll need it. The newspaper mentioned a gala being held Sunday night. The owner’s trying to court Hollywood to film more pictures in San Francisco, and he’s putting his personal collection on display. Bet you anything we’ll find the Qebehsenuef jar there.”
Definitely worth a try.
And try, they did . . .
Early Sunday evening, Lowe held open the silver Packard’s passenger door and helped Hadley onto the curb, where other well-heeled gala attendees were gathered in front of the Alexandria Theater. Walking through lotus-topped columns, they stepped beneath the Egyptian-revival entrance and got in line near a ticket booth that was closed for the night—a tuxedoed man collected private invitations at the door. Nearby, reporters snapped photographs of a handsome couple—motion-picture stars, according to the buzzing chatter. But even the minor Hollywood dazzle couldn’t distract Lowe from the strange, prickling sensation that they were being watched. He’d used Velma’s last mojo bag, so they should be safely hidden. But he just couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.
