Читать книгу Timeless - Daisy Banks - Страница 7

Chapter 3

Magnus woke to splashes of rain down the window, and the terrifying realization he’d traveled. His head ached and thumped. His body lusted painfully in the depths of his groin, and she’d escaped him. Delicious as she’d appeared in the dream, the shock at finding her there shook through him, and that he’d scented her, a dizzy explosion of delight tortured his wolf senses and left him trembling. How had it happened?

He closed his eyes and enjoyed the memory of her hair sweeping over her shoulders, the odd golden splatter of a freckle on the expanse of lusciously scented milk-pale skin. Mmm... Blissful. The dip of her waist had beckoned him to lay his head on her, the ripe fragrance she’d exuded had urged him to get closer, and he’d pressed himself tight up against her. To experience the touch of her skin had nearly been enough to send him over the edge, he was so hot for her. Now, that would be an expense of spirit he could ill afford.

Reining in the rampant lust, he tried to force himself to analyze events. He’d not traveled in that way since...

Apparently, his best effort to dismiss her from his thoughts hadn’t worked. He’d not intended to go to her in sleep. Shock washed over him in steady, rising ripples. She’d entered his dream, called on him for his attentions. Just like that, with as little as a flick of her painted fingernails, she’d commanded him to appear. Impossible. Only Julia had ever been able to lure him to her in such a way.

Unlikely, improbable, but no matter what he thought about it, the dream had happened. And he’d gone to her in his alter form, as the beast, a thing unknown before. The girl had been terrified. Her sheer fear told him she’d no clue what she’d done to call him. Unlike Julia, Miss Armstrong unwittingly dabbled in dangerous waters. Yet even Julia hadn’t dared to beckon the beast he hid within. He rose from the bed, walked into the shower and stood beneath it.

But he’d scented desire, power, need, and the unmistakable lure of a female he’d obey. He could scent her still. Fragrant, sweet, beckoning him to take her, fill her, follow her every command. Running his fingers through his hair, he fought to forget the dream, and flipped the shower on. He had to be honest with himself, if with no one else. Miss Armstrong was the sexiest woman he’d met in decades. No one, not even Julia, had offered him the hope of so much.

He poured some shampoo and lathered his hair. Centuries had passed since anyone had aroused the need to mate as Miss Armstrong did, or as Julia once had. Closing his eyes to find her again, he leaned his head against the shower wall while the hot water coursed over him.

Her smooth rounded buttocks...her skin, glistening, satiny and pressed tight against him, the aroma of female, ripe and lush, raised the once-familiar sweet sensation. The delicate beauty of her body had teased at him as she’d slipped away in her fear, and he’d weaved and undulated, slid around her to grab another dose of the exquisite torture. Soft smoothness he dared to lick, cool yet warm, and the scent of her had filled his senses to the breaking point. All of it flooded back through him, and the shackles of control broke. A guttural cry tore from him and orgasm took him.

Once his breathing slowed, hanging his head, he let the water pour over him, cleanse him, and tried to still the image of her in his mind. The pleasure she brought, unlike so many of his past experiences, wasn’t from the enticement of her fear, nor his temporary moon-stoked lust for blood.

No, it was her sheer force of will. How? He draped a towel around his waist, rubbed another over his hair. Who and what was the delicious Miss Armstrong? He could eat her. What will did she have to overcome his?

Perhaps she was another Julia.

Impossible. Maybe he’d simply gotten lazy. Or desperate.

He dressed, his skin so sensitized the shirt rasped at his nipples. Holy gods, what had this wench done to him?

Down in the kitchen, he made coffee and sipped as he sat at the massive table. When he set his cup on the white scrubbed board, the sound echoed. There were two possible routes he could go in dealing with Miss Armstrong. Leave, and wait until no scent of her called to him anymore. Alternately, he could follow where she led. Dreams would do; he’d no need for this to become flesh on flesh. Their dream world offered the perfect venue, where he could take up her challenge in his own form. He’d enough control to make sure he didn’t return to her as the beast, surely. The old impossible question nagged, tore, clawed at him and as ever, any answers could not be found.

From his earliest youth, he’d known he was a being apart. How many had he watched grow, age, wither and die? Only once had he given in to the emotional call, and... The disaster of his love for Julia reached up like a hard hand and slapped his face. Did he need anything more to tell him he must live this way? He would be alone for the millennia it took for his spirit to succumb to the rules of the universe in which he had the misfortune to live. Downing the rest of the coffee, he considered whether he ought to control the need flowing so hot in his blood with medication. He’d done it before, and the opium had freed him from much of the pain.

No. He paced out of the kitchen, headed from habit up to his study. Something about this sudden invasion, from so intriguing a woman, made him want to go all the way, find out how this beautiful jewel among the flotsam of humanity had come to him. Could she be the savior he’d once dreamed Julia was? What might happen, when he dreamed tonight?

At his desk, he pulled open the console of his computer and saw the e-mail from Miss S. Armstrong. S, what did it stand for? Sam? Sarah? Sexy? Screw me? He’d not be surprised at any or all of those.

As he’d asked, she’d suggested three possible dates for meetings regarding the film shoot, which she’d scheduled for the beginning of November. At least, he’d made his point. He studied the screen. The desire to see her again in the flesh made his mouth dry. Denial proved a mere folly, useless. She’d invaded his world. Now there must be some reckoning between them.

He hit Reply and wrote Miss S. Armstrong an invitation for a second visit on either Tuesday or Thursday next week, larding it with the suggestion she might wish to view more of the grounds which could be suitable for the film shoot, on a better, drier day. Moreover, he’d like to discuss... What would he like to discuss? The way her eyes gleamed and called him, how she aroused his body with her luscious fragrant appeal. How he’d love to... His erection throbbed.

No. Concentrate on the damn email. He’d like to give her the opportunity of viewing both the dining room, which she hadn’t seen on her last visit, and the small private chapel.

Yours... He shook his head. Best regards... Not enough. He needed something to pique her interest, lure her to him, and deleted the humdrum phrase.

You will like what you see, he wrote instead.

The words flew from his fingers, and before he could stop himself, he hit Send. The bait was laid. To still the need for more of her, he took a long walk in the damp gardens.

Today was one of those unusual days when the moon, a pale washed-out splotch, hovered in the sky some way from the sun. The wretched thing. How far was it from full? At least another two weeks would pass before he let the beast take all his control from him. Then he’d chain himself in the darkest recess of the cellar, or give in to the sheer lust for blood, and kill. Over the years, he’d tried both methods and satisfaction came only in one way.

If she came to the house next week, it was well before his savage need would make him the monster in truth.

The housekeeper had left his lunch in the study, as he usually ate there. On his return, he found his appetite for food gone. He checked his email. Nothing from her, and he thumped his fist on the roll top desk.

The email program running in the background, he continued his other research activities. Hope shot through him with the irritating little bling announcing an email delivered. He opened it immediately. Not from Miss Armstrong.

“Bloody hell, woman! Answer your damn mail.”

He closed the message from the local garden center whose staff replaced the floral displays at the front of his house twice each year. Right now, he didn’t care if the winter display had a focus on red or orange.

By seven, he’d given up, refused the meal Mrs. Tyson offered before she left for the night, and stared at a Carrara marble statue on his computer screen without really seeing it. When Miss S. Armstrong’s reply came, he answered it and agreed Tuesday next week would be fine. Best Regards,

Magnus Johansson.

Only as he looked at the small box claiming sent mail, did he realize she’d responded. He’d won himself another day and a chance to find out more about the delightful, delicious Miss Armstrong. “Can you run, honey?” he whispered into the darkened study where the night sky reflected the few lit lamps. “Of course you can, but not fast enough. I’m going to catch you tonight.”

Anticipation ticked with his heartbeat as he lay down to sleep. Tonight, he’d lead the dream and find her.

* * * *

Sian sank into the bath and let the heat soothe her tired muscles. She’d spent the whole day on the computer, worked until her shoulders ached. Even though she’d gotten up two or three times, the long list detailing every tiny movement on a running order for Richard and the others, for the band and the girls who’d appear in the film, had taken a heavy toll. And she was sick of Gothic. Laying her head on a comfortable bath pillow, she tilted her neck from side to side and closed her eyes. “Give me a beach to laze on,” she murmured. “Ohh.”

The beach stretched out for miles, pale sands smoothed up to gray cliffs where breaking waves pounded. The setting sun spilled rose highlights over the waves, golden splashes of color smeared into the end of day sky, where above, in brilliant, deepening azure, the first stars shone like pearls. To her left was a mass of tropical forest, and Count Johansson bounded from the luscious greenery. She gulped. Mr. Magnus Johansson. Six-foot-three, dark haired, muscular and nearly naked but for a pair of cut-off jeans, Count Johansson strode with the power of a hunting panther across the beach.

“Magnus?” she whispered the unfamiliar word, but couldn’t tear her gaze from his approach. His fast stride, long and purposeful, covered yards of the distance between them in a short snap of her rapid heartbeats, and when she took in the yellow flecks in his determined dark eyes, savage, raw energy gripped her.

She breathed out with a nervy squeak. If she stood here, there would be no way to stop what would happen next. There’d be sex, lots of it. The thick bulge of his erection imprisoned in the cut offs left her in no doubt. The immediate pulse of response between her thighs, insistent and demanding, made a silent plea.

Teeth gritted, she fought off the swell of desire and the sheer physical need for him. He’d find out she was no easy lay. Pivoting away, she dug her toes into the sand and thrust off, running fast. The lure of him called her back. A powerful enticement, but she ignored it. Pumping her thighs, she zigzagged over the sand, breathing fast. Could he catch her, a high school sprint champion?

He wanted her, but she’d outrun him. Grinning, she glanced over her shoulder. Eyes glittering, he ran, less than an arm’s length away.

Too close.

Magnus reached out for her, which stole a fraction from his pace, and she surged ahead. Desperate to win, she welcomed the flash of adrenaline through her muscles. A tingling explosion of power brought the swaying palm trees a lot closer and left the sound of his breathing behind.

Panting hard, she looked for him, but he’d gone. Crouched, on her hands and knees, she puffed and sucked in air. She ought to find the time to train more often. A fresh warmth rose in her chest. No doubt shamed in defeat, Count Johansson had gone back to his Gothic mausoleum. Disappointment stung her, but she squashed it. She’d not really wanted him to capture her. Heck, why would she want something that crazy? He’d get the message and figure out he couldn’t mess with her. “I’m not so easy to catch,” she said. “Ohh!”

“But you can’t run quick enough for long enough, can you?” he said, breath hot on the back of her neck. The fresh, citrus cologne he used surrounded her. He yanked her toward him with one muscular arm that gripped tight around her midriff. A swift haul in, and her feet dangled for a second. Excitement rushed down her spine and a flush of desire pooled in her loins. The male scent of him filled her, drove her heartbeat to a rare wild rhythm and set her nipples throbbing into hot rigid tips, so anxious was she for his first touch on her breasts. A soft, blissful groan stole from her at the warmth of his open mouth pressed against her throat. He sucked, hard.

“Oh God. Yes,” she said. Her knees buckled as he stroked his wide palm over her breasts, smoothed down to her hip over the flimsy sarong and licked up to her ear. She twisted in his embrace, turned to face him, lifted her arms around his neck, and hanging on tight, she pressed her body against his. Each place of contact was a flashpoint of sensation and the thick bulge in his cut-offs throbbed against her, a promise of everything she’d ever dreamed sex could be.

He held her so she must look up at him. Angling his head ready to kiss her, he wove his fingers through her hair and she opened her mouth to his, sucked his hot, probing tongue deep. Shudders of sensation poured through her.

More.

Unable to articulate the need, she moved her arm, enjoying the touch of his smooth chest beneath her fingers before she tugged at the button on the cut-off jeans, impatient to discover all of him.

Oh yes. Her thighs trembled in readiness for him to part them.

The scrap of sarong vanished at his insistent yank. Skin to heated skin against him, she whimpered in pleasure. Never had anything felt this right. He raked his hands through her hair, down her neck over her shoulders, stroked his strong palms firmly over her skin, raising goose bumps, and cupped her buttocks.

Groaning, he urged her closer still, so she ground herself against him, enticing him to find her center, the place his thick heat belonged. She’d won their race but wanted him to claim the prize, and clung, arms around his neck. Aching nipples pressed against his chest, she rolled her tongue around his, sucked him in deeper still as they kissed, wanting all of him.

Now. Be my love, be my man. Give it to me now.

Sand, gritty like sugar, welcomed her, and relaxing back, she hooked her thigh over his as he lay beside her. His moan encouraged her explorations. Smoothing her palm over the rigid length of his erection, she licked her lips, anticipating this solid velvet heat inside her. “Don’t wait,” she gasped, circling the tip of him, and sighed in relief at his touch between her legs.

He parted her folds, dipped two fingers deep inside her and rubbed her slickness against her needy clitoris until she cried out incoherent pleas for him.

“Yes, I need you,” he growled against her jaw as he rolled between her thighs. “I want you.”

“Now!”

“Forever.” The word bruised her cheek as he entered her and the remorseless surge of his blissful heat filled her. She latched her thighs high around his and matched him thrust for thrust, reveling in the power of him.

Biting his shoulder, tasting the salt of his sweat, she cried out in gasped, joyful moans. Orgasm built with each plunge he made inside her, provoking her senses to blistering pleasure. She buried her nails deep in his flesh as she crashed over the edge and dissolved in pulsing waves of delight.

“Yes!” he shouted, his cry of conquest shaking through her chest. His final shove buried him deep inside her and his hot flow soothed the trembles of her need.

* * * *

“Holy shit,” she groaned, and opened her eyes. The coolness of the water around her bathed the rage of heat between her thighs. “What the hell?”

White tiles and gleaming taps above the bath replaced tall cliffs and shimmering ocean. A choke started at the back of her throat, and she coughed it out as tears swelled. Tears of release, of confusion and rage spilled down her cheeks. Fantasies were one thing, she’d had some, but nothing like the archaic level of desire and sheer satisfaction she’d just experienced.

How could he? Swiping at tears, she dashed a hand over her face. How could he have been there? Done that to her? They’d barely spent an hour together and he’d invaded her fantasies? And worse, in less than three days she’d have to look him in the face and not betray that the best sex she’d ever thought of had been with him in a dream.

She rose from the bath, little trembles like earthquake aftershocks making her unsteady. Despite her cool skin, she glowed with sensation. She draped a towel over herself, and tried to ignore the way the cloth grated against her nipples. Standing on the bath mat, she forced her body, even her toes, to relax, and stared down at them. Small grains of sand were on the bath mat.

* * * *

Breathless, Magnus opened his eyes. Tremors still raced over his skin. The need for her had only just been fulfilled and she’d gone much too soon. The heady scent of her pleasure still clung to him. He’d have tasted, taken longer to savor each exquisite second, if he’d realized how incredible she could be. A moment of wonder took him. Had he controlled the dream? If he had, he’d have caught her sooner, spared himself the exertion of the run across the sands, not bothered with the sweetness of her kisses. No, like a fool he’d have had her as soon as he reached her. She’d taken over. That’s why she’d gone so soon. She’d commanded it all, from their first glance.

Magnificent.

He licked his lips slowly to try to recall the taste of hers, lifted his hands under the sheet in an effort to recapture the heavy warmth of her breasts cradled in his palms. The luscious sweetness of her as he’d plunged deep inside her could never be replicated. Her honeyed wetness tormented him. Hunger to take her in what might pass as reality ripped through him. Not since Julia had he known such a passion. Dreams weren’t enough. He wanted her here, needed to see her eyes filled with stars before they closed in pleasure, yearned to hear the breathy cries of abandonment she made in response to his rhythmic thrusts.

He threw the crumpled sheet back, rose and padded over to the window. “What have you done, my wanton Miss Armstrong? What have you done to us both?”

Shadows from the sliver of moonlight weaved in the courtyard below. Not yet near the half. There was time. Sheer exhaustion overtook the memory of her. He had to sleep. He must be ready for when they met again.