Charon's Crossing (A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novel) (39 page)

"I wanted so badly to make love to you yesterday, Kathryn, but I knew it was wrong. That was why I left you."

There were tears on her lashes, but she was smiling.

"How could what we both wanted be wrong?" she asked softly.

Matthew shook his head. "I should never have let you become so important to me. Don't you see, this can only end badly?"

"It can end here," Kathryn whispered, "where we want to be, in each other's arms."

She caught his hair in her hands, dragged his mouth to hers and silenced any protest he might have made with a kiss. For a long moment, he didn't respond. Then he groaned, swung her into his arms and carried her up the stairs and to her bedroom.

He kicked the door shut behind him. The howling of the wind, and the grey shadows of the room, closed around them.

Slowly, so slowly, Matthew lowered Kathryn to her feet. A moan broke from her throat as her body traveled the length of his. Was that his heart racing, or was it hers? The hardness and heat of him burned through the layers of fabric that separated them, scalding her with desire.

She felt the hard press of his erection against heir belly. The sheathed power of his flesh made her heartbeat quicken, but not with fear. She moved against him, slowly and deliberately, pressing her softness against his male rigidity, shuddering with delight when he groaned again before crushing her mouth under his. His hands cupped her bottom, seeking the shape of her through her wet clothing, and then he drew back, his eyes hot on hers.

"I want to see you," he whispered.

His eyes held hers while he undid the buttons down the front of her shirt and eased it back from her shoulders. He waited, prolonging the moment like a man with a special gift on Christmas morning. Then he looked down to feast his eyes on what he had unwrapped.

Her skin was the same pale gold as the rest of her, though it seemed dark against the whiteness of her chemise. The chemise itself was like none he had ever seen, feminine and lacy but covering only her breasts. He feasted his eyes on the proud, lush rise of them. Then, slowly, he lifted his hands and cupped their weight.

Kathryn made a soft, breathless sound of pleasure that shot straight into his loins.

"Ah, sweetheart," he murmured, "how beautiful you are."

He bent his head, gently kissed the curve of each breast, closed his mouth around the lace-enclosed flesh until she was moaning with pleasure, until it was no longer enough to imagine the sweetness of her naked flesh against his tongue. But the front closure of the chemise almost defeated him.

She gave a soft, very feminine laugh.

"Wait," she whispered.

Her hands joined his, the lace parted, and her breasts tumbled into his hands. He caressed them, paid them homage with his lips and teeth, and all the while Kathryn was sighing his name in a husky, sweet voice that made the blood pound in his loins.

Go slowly, he told himself, slowly, man. You have waited so long for her... don't spoil it now.

His hands dropped to the abbreviated pantaloons she favored. Like the chemise, they gave him a bit of trouble until he figured out how to undo the row of tiny metal teeth that served as a closure.

But the delay was good. It was what he needed, if he were to retain any sort of control over himself. He wanted to spin these moments out until they were as fine and slender as silk thread, to watch Kathryn's lovely face as he slowly divested her of her clothing, for he knew even as this began that it must end.

This night, and the storm raging between them, were what he would carry with him through all eternity.

At last, she stood before him naked.

And oh, she was so beautiful.

If only he knew the words to tell her exactly how beautiful she was, but he was not a man of poetry, he was a man who had lived his life on the seas. Would she understand if he said that her skin was as silken as the moon reflected on a still ocean? That her hair fell over her shoulders like the waving grasses in the southern seas? That her eyes were stars in a midnight sky and her face and body surely those of the Sirens that had lured the ancient mariners?

In the end, all he could do was whisper her name.

"Kathryn," he said thickly, "my Kathryn..."

He reached out, watching her face as he stroked his fingers lightly, lightly over her nipples, then over her belly to her thighs. When he saw what his touch did to her, it was almost his undoing. He could feel his control slipping, feel the urgency to possess her sweeping through his muscles.

Quickly, he pulled his linen shirt over his head, kicked off his boots and stepped out of his trousers. He saw her eyes widen at the sight of him, hard and swollen and aroused.

He took her hand, brought it to his throbbing flesh, shuddered at her touch.

"Kiss me," she whispered, and he did, lifting her off the ground, his lips parting hers until he could taste her heat. She made those little sounds in the back of her throat, the ones that were driving him crazy, and laced her fingers into his hair.

God, he was drowning in pleasure.

He had wanted her for so long. Not just since he had stumbled into her dreams but since the moment the world had begun, since the planet and the heavens were nothing but whirling bits of matter.

He'd told himself it was not so, that his hunger for her had been fired by his years of celibacy. He'd told himself that what beat in his veins was simply the need of the flesh, that his cock, like any man's, was a divining rod blindly seeking entry wherever it might find it.

He had told himself all that and more but all of it had been lies. He knew it now, as he pressed kisses to Kathryn's face and throat, as he inhaled the scent of her, rain and flowers and all life's treasures. He knew that what he felt for her he had never felt for any woman and would never feel again.

He clasped her face between his hands and kissed her, his tongue slipping between her lips and moving against hers. His need was fierce but he fought to be tender. He was a mass of contradictions altogether. He wanted to ravish Kathryn and to gentle her; to have her vulnerable beneath him and to hold her close in his arms; to ride her until she was sobbing and wild, then soothe her with kisses.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and stood her between his legs. He bent his head to her breast and drew the sweet, beaded tip into his mouth.

"Matthew," she whispered. Her voice was high and breathy and filled with desire. He had never heard a sound so sweet.

He drew his hand down along her hip, over her gently rounded belly. His fingers danced along her thigh, Crushed the curls at the juncture of her thighs.

"Matthew," she said again, on a harsh, indrawn breath.

He cupped her hips in his hands and kissed his way down to her belly. The scent of her arousal rose to his nostrils and he groaned, for no perfume had ever smelled as exquisite. He palmed her buttocks; he drew her closer and his mouth began to trail lower on her flesh.

She gave a little whimper of distress and jerked back.

"Matthew, don't."

He looked up. Was she going to ask him to stop?

No. The flush in her cheeks, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts, were more eloquent than words. Her desire for him was as deep as his was for her.

She tried to smile. "I'm not... I just can't..."

Sweet heaven. She was embarrassed!

The realization made his throat tighten. He was no stranger to displays of modesty in the boudoir. There were some women who thought a bit of maidenly coyness heightened a man's pleasure and perhaps it did for some, but he had never been much affected by pretense.

But this was no pretense.

Kathryn was blushing from head to toe, as if no man had ever looked his fill before. As if no man had ever... had ever...

Nay, it was impossible. She had told him that the women of her time were not shy about taking pleasure. She would surely have been with other men...

The thought of her with anyone else was like a knife, driving into his gut.

But it didn't matter. Tonight, he would erase the memories of any other man. He would burn himself not just into her flesh but into her heart and soul. After tonight, she would never look at another man, never want another man...

His blood turned cold.

Dear God, what a son of a bitch he was!

He had no right to take Kathryn for his own. He was not a man, he was a... a thing. He was a creature without life or substance, existing on the icy fringes of a dark and ugly world that she could never comprehend.

It took all his strength to do what had to be done, but he did it, pushed her from him and rose to his feet.

"Get your clothes on," he said in a gruff whisper.

"What?"

"I said—"

"I heard what you said, Matthew. But... but why?"

Her voice was tremulous. He looked at her, seeing the mingled confusion and hurt in her eyes. Pain shot through his heart and he turned away.

"Just do it, Kathryn!"

"Matthew." The light touch of her hand on his shoulder was like flame. "I—I didn't mean... I wasn't asking you to—to stop, I was just—it embarrassed me to have you lo-..."

He swung around and caught her by the shoulders.

"Don't you understand? We can't do this."

She was looking at him as if he'd lost his mind and maybe he had, for a little while anyway, but he'd regained it now and nothing she said or did would change it.

"This is wrong, Kathryn."

"Who says so?"

"I do," he growled. He bent down, grabbed for his discarded clothing. "Dammit," he said, as he straightened up, "I should never have—"

"Shut up, Matthew."

His eyes widened. "What did you say?"

"I said shut up and... oh, never mind."

She rose on her toes and kissed him. Her mouth was warm and sweet and moved gently against his. For one whispered heartbeat, his lips softened under hers. Then he blinked and pulled away.

"Don't," he said sharply.

She smiled. Her hands lifted to his chest. Slowly, slowly, she began to move them down his torso.

"Kathryn." He caught hold of her hands. "Kathryn..."

His breath caught as her fingers trailed over his belly and down into the thick curls that surrounded his sex. "Sweetheart, don't..."

"This is what I want, Matthew, what I've always wanted, ever since you first came to me in my dreams."

"Dammit, woman, you don't know what you're..."

"I'm not a fool. You think we mustn't make love because—because of our situation."

He jerked back and glared at her. "Don't speak in platitudes, dammit. What I think—what I know—is that you're alive and I am not. If that's not the best reason in the world for stopping this before it begins—"

Had she touched him, had she moved against him, he could have resisted her. Instead, she did the one thing he was powerless to fight.

She smiled into his eyes and said, "I love you."

"Nay," he said, "you cannot..."

He groaned, caught her to him, and carried her down to the bed. How could he fight destiny? This moment, wrenched out of the fabric of time, was theirs. To have denied it would have been to deny whatever warped laws of the universe had brought them together.

He kissed her over and over, with a hunger that was insatiable. Right and wrong no longer had any meaning. He only knew that he would never be the same after this night.

* * *

She would never be the same after this night.

Never, Kathryn thought in wonder, not if she lived for another thousand years.

Matthew was everything she had imagined, and more. He was beautiful, the purest form of masculine grace, all hard planes and long muscle. Looking at him was intoxicating. Touching him was driving her to the edge of sanity.

His skin was hot under her hands and carried the scent of his passion. His flesh was hard and exciting, and his kisses were all the nourishment her heart would ever need.

How could she have ever imagined making love would be like this?

She was a rainbow of brilliance, a symphony of dazzling, dizzying sensations. Her body was electric and alive with response, and now all of it was centering in one place, that hidden, secret part of her.

Matthew's thigh, hard and powerful, lay locked between hers. He was moving his leg against her, up and down, back and forth...

Ah.
Ah!
She was moving, too, sliding against his flesh, lifting herself to him and pressing against him while she made breathy little sounds of pleasure.

She was soaked, so wet and hot... She felt like a flower, opening to the burning heat of a hot summer sun. All these years, all her life, she'd thought this was nothing, really, that to lie with a man could not be any great miracle or mystery. Sex was nothing she'd wanted and it had been easy to avoid in this era of caution.

And then she'd dreamed of Matthew.

She moaned as he kissed the hollow of her throat, then trailed open-mouthed kisses to her breast. His hand cupped the soft weight and she caught her breath and watched as he bent his head to her, his hair falling like sun-kissed silk over her flesh.