Charon's Crossing (A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novel) (40 page)

The sight of him taking her nipple into his mouth was so erotic that she sobbed his name.

"Matthew," she said brokenly, "Matthew..."

* * *

Her cries as he suckled her, coupled with the taste of her on his tongue, were sweet torture. Her hips lifted and surged towards his and for one terrible instant, he was afraid he was going to unman himself.

He told himself to think about something else. A diversion.

Count from one to one hundred, he'd once heard a man say, it always works.

Nothing would work now. Hell, he couldn't have counted from one to five without getting lost after three. He was feverish with desire, desperate to thrust into Kathryn's heat and end this torment for them both.

Ah, but it was such exquisite torment. He could not get enough of kissing her mouth or of sucking on her nipples. She tasted of milk and of honey; she smelled like the Gardens of Babylon and the mystery of Venus.

He eased his hand down her belly, lightly stroked the damp curls that awaited him. She shuddered against him and he hushed her, whispering words without knowing what he said, knowing only that he was beyond thought and reason.

His hand slipped between her legs and parted her. He touched her, his fingers sliding against that hidden rosebud he had sought, and she cried out in ecstasy.

"Matthew," she sobbed. Her hips lifted to him, drowning his stroking fingers in her sweet juices.

His head was spinning. There was so much more he wanted to do. To her. With her. He wanted to bury his face in her neck and savor the scent of her, to put his mouth where his hand was and taste her. He wanted to start from the beginning and do everything again.

But it was time. It was past time. He was going to explode if he didn't take her now. He drew back, gently drew her thighs apart, and knelt between them. He looked at her, touched her, and her eyes flew open.

"Matthew," she whispered.

"I won't hurt you, love. I promise."

Carefully, so carefully, he eased himself forward, letting just the head of his blood-engorged penis touch her damp heat.

Her eyes shut and her head thrashed back against the pillow.

"Kathryn," he said in a choked whisper.

Her eyes flew open. He saw himself reflected in her pupils.

"Watch me," he whispered. "Watch me make you mine."

He moved forward again and rubbed himself lightly over that delicate pink bud. Once. Twice. His teeth clenched together; sweat glistened on his skin. Wait, he told himself, Lord wait until you're deep inside her...

Kathryn cried out and arched off the bed. Matthew groaned slipped his hands under her bottom, and gave up the battle.

"Yes," he said, and thrust home.

Chapter 16

By morning, the storm had blown over.

Matthew sat straddling a chair in the kitchen, his chin resting on his folded arms while he indulged in the nicest sort of philosophical speculation.

Which was the more perfect sight? The blue sky and golden sunlight visible through the open door that led to the terrace—or Kathryn, bustling about the room as she made breakfast?

He smiled. It was no contest. Kathryn was far more wonderful than the warm, shining day, more wonderful than any miracle of Nature or of man. He had never known a woman like her, nor even imagined one. She was the embodiment of a man's dreams, sweet one moment and sassy the next, as fiercely independent as any man yet feminine and soft when such things mattered, and so bright and quick of mind that sometimes, when they were talking, he almost forgot she was female, though he wasn't fool enough to tell her that. She bristled at the slightest suggestion of differences between the sexes.

His smile tilted.

Nay. He could never forget she was female. How could he, when she was so incredibly lovely, so sensually feminine?

An answering throb in his loins told him his body agreed with his brain's assessment, a minor miracle if ever there were one because only a little while ago he'd felt so sated that even the thought of rising from the bed had seemed a physical impossibility.

He had awakened first this morning, with Kathryn in his arms. Just the pleasure of watching her as she slept, her head on his shoulder, her dark hair spilled like the finest China silk over his skin, had made him turn hard as granite.

He'd promised himself he wouldn't wake her. He'd begun stroking her skin with the gentlest of caresses. Her cheek, and her mouth. Her throat, and her shoulder. And then her breast. Just a grazing brush of his fingertips, that was all, and when she'd sighed in her sleep and the faintest smile had curved over her lips, he'd bent his head and kissed her, first her mouth, his lips just skimming the soft fullness of hers, and then her throat, where he'd left a trail of tiny kisses which had inevitably led to his burying his face between her breasts.

The intoxication of her scent, the warmth of her skin, the steady beat of her heart beneath his ear had all conspired against him until the pledge he'd made himself was as worthless as a farm boy in the foretop with a squall on the horizon.

His tenderness had changed to passion, his gentle kisses deepened with need his touch burned with desire and then Kathryn had been awake and aroused and hot as flame in his arms.

When, a long time later, she'd sighed and said she'd thought it might be a good idea if they had something to eat, he'd groaned fallen back on the pillows, and said, hell, yes, a meal was an excellent idea if she didn't want to see his bones melt into a puddle before her very eyes.

She'd started to dress, but he'd stopped her.

"Here," he'd said, tossing her his shirt, and when she'd protested that she could hardly go downstairs wearing so little, his response had been one of perfect logic.

"Don't be silly, Kathryn. The shirt covers more of you than the smallclothes you generally wear."

A wicked smile danced in his eyes because watching her now, he knew just how much he had lied, and how clever he'd been to have done so.

It wasn't that what he'd said hadn't been true. The shirt was loose and long and covered her from her throat to mid-thigh. It was what her glorious body did for the shirt that was driving him crazy. The rise of her breasts, pushing gently against the soft linen, was an instant reminder of the silken weight of them in his hands. The dark outline of her nipples brought back the taste and feel of that honeyed flesh when his lips and tongue adored her, and the sweet, exciting sounds that purred in the back of her throat.

And as she moved, doing all the mundane things one did in the preparation of a meal, the shirt was accomplishing things that were eons from being mundane. The hem fluttered against her slender, golden thighs, tantalizing him. The open neckline shifted, never enough so he could see her breasts but teasing him with hints of their lushness. And when she bent down or rose on her toes to reach for something, her softly rounded bottom peeped at him from beneath the tailpiece.

Matthew smothered a groan. A gentleman would surely have offered to do the stretching and bending for her but he was no gentleman, especially not at this moment. What he was, was a man in danger of being castrated by his own trousers if he didn't do something to stop the pictures crowding his fevered brain.

Kathryn opened the refrigerator door, bent down and peered inside. This time, his groan was audible.

"What?" she said, bumping the door shut with a provocative tilt of one hip.

He shrugged his shoulders and worked at looking casual as he rose carefully to his feet.

"Nothing," he said blandly.

"Are you sure? You have the strangest look on your face."

"Do I?" He smiled, or hoped he did. "Well, that's probably because I'm close to starvation."

She laughed as she set a bowl of fruit on the table. "We can't have that, Captain. Why don't you tell me what you'd like for your breakfast?"

That was easy. What he'd like was Kathryn, right there on the table, with that smoky look in her eyes and her knees up and him hard and driving between her thighs...

Another thought like that and he was liable to embarrass them both. He frowned and turned to glare at the coffee pot while he tugged surreptitiously at his trousers.

"Coffee, for starters. How long does that thing take until it's ready?"

"Another minute and it should be done." Kathryn's brows rose in a delicate arch. "Are you one of those people who's a grouch before you have your first cup of coffee in the morning?"

"I am never a grouch," Matthew said grouchily. Kathryn snorted, and he turned and tried to glare at her but it didn't work, and they both began to laugh. "All right, perhaps I am. Take pity, woman. I am a man in desperate need of sustenance."

"Sustenance, hmm?"

"Aye. A dozen eggs, a couple of rashers of bacon, oatmeal, potatoes and some buckwheat cakes with maple syrup would go down right."

She looked at him. "Tell me you're joking. Please."

"Well," he said, poker-faced, "it is only what I will need to restore the energy you have drained from me."

"The energy
I
drained from
you? "

"Aye. Everyone knows women do not need to do anything in the boudoir save lie back and think pure thoughts."

He laughed, ducked as Kathryn pretended to aim a sugar bowl at him, and he caught her in his arms. She laughed softly, put down the bowl, and curled her arms around his neck.

"My thoughts are anything but pure this morning."

"Is that so?" he said, smiling.

Her cheeks pinkened. "Well, to tell the truth, this is the first time I ever made breakfast for a man who's wearing nothing but his trousers."

Matthew grinned. "Am I a distraction?"

She laughed. "You know you are."

His smile faded as he raised her face to his. "This has been a night of firsts for you, sweetheart, has it not?"

Kathryn's color deepened. She nodded. "I suppose I should have told you, but—"

He stopped her words with a kiss. When it ended, he drew her head to his chest.

"It has been a night of firsts for me, as well," he said softly, "for I have never been so happy or..."

"Or what?" she asked, smiling.

The smile died on her lips when she looked up and saw his face. "Matthew? What's wrong?"

Everything, he thought, dear God in heaven, everything was wrong! He let go of her, walked blindly out onto the terrace, to the railing, and wrapped his hands around it until the bones of his knuckles showed white beneath his skin.

Or so much in love.

That was what he'd almost said, but it was impossible. How could he be happy? Or in love? The curse would not permit it. That was what he had wished on Cat Russell, all those years ago; it was what had gone full circle and been visited upon him as he lay dying.

A hand seemed to reach inside his chest and squeeze his heart.

All along, ever since he'd understood that he had damned himself with his own words, he had thought he understood his fate. He would be alone, through eternity. Last night, in a moment of treacly, self-indulgent nonsense, he'd built upon that conviction, imagining himself carrying the image of this idyll with Kathryn on his lonely journey.

Now, with a clarity that made him want to pound his fist through the wall, he understood.

What he would carry with him was the pain of a heart torn and bleeding. He had found joy with Kathryn, yes, and passion, but he had found much, much more. He had found love—love so powerful it filled his heart with each beat it took.

That he, of all men, could love so deeply—and be loved as deeply in return—was beyond imagining.

And that was to be his torment.

The darkness that had once surrounded him would be blessed release, compared to what lay ahead. He was doomed to forever remember and mourn that which he could not have. Kathryn, whom he loved. Kathryn, who loved him...

"Matthew?"

Her hand fell lightly on his shoulder but it made him flinch.

"Please," she whispered, "what is it?"