Darkling I Listen (35 page)

A sound slid through his lips—a helpless cry of a man falling, falling into a whirlpool of immense sensation that sucked him deep, too damn deep to think or care about control. Closing his eyes, his head falling back, he surrendered to the hunger, allowed his body to take her hard and fast until he vaguely became aware her fingers were digging into his as he held on, her own whimpers growing until he felt her body stiffen and the first implosive orgasm swept her up in a wave of pure agonizing pleasure. And still he rocked her, even as her body relaxed and the grip on his hands softened, as her head fell almost wearily toward her knees…

He pulled out of her suddenly, stumbled back, wrapped his fingers around the wet, sticky shaft and held it hard until the piercing pain and fullness subsided enough that he could breathe again. As she straightened, he caught her arm and turned her toward him, took her face in his hand and pulled her to his mouth, filled her mouth with his tongue while his arms encircled her and his penis slid between her legs, stroking her, making her body shiver.

"Say you love me," he whispered against her lips.

"I love you," she managed weakly, looking into his eyes as she took his face in her hands and lightly touched her fingertip to his lips. "I fear you'll never know just how much."

"Show me."

She smiled and brushed the hair from his eyes.

He dropped
to
the floor and lay on his back, propped up on his elbows as his penis jutted up high and hard from its nest of black hair. She kicked her panties aside and straddled his hips, smiled down at him, then slowly dropped, slid her body onto his, taking all of him at once, instant control. Instant oblivion. Raw pleasure and fiery pain. He focused on the overhead mirrors, watched as she pumped her hips up and down, rode him like a horse, swiveled and ground and drove her pelvis hard against him while the straps of her bra slid off her shoulders—he reached up and unhooked it, freeing her breasts that thrust up in firm peaks that he could close his hands over—and did, gently squeezing each time she humped him. Curling his shoulders up, stomach muscles contracting, he took one breast into his mouth, suckled it as the nipple grew hard and harder against his tongue, spurning her to move her hips faster until the ecstasy became more like pain and he could think of nothing, feel nothing beyond the world of his rising cum. Falling back on the floor, his fingers digging into the flesh of her flexing thighs just above the lace band of her stockings, he clenched his teeth—it was coming, the end; he needed it—was desperate for it—yet wanted this excruciating ecstasy to last forever.

The semen rose in a torrent—hot, thick, pulsing, tearing the soul out of him as he drove his fists into the floor and bowed his back. The cry poured up his throat like sharp glass, a crescendo with the clash of drums and cymbals and pulsating light that turned his hellish, heavenly world into a throbbing, white-hot core.

Collapsing on the floor, his eyes closed, he felt one final shudder ripple through him.

Alyson stretched her body out on his, brushed his lips in a feather-light kiss. When he opened one eye, she smiled into it. "Carlyle, I'm starting to get a clue that you're a little kinky."

"This wasn't kinky," he replied with effort. "Kinky is frozen chocolate-covered bananas and warm raspberry sauce in the last row of the Concorde flying at fifty thousand feet."

Her eyebrows
raised
. "You haven't, have you?"

"Not yet. But we will. Just as soon as we're married and flying to
Paris
on our honeymoon."

Her smile widened. "I wonder how the other passengers will
react?
"

"There won't be other passengers. You forget I'm filthy rich. I could buy a Concorde if I wanted."

"Spend money like that, and you'll be forced to go back to work.
Which brings me to another topic.
I'm not sure I'll care to watch you making love to beautiful women on the screen."

"Not a problem, Cupcake. I'll do nothing but G-rated movies from now on."

"Promise?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die." He made an X over his heart.

Alyson's expression
sobered,
and she pressed her cheek to his. "Don't say that,"
came
her urgent, rough voice in his ear. "Don't ever tease me about dying,
Brandon
. Please. The very idea of it horrifies me."

Curling his arms around her, he held her tightly as she shivered with emotion.

At first the low beep-beep-beep was lost behind the cacophony of steel guitars and drumbeats. Frowning,
Brandon
eased Alyson aside and sat up, strained to hear the sound, hoping he was mistaken even as his heart constricted in his chest. He dragged his jeans up, grabbing the pager attached to his belt loop. Beep-beep-beep. The red light blinked up at him—a signal of trouble.

"Get dressed," he ordered in a flat, urgent voice.

*

The
wind whipped out of the north, slamming like a fist
against the Jaguar as
Brandon
turned onto
59
and floored the accelerator. The rear end fishtailed before regaining traction,
then
the car sprang forward like its namesake, a sleek white streak of spontaneous speed through the dark. With Alyson's receiver pressed against his ear, he listened as Henry's phone continued to ring with no response.

"Shit!" He threw the phone into Alyson's lap and gripped the wheel with both hands, eased more deeply into the accelerator as the speedometer inched to the right: seventy, seventy-five, eighty. They passed a slow-moving pickup as if it were standing still, then approached an SUV packed with wide-eyed children in Halloween masks; Brandon blinked his brights several times until the Excursion moved to the shoulder and allowed him to pass. The driver flipped him the finger.

No need to panic yet, he told himself. Henry knew the routine. First he was to beep
Brandon
, then call nine-one-one.

They were two miles from home when the red and blue lights suddenly flashed in
Brandon
's rearview mirror. A siren whooped as the cruiser moved swiftly up behind him. At first, he thought the pursuer was an officer on his way to answer Henry's call, but the car tailed him dangerously close and the
whoop-whoop
of the siren sounded again in an obvious attempt to pull him over.
Brandon
cursed and slammed the wheel with his fist, thought about flooring it anyway. He checked his speed—ninety-five and climbing.

Whoop-whoop.

Damn, he was toast!

He slowed and eased to the narrow shoulder crowded by high weeds and brush that raked the side of his car. He killed the ignition. There was going to be no problem here, he told himself; just as soon as he told the officer there was an emergency, he'd be on his way with no more than a minute or two wasted. Everyone in this town knew Henry; they loved him. As he hit the Down button on the driver's window and dug his wallet out of his hip pocket, the cruiser door opened.

Looking over her shoulder, Alyson made a sound and turned her panicked eyes on him. "It's Dillman." She touched his arm. "Stay cool. For God's sake, don't antagonize him."

Dillman. Damn, could this situation get any worse? Glancing into the sideview mirror
at
Dillman's reflection painted by red and blue lights, his expression like a man who'd just discovered he'd won the lottery, Brandon suspected the situation was about to get much, much worse.

Brandon kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead, his hands on the wheel as Dillman moved up to the car window, holding a small flashlight in one hand, the other resting on the butt of the gun on his hip. The son of a bitch was singing to himself, the theme song to
Cops.
Even before he bent over and zeroed the flashlight beam into
Brandon
's eyes,
Brandon
could smell the beer he'd been drinking.

Dillman stooped so his face came in line with
Brandon
's. A broad, unconvincing smile stretched his mouth as he turned the light beam first into
Brandon
's eyes, then into Alyson's. "Well, well, look who we got here. Twiddle
Dee
and Twiddle Dumb."

"Look, Jack—"
Brandon
began.

"Did I tell you you could talk yet, Carlyle? I don't think so."

"I got an emergency call—"

"I said, 'I don't think so.' First thing you got to learn when you get stopped for speedin' in my town, is you got to show respect to the Ticky Creek officers."

"Henry is—"

"That means keepin' your mouth shut while I'm talkin'."

Brandon
took a deep breath and did his best to relax. His fingers were starting to ache from gripping the steering wheel so fiercely. Anger and frustration mounted, and as if Alyson could sense it, she reached over and put one hand on his shoulder. The connection helped to ground him somewhat.

Dillman said, "First of all, you can provide me with your license and registration."

"Fine," he said through his teeth and reached for his wallet, which he had put on the console. He removed the license after one fumbling attempt—his hands were shaking, not much, but just enough for him to feel his control eroding. Not a good sign. Once his temper got to the hand-trembling stage, he could pretty much count on the situation combusting unless Dillman backed off, and backed off quick. He handed the license
to
him,
then
opened the console to extract the registration.

"Oops," Dillman said as he shone the light on the plastic card. "Seems we have a problem, sir. This license ain't
no
good in
Texas
." He smiled again. His teeth looked like piano keys in the dark. "This is a
California
license, and while that wouldn't be a problem if you
was
just passin' through, I do believe you are once again a
Texas
resident, and the law declares that you must surrender your out-of-state license and obtain a
Texas
license within thirty days of movin' here."

Brandon
cut his eyes to Dillman's, wincing from the beam of light in his face. "I guess I forgot."

"I guess you did. Like you must have
forgot
that the speed limit along here is fifty-five. I clocked you
at
ninety-three. Like you must have
forgot
the conditions of your parole. But then it seems you got a long history of forgettin' important stuff
…
like usin' a freakin' rubber when you screwed my little sister."

Brandon
closed his eyes and released a weary breath. He did his best to keep the temper out of his voice. "Listen to what I'm saying to you, Jack—"

"Sheriff
Dillman, you cocky son of a bitch."

"I got an emergency page from Henry. Something's happened—"

"Sheriff Dillman, asshole. Say it. Sheriff Dillman."

"Sheriff Dillman, I got an emergency page from—"

"Get out of the car, Carlyle."

He glanced down at the keys in the ignition, then toward Alyson. Her face looked white in the dark, her eyes fearful. If he drove away now, he'd play right into Dillman's hands. Evading arrest or detention came with a one-way ticket straight back to prison. But if he didn't do something quick, Henry or Bernie could be dying…

Dillman opened the car door and stepped back. "Out of the car."

He unbuckled the seat belt. "Look, Sheriff Dillman, if you want to run me in, fine, but at least allow me to go to the farm first and check on my family. Something's wrong, and—"

Dillman grabbed a handful of
Brandon
's shirt and hauled him out of the car so unexpectedly he couldn't find his footing, and slid partially to the ground. Only Dillman's grip on his shirt kept him from hitting the road. He heard Alyson cry out, then Jack shouted, "Stay in the car, lady! I'm gonna deal with you next. I said stay in the fuckin' car!"

Brandon
attempted to scramble to his feet. Dillman stuck one foot between
Brandon
's legs and kicked, causing him to sprawl hard on his side. Dillman laughed.

"Damn, Carlyle, you look like a man who might have been nippin' a bit. Maybe you imbibed too many beers at the Yamboree. Or better yet, a wee bit too much of the Chivas. I believe you have a weakness for Chivas. At least that's what I read in the tabloids. Makes you a touch mean, does it? Makes you a touch stupid. Stupid enough to crash cars and kill people."

Twisting both hands in Brandon's shirtfront, Dillman heaved him to his feet and slammed him belly down across the hood of the car, planted a forearm at the base of Brandon's head and drove his face hard into metal. A serrated flare of pain exploded through his face, and the world turned blinding white and hot. He couldn't breathe as blood filled his nose and mouth, and his body convulsed in a spasm that made him flounder to get his head up. Dillman slammed his face again. This time he heard someone howl in pain and realized it was himself.