Fangs for the Memories (22 page)

She watched as he flicked open the button of his pants, letting them slide down his narrow hips.

Her eyes widened as he stood before her completely nude. Although they had made love before, this was the first time she’d really had the opportunity to see him in his full glory. And he was indeed glorious.

His body was all sinewy muscle and golden skin like Michelangelo’s
David
gilded. The hair that lightly covered his chest tapered into a thin line under his belly button,
then
spread into a thatch of burnt gold at his groin.

She stared at his penis, long and thick and very erect, jutting up against his flat stomach.

Okay, she breathed, maybe not quite like
David
.

Despite her awe and all the flattering thoughts that were whipping through her head, the first thing out of her mouth was, “You’re not wearing underwear.”

He grinned. “Very true,
which now leaves you far too overdressed.
Let’s see what we can do about that, shall we?”

He joined her on the bed, sitting, facing her. He reached out both of his hands, stroking her shoulders, the touch both comforting and sensual. He trailed them down over her arms, finally catching her wrists, pulling her up toward him.

He kissed the sensitive spot just beneath her earlobe, while his fingers found the clasp of her bra in the center of her back.

His tongue swirled and teased the skin of her neck, and his hands found her now bared breasts, teasing the nipples, squeezing them.

Electricity seemed to shoot from his fingers and his mouth, snaking through her limbs, her belly,
centering
between her legs.

She felt weak in his arms, unable to focus on anything aside of that snapping current in her veins. Gasping, she felt the gentle tug of his teeth on the skin of her throat.

Another violent jolt of pure blue electricity surged through her, and her head fell back as if she didn’t have the energy to hold it upright any longer. Rhys overpowered her, his hands, his teeth, his lips—and the fierce sensations they were creating in her.

He pushed her back, following her down, his wonderful, solid weight pressing her into the mattress. His mouth moved from her neck to her lips while his hands continued to stroke her breasts.

She wrapped her hands around his back, tracing sinew and hot skin. His lips left her mouth and moved down her chest until he captured one of her pebbled nipples. He drew on the throbbing point, suckling her deep.

She gasped, the sound not quite a breath and not quite a moan—more a tortured, ecstatic sound somewhere in between.

He turned his attention to the other breast, while his hand caressed down her body. The air seemed to crackle around them.

She closed her eyes, fighting to keep control. He hadn’t even touched where all this electric current centered, and she was losing her mind.

“Rhys,” she said, her voice ragged, strained. “I can’t take any more. I need you.”

He lifted his head from her breast, his eyes intent, his smile hungry. “You will have me, Janie.
But not until I’ve had my fill of you.
I want you too much to deny myself. I can’t.”

She jerked as his hand slipped under the elastic of her panties and a long finger parted the damp folds of her sex.

He watched her, his eyes burning. “You are so hot.”

She moaned and bit her lip.

“And wet.”

“Yes.” Briefly, she thought maybe she should be mortified, but the thought zipped away on a sizzling wave of need as he slid the length of his finger inside her. Then his thumb found the nub at the top of her sex.

She writhed then. Good Lord, she was going to die.

“Do you want me inside you?”

She bobbed her head, adamant, demanding.

His finger plunged deep; his thumb stroked harder. “Then come for me.”

She cried out, the sound desperate and broken. She strained against his hand.

He plunged his finger into her again and again. His thumb swirled and pressed. And she was certain that she was going to shatter apart. And just as she was sure that she’d die from this relentless torture—his mouth returned to her breast.

She felt the hard edge of his teeth grasping her nipple, the pressure firm, on the brink of pain. And then suddenly, the hint of pain turned into violent release as an orgasm ripped through her, splintering her into tiny pieces as shockwave after shockwave of rapture overtook her.

Rhys lifted his mouth from her breast, licking his lips. He watched Jane as she panted in rapid, shallow breaths, the muscle of her body still clenched, still reacting to the intensity of her climax.

He licked his lips again, tasting the force of her release on them, sweet and warm in his mouth. The taste alone had brought him to the edge—but he’d held on, unwilling to come anywhere but inside her.

How did you taste her release
?
his
mind questioned, the thought vague and distant but still there. How did he know it was the specific tang of Jane’s passion on his tongue?

He didn’t know. He didn’t care. He just knew he’d drunk in the very essence of her—and she’d tasted just as he knew she would.
Like all things good, all things pure.

Unable to stop himself, he slipped her underwear down her legs. She barely reacted, her eyes closed, her breath still labored.

He parted her thighs, looking at the lovely, moist flesh there. He stroked her, her sex quivering under his fingertip.

She gasped, gazing up at him, passion weighting her lids and making her eyes a vivid green under her dark lashes.

“Can you still take me?” he asked, praying she wouldn’t say no.

She smiled, tremulously. “Yes. Oh, yes.”

He positioned himself and slowly buried himself deep inside her. Her heat surrounded him; her muscles embraced him, accepting him, welcoming him.

He kissed her then, taking her sweet moans and gasps in his mouth as he began to move inside her. She clung to him, moving with him, and he realized he had truly discovered heaven.

Jane woke to find herself draped over
Rhys’s
chest, his arm flung around her back. Probably exactly how they had finally collapsed into exhausted sleep, worn out by their lovemaking.

She shifted off his chest, stretching. Her muscles complained and her limbs were heavy.

She looked over at Rhys. He slept as he always seemed to—dead to the world. His beautiful, thick hair fell around his head on the pillow. His dark lashes were long and slightly curled under his closed lids. He looked almost angelic in his sleep—certainly not of this world. An archangel fallen to earth.

She smiled to herself. This had to be a dream. She didn’t know anything—anyone—could be this wonderful. She supposed she always expected making love to be nice and fun, but she hadn’t been prepared for the reality of
it
.

Making love with Rhys was fun all right, but nice? No. It was amazing, breath-stealing,
erotic
beyond words and…

She stretched again, her muscles crying out.
And very, very demanding.

She looked at him for a moment longer,
then
rolled over to slip out of the bed. She walked to the chair where their discarded clothes were tossed and grabbed
Rhys’s
sweater. Tugging it over her head, she moved toward the bathroom.

Nature called, even as her exhausted body instructed her to crawl back into bed and curl up once again against Rhys.

The bathroom was dark and a little chilly. She flipped on the light and looked around. The chill in the air was nothing but exactly that—a draft,
a normal temperature drop
. Not the eerie, creeping cold she’d experienced the past two nights.

After going to the bathroom, she crossed to the sink to wash her hands. As she worked the soap between her palms, she frowned. There
was
something strange about this bathroom, all the same. Not creepy or frightening, just something different. She looked around, trying to decide what it was.

No mirrors, she suddenly realized. What bathroom didn’t have a mirror? She was reminded of
Rhys’s
earlier reaction.

I don’t like mirrors.

Why on earth not? He couldn’t look in a mirror and see anything less than physical perfection.

So what did Rhys see when he looked in a mirror? Maybe the flaw wasn’t physical—maybe he saw the thing he was repressing.
The cause of his curious amnesia.

She shook her head as she turned off the water faucet. Great, she could be his armchair shrink to go along with his quack physician. Rhys needed professional help—and she did mean that in the nicest way possible.

She wandered back into the bedroom. Rhys still slept in the same position, totally unaware that she’d gotten up. She crept up to him, gently lifting a lock of his silky hair. The strands slipped through her fingers back to the white pillow.

The symbolism wasn’t lost on her. But she had to get him help, even if that meant ultimately losing him. She knew it, but another part of her liked things just as they were. She liked his sweet words.
His promises of a future together.
But she had to do the right thing.

Sighing, she left the edge of the bed and searched the floor for her panties. Finding them in a ball at the foot of the bed, she tugged them on,
then
looked at the clock on the night-stand. It read
3:58 P.M.
She’d slept the day away just as she had since moving in with Rhys and Sebastian. It was amazing how quickly she’d fallen into their schedule.

But it was still early enough to try and contact a doctor—a specialist who, hopefully, could give some definitive reason for
Rhys’s
memory loss.

She gazed back at Rhys for a moment,
then
sighed. She would do the right thing.

Once she was clad in a thick terry cloth robe, she headed to the kitchen to make some breakfast—or rather dinner— and look for a phone book.

She heated a mug of water in the state-of-the-art microwave, which looked as if it had never been used until she got here. She added two slices of bread to a toaster that looked equally unused. And as her bread toasted and her tea steeped, she searched the kitchen for a telephone book. Given the mostly empty state of the cupboards, she found the book rather easily.

Grabbing her toast and tea and the cordless phone, she headed into the dining room to look through the yellow pages.

How did a person go about finding a specialist in amnesia? She flipped to the Ps, looking under physicians. Did Rhys need a neurologist? Should she just make him an appointment with a general practitioner who would examine him and then suggest the next course of action? Or maybe she should talk to a psychiatrist, since there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with him physically.
Absolutely nothing wrong.

She chewed on her toast, debating over the names in black print on the yellow paper. That was all these doctors were— names. Should she just pick one?

She sighed, read through several of the names again,
then
picked one. Sabrina Harrison, MD. She supposed choosing a doctor based on the fact that they shared the same last name was as good a reason as any.

She picked up the telephone and began to dial the number when Sebastian strolled into the room.

“Hey, what are you doing?” He yawned and rubbed a hand over his bare chest.

“I…” She didn’t know whether she should tell him. She didn’t want him to be offended that she’d taken matters into her own hands. But something did need to be done for Rhys.

“Did you know that
Rhys’s
memory loss is selective?”

Sebastian frowned as he pulled out a chair and joined her at the table. “It is?”

“You didn’t notice that he’s fine with a lot of things a viscount from the nineteenth century wouldn’t be? Lights, running water—that sort of thing?”

He considered what she said. “Now that you mention it— yeah, he is cool with that stuff.”

“And,” Jane hesitated for a second. “We went out last night and walked all around the city—and nothing upset him.”

His relaxed posture suddenly grew straighten “You weren’t supposed to go out.”

Jane felt a slight wave of guilt, but that was quickly smothered by indignation. “I know that. And I tried to stop him, but he was determined. Besides, he’s fine—like I said, nothing shocked him or upset him.”

“But he still doesn’t remember what he is, right?”

She stared at him for a moment. “
What
he is?”

Sebastian waved a hand with impatience. “What.
Who.
I meant he doesn’t realize that he’s not a viscount, right?”

She shook her head, still confused by the wording of Sebastian’s questions. “No—as of last night he still thinks he’s a viscount.”

“And you didn’t notice anything strange while you were walking around, did you?”