Some Kind of Magic (14 page)

Claire pretended to be resting, pretended to be sleeping off her hangover. She heard the front door slam. She gave Dylan ten minutes, to make sure he wasn't coming back immediately, then she jumped out of bed and hurried to the living room, moving softly in her wool socks. She went straight to the antique desk and pulled out the voodoo doll. The pins were still there. One in the heart, one in the crotch. She pulled the pin out of the heart and stuck it in the crotch, along with the other pin. She lifted one of the doll's little white legs, reading the tiny print.

A libido gone stagnant
?

The front door opened.

Claire shoved the doll back in the desk, quickly slamming the drawer. Then she waited to see if the new pin in the very important spot would have any effect.

Dylan kicked off his boots, then padded across the room in his gray wool socks, a load of wood in his arms. He put the wood down near the stove, then straightened. Claire sat there looking at him, trying to keep her expression neutral.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“You have a strange look on your face.”

“You're leaving, aren’t you?”

He kind of gave his head a little shake, her directness catching him off guard. “It’s about time, wouldn’t you say?”

“When?”

“First thing in the morning.”

“Oh.” So soon. Too soon.

Here she’d been waiting for him to throw himself on her, and he was planning his big getaway. How stupid of her. She didn’t believe in voodoo dolls. And she’d never been the coy type, either. She couldn’t saunter up to him, walk her fingers up his arm, hang on him, and giggle in his face. And she had the feeling he wouldn’t like it if she did.

She had a stomach-churning thought. Maybe that’s what she’d done last night.

“You still sick?” he asked. “Maybe you’d better go lie down.”

She nodded and walked past him, humiliated that her close proximity had absolutely no effect on him.

That night Claire lay in bed, hoping against hope that he would come to her. That the voodoo doll would do its stuff. But he didn’t come.

Stupid voodoo, she thought. What good is a voodoo doll if you can't put a spell on somebody? She kept thinking about things she could do to make him stay, but the only thing she came up with was handcuffing him to her bed again.

Up until that moment, Claire had forgotten about the handcuffs, which were still padlocked to the bed, hidden from sight, having slipped past the mattress to the floor.

She didn't think handcuffing him would make him like her. She's tried that once.

What would he do if she handcuffed herself to her bed? She rubbed her face. She was getting dumber all time.

“Claire?”

She lay there perfectly still. Had she heard something, or just imagined it?

“You awake?”

She scooted up in bed. “Yeah.” She pushed her hair back from her face. Had the voodoo worked? “Can't you sleep?”

“No.”

“Me either.” That's a hint, Dylan.

He crossed the room, his feet a whisper against the bare floor. “I can't get you out of my head.”

Yes!

“I don't know what's going on, but I can't quit thinking about last night. I've got to get out of here. Now. Tonight. I can't wait any longer.”

Things had suddenly taken an unforeseen turn.

She scrambled to her knees, her mind racing. “You can’t leave now, not in the middle of the night. How will you get gas? No gas stations are open now.”

“I filled the tank yesterday.”

“But you’ll have to fill it again before morning. That car’s a gas-guzzler if I ever saw one. This is ridiculous. Childish. It’s childish. Don’t leave now. I’ll worry.” As if he cared, she thought. “I won’t be able to sleep.”

“I have to go.”

He couldn’t go. He couldn’t leave, not like this. Plan A. What was Plan A? Oh, yeah. Oh, that was stupid. She couldn’t handcuff him to the bed against his will.

Plan B, then. What was Plan B? Oh, yeah.

Fumbling in the darkness, she reeled up the cuffs, looped them over the top railing, sat down on the pillow, and lifted her hands above her head, slipping her wrists through the metal bands. Then she clicked them shut, leaving herself dangling there in a totally helpless, sacrificial position.

There. Plan B. Handcuff herself to the bed.

“Claire?”

In the dark, she just had to imagine the baffled expression on his face.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

Yeah, it baffled her, too. “You can't leave now. If you leave, I'll be handcuffed to this bed forever. Or at least until I die and they finally find my rotted carcass in the spring.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“It's— It's a physical demonstration.” She shrugged. “I like you.”

“How much?”

He sounded very curious. Very curious indeed.

“A lot.”

He laughed.

She sagged against the metal rails. Thank God he thought it was funny. Something so weird and kinky could have gone either way.

“Like a sister?” he asked. “Do you like me like a sister?”

“More like ...” Her voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Like a lover.”

“Claire, if you wanted me to stay, why didn't you just say so?”

“Pride?”

“You're nuts. And I mean that in the nicest way.”

“Thank you.”

He laughed again and approached the bed. The mattress dipped until he was straddling her, a knee on either side of her hips. "You are such a surprise. A wonderful, wonderful surprise."

“That’s one of the nicest things anybody’s ever said to me."

He reached up and slid her pajama bottoms off her, dropping them on the floor beside the bed. Before removing the tiny scrap of fabric that barely covered anything, he admired her with his hands, sliding his fingers under the elastic band. Using both hands, he cupped her bottom, then followed the elastic everywhere. “How can this be comfortable?" he asked, his voice sounding a little tight.

'"You get used to it."

“I’m glad."

She could already feel herself getting wet for him. The darkness made her brave, bold. With his help, she scooted her legs around so her knees were under her, so she was kneeling, her arms above and behind her head, her back arched, her breast aching for his touch.

He must have read her mind. With nimble fingers, he quickly unbuttoned her top, spreading the edges wide so that he could fill both hands with her breasts, the nipples pressed tautly against his palms. His hands, his big, wonderful hands, were everywhere. Rubbing her stomach, her thighs, between her legs. He cupped her bottom, his fingers delving between the two soft mounds of flesh. Starting at her navel, he licked her stomach, pausing to suckle her breast before continuing his journey to finally claim her lips. His tongue plunged deep into her mouth, hot and big, a promise of what was yet to come.

“Last night you took me on the wildest ride of my life,” he whispered against her mouth. “But I think this is going to be even wilder.”

Her mind was spinning away. But before things got completely out of hand, she had to tell him something.

“Dylan ... ?”

His mouth was moving down her neck.

“In the dresser,” she gasped.

“Mmm?”

“The key.”

He lifted his head. She sensed he was looking at her in the darkness. “Key?”

“In the drawer.”

“Later.”

“Now. Get it now.”

“I’ll get it later.”

He began kissing her everywhere, licking her everywhere, until her entire body was aflame, until she completely forgot about the key, until she ached for his most intimate touch. He slowly tormented her, his hands freely roaming her body, the calluses sliding across her fevered skin. “Bring your legs around my hips,” he instructed. She wrapped her legs around him, her position on the bed, on the pillow, giving him the ripest access.

“Okay?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Claire?”

And she realized he couldn't see her. “Yes.” She moved her hips—and felt the hot velvet tip of him against her swollen, feverish flesh.

“Yes,” she repeated on an exhalation of air.

A hand supporting her lower spine, he entered her. He filled her.

She sensed that he was holding back, afraid of hurting her. And there was no way for her to pull him closer.

“Harder,” she gasped, grabbing the rail above her head, lifting herself into him, showing him how she wanted him to be with her. She should have felt confined. Instead, she felt powerful, euphoric.

There was something about the position of their bodies or the elevated way he carried his erection that amplified the sensuality of his touch. Every stroke sent a hot, erotic wave through her, wave more intense than the previous until she was setting the pace, increasing the speed of his passion with something close to madness, until at last she shuddered. She tightened, contracting around him. He cried out, and held her tightly, impaling her with a thrust that lifted her from the bed.

Falling, falling ...

Until they were limp, Dylan's damp hair against her thundering heart. “My God,” he finally said, his voice a breathless, amazed gasp. He slid down her body so his head rested on her abdomen. “My God.”

She wanted to touch him, needed to touch him.

As if reading her mind, he said, “I've got to get the key, but I can’t move.”

“I want to touch you.”

He moved over her to kiss her firmly on the mouth, and when he pulled away, she could feel his smile against her lips. He got to his feet and opened the drawer. She heard the sound of things being shoved around.

He turned on the light and continued his search.

“Claire?”

“Hurry.”

“I can’t find it.”

“Don’t tease me.”

“Claire, I can’t find any key.”

He pulled out the dresser drawer and dumped the contents on the bed. There wasn’t much in it. Some pens. Scraps of paper. Matches. The orgasm book—they wouldn’t need that. But no key.

Her fingers were getting numb. She wiggled them, trying to get the feeling back. “I know there’s a key.” Her voice rose in growing panic. “There has to be a key.”

“I don’t think calling a locksmith would exactly thrill you. It would thrill him, but not you.”

She swung her leg in his direction. “I’m not in the mood for jokes.”

“If I have to cut the cuffs off, I will,” he assured her. “Do you have a hacksaw?”

“No.”

“Anything that will cut metal?”

“No!”

“Okay, okay. Let’s not panic.”

“I
am
panicking!”

He lifted the drawer, looking closely at where wood met wood. And there he found the small key wedged between the side and bottom of the drawer. He crawled across the bed. Then, kneeling beside her on the mattress, he stuck the key in the lock and turned it, freeing first one of her hands, then the other.

Claire watched as he brought a hand to his mouth, kissing her wrists one at a time. His eyes looked kind of sleepy, kind of like he was still turned on. She could relate.

Her gaze dropped to his arm, to the tattoo. Forever Olivia.

She knew better than to mention her name, not now anyway. But soon. Soon she would ask him who Olivia was and what she’d meant to him. And what she still meant to him.

“That was probably one of my dumber ideas," she said, clenching and unclenching her fingers, trying to get the circulation back.

“Great ideas sometimes come with a few things to iron out. Nothing wrong with straddling the line between madness and genius.” She continued to stare at the strange symbol above the woman's name. She hadn't realized it before, but the tattoo looked old, as if he’d gotten it when he was a kid. It was a little out of focus, as if he’d grown after getting it. “Were you in a gang?” she asked.

When he saw the direction of her gaze, he looked down at his arm, then back at her. “More like a club.'"

From the abruptness of his tone, she could tell he didn’t want to talk about it. It belonged to his past life, back with Olivia, back to a time he’d apparently rather forget.

He put everything the drawer, then returned the drawer to the dresser, reached up, and clicked off the light. Then he slid into bed beside her and pulled her close.

Was he going to do what most guys did and fall instantly to sleep? She waited, listening to his even breathing. Was he asleep?

Ten minutes of waiting and wondering, she had to ask. “You liked the handcuff thing?”

“You were so quiet, I thought you were asleep,” he said, sliding a hand down her hip, not sounding groggy in the least. “The handcuff thing? To say I liked it would be putting it mildly.” There was a lengthy pause. “In fact, I don’t think we’ll ever be able to top it.”