Wilder (12 page)

Chapter 21

C
harisma bent to the mattress, pressed her face against it, breathed in the fragrance of Guardian, of sex, of struggle, of war on the battlefield of this bed,
his
bed. The aromas heightened her senses, made her ever more susceptible as, behind her, Guardian used his tongue, his teeth, his lips to sample her, savor her. He gave her his fingers, whispered his enjoyment of her short, sharp cries, the demands of her body, the taste of her climax.

By the time he rose onto his knees, pushed his legs between hers, and spread her wide, she was crying in completion and demand. She half turned as he pulled his tunic off, and saw him bare, a creature of manlike proportions. But his face looked very human now; he was a man intent on possessing a woman, and he wore that particular determination easily, as if he could not be dissuaded.

Thank God.

Still half turned, Charisma pushed herself up until the backs of her thighs were against the fronts of his. She slid her arm around his neck and pulled his head down to hers. Passionately, she kissed him, giving him what he had given her—fever, delight, delirium.

When she pulled away, he skimmed his palm across her shoulder and curled his hand around her throat.

She stared into his eyes.

He stared back, his mouth taut, his nostrils flared, his expression implacable.

A lesser woman might think he hated her; she recognized a desire so plain and stark, it could be satisfied with nothing less than a mating.

“I haven’t got a condom,” he said. “Will you get pregnant?”

“No. And I haven’t had sex since—” No, she wouldn’t think of that. “I haven’t had sex for a long time, so I won’t give you a disease. You?”

His bitter laughter mocked . . . himself. “You’re safe from disease, Charisma Fangorn. But you’re not safe from me. I’m going to fill you. I’m going find out what you feel like inside. Velvety sandpaper? Hot enough to burn me to a cinder? I’m going to revel in your body, make you come so hard and so often you’ll be sorry you started this.”

“I thought you were asleep. I didn’t mean to start it. But since I have”—taking his erection in her hand, she stroked it, smoothing the silken length from the base to the tip—“I promise I won’t be sorry. Not if you follow through on everything you’ve promised.” And she smiled, a slow, sexual curl of the lips that made him yank her against him, her back to his front, while he stroked her breasts and belly. And lower.

Shamelessly, she leaned her head against his chest, put her hands behind her so her breasts thrust out and into his palms, and reached up to caress his face.

His erection pressed into her back and hardened yet more.

“Now. Lean down,” he said.

No, not said—commanded.

Charisma obeyed.

Why wouldn’t she? She was getting what she wanted, and maybe . . . maybe more.

Maybe, with the length and breadth of him, and his heat, and his magnificent primal fire, he would brand himself on her, this man she would never, ever forget.

She got on her hands and knees . . . but that wasn’t enough for him. He pressed his broad hand into her shoulder blades, moving her head down to rest once more on the mattress, and brought her bottom close enough to rest against his groin. She spread her legs wider, rubbed herself against him, seeking satisfaction, trying to hurry him . . . because she needed this. Now.

But he took his time, arranged her legs to his satisfaction, then used his fingers to open her. . . .

He pressed inside, so big and hot she wanted nothing more than to welcome him, all of him, into her body. Inch by inch he stretched her, torched her with each new advance. He made her whimper. He made her struggle, try to take control.

He laughed at that, a brief snort of derision. Wrapping his arm around her hips, he lifted her to him, a position that left her helpless, clawing at the sheets as he surged inside. All the way inside—he pressed deeply, his hips against her bottom, and held her there as if savoring the penetration. Or perhaps his suspension of movement was a clever strategy to force her to realize exactly what she had started.

A very clever strategy, for as she hung there, dependent on his strength, on his tenderness, she knew a moment of primitive feminine fear. He could hurt her—or he could take her to ecstasy.

Her inner muscles convulsed on him; she didn’t know whether this was pain or passion, whether the spasms that racked her were nothing more than a continual orgasm . . . or an introduction into a new world, painted with brand-new colors, where she breathed sensuality and wore desire like a garment.

Perhaps he’d been waiting for that internal caress along the length of his cock. Or perhaps his own needs drove him to start the long strokes, in and out, moving her on him, a slow, precise movement that stretched her patience as she waited, nerves screaming, for his next motion. In and out. In and out.

Grabbing the pillows, she buried her head to muffle her moans.

And, of course, she managed to grab
his
pillow, permeated with his scent, and those male pheromones went to her head like a drug, so that she climaxed in one long, continuous ache of pleasure, with higher and higher peaks.

In her mind’s eye, she pictured his face. And he was beautiful to her. Her lover.

Each time he thrust his erection inside, he made every inch matter. Each time he withdrew, his penis tugged at her flesh. His speed increased, matching her needs, directing her desires.

She wanted to move, but instead he used his strength to move her, goading her from one shuddering climax to another.

Faster. Harder. Faster. Faster.

In all the universe, there was only his touch: his arm around her hips, his hand stroking her spine from buttocks to shoulders, over and over, as if driving pleasure along her nerves, through her veins, and into her mind, there to change her forever.

Faster. Harder. Faster.

And then—a breathless moment of waiting, a suspension of movement. With a deep roar, he pulled her tightly against him, his balls against her clit. His cock pulsed inside her as he came, filling her even more. She climaxed with him, writhing with bliss, squeezing the pillows in her fists. For a long moment, it seemed as if time stopped. . . .

And then it was over.

He lowered her to her knees.

She collapsed onto her stomach and concentrated on pulling the pieces of herself back together. Not an easy thing, for she would never fit together in the same way. He had exhausted her in every way; she could feel the weeks of illness and inactivity in the trembling of her muscles and the weariness that dragged her down. Yet she luxuriated in a surfeit of pleasure so elemental she had been only half-alive without it. “That was great,” she breathed.

He didn’t answer.

“Spectacular.”

He didn’t answer.

Had she screamed so loud she’d hurt his hearing? Had she killed him with an overdose of addictive, mind-blowing sex?

Was he ready for another round?

She lifted her head out of the pillows.

While she’d been concentrating on getting her breath back, Guardian had managed to pull on his djellaba. Now he reclined on his back on his side of the bed, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his hands tucked under his neck.

He looked . . . calm. Offhand. As if world-changing whoopee happened every day.

“Guardian?” She touched him lightly on the arm. “Are you not talking to me?”

“Of course I am,” he said. “Could you return my pillow?”

She sat up and back on her heels.
“What?”

“Could I have my pillow back? It’s my favorite.”

“I heard you the first time. But you . . . Why would you . . . We just . . .”

He turned his head and looked at her.

That was not the face of the man she’d pictured in her mind.

The face he showed her now was set as a stone-carved statue, indifferent and implacable. Except for his eyes. His blue eyes were as cold as chips off an iceberg.

She couldn’t believe it. She was sitting here, her pajamas pulled down to her ankles, her sleep tee rumpled, still wet and aching between the legs . . . and he was asking about his
pillow
?
This wasn’t happening. “Oh, come on.” She tried a half laugh, tried to make it a joke, when she was irked. And hurt. “I knew you were mad when we started. I know it was intrusive to kiss you while you were asleep, but it’s really not that big a deal. It’s not like I fondled you, or sneaked a peek at your man goodies.”

“Why would you have to sneak a peek? You got a good look at my man goodies earlier today, when I showered.”

Pause. Think hard. Try to understand what’s going on here.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that offended you, too.” But she couldn’t stand to apologize. Not in this case. “I mean, fair’s fair. You got an eyeful of me, too.” She had to say it, because she wasn’t going to sit here and take all the blame for . . . whatever it was he was blaming her for.

“I wasn’t offended. I was just wondering whether that’s what made you think you could score some beast points while you were slumming in the cave.” His voice was cool, reasoned.

“Listen to me. You are not a beast. And I am
not
slumming.” She was the
opposite
of cool and reasoned.

He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “I’m told women have this fantasy about beasts, about size and duration and hot, animal sex. I hope I managed to fulfill all your expectations.”

“It’s not like that.” Her voice rose. “I didn’t want you because you’re a novelty. I want you because you’re Guardian. You saved me from certain death. You’re smart and funny. Women have fantasies about men like you, too, you know!”

“You didn’t like it when I touched you.” He enunciated, as if he couldn’t say it clearly enough.

“What? That’s not true. We just performed the best horizontal mambo
ever
.” She waved at the sheets.

“I didn’t give you a lot of choices.”

“I wasn’t exactly objecting!”

“There are ways to make a woman give it up.”

“Got a lot of experience with making women give it up?”
No! Stupid thing to say. Mean thing to say.
She was sorry.

“I read a lot.” The line was funny. His delivery was not. Hostility had begun to seep through.

She had to figure out how to defuse this situation, how to get back to at least the relationship they’d enjoyed before. . . .

Before.

This conclusively proves something, Charisma. You’re bad at sex. Buy some new rechargeable batteries and give up on the real thing.
So she pulled up her pajama pants and straightened her shirt, and said, “Look, Guardian, I’m sorry I caught you off guard and kissed you while you were sleeping. I guess it was like taking advantage of you, but I wanted to see whether your . . . lips . . . were as soft as . . .” She faltered under his glare.

“When we were talking. Remember when we were talking? You were telling me about your mother, and I ran my thumb along your lower lip.” He repeated the motion roughly, contemptuously. “Did you think I didn’t notice that you turned your head away?”

She was floored. Such a small mistake on her part. Such a massive misunderstanding. It made her feel a little faint.

No, it wasn’t the misunderstanding that made her droop onto the pillows. Fireworks flashed at the backs of her eyes. She had trouble catching her breath. In a colossal piece of bad timing, the venom had chosen this moment to overwhelm her. “But I didn’t turn my head away because I don’t like you to touch me. I did it because—”

“I know why you did it. I’m good enough to fuck. But don’t put my filthy paws on you without permission.”

“No!” She closed her eyes, rubbed her head, opened her eyes again.

“I’m nothing but a novelty, a plaything to use while you’re out of the sight of real life, and to abandon when you go back to the surface to be with
real
people. Yes, I may be a pathetic creature, a man who’s forced to live alone and finds his usual satisfaction with Rosie Palm and her five sisters”—lifting his open hand, he closed it into a fist—“but I have my pride, and I have no intention of providing you with a diversion while you recover. So from now on, you keep your hands and your lips and your body to yourself. You sleep on your side of the bed and I’ll sleep on mine. Now, if you’ll excuse me”—he pulled his pillow out from underneath her head—“I need to sleep. Tomorrow I plan to give Osgood and his minions a surprise, and clean up the area under his building.” Turning his back to her, Guardian plumped his pillow and . . . well, he didn’t relax. The air around him shimmered with heat.

What happened to her intention to help him find himself? She had only made him feel worse.

Her hand hovered over his shoulder, then fell away. She was faint, exhausted, and he wasn’t going to listen to her tonight. Better save her breath for tomorrow.

Tomorrow he would listen to her.

Or else.

Chapter 22

G
uardian watched the procession of demons crawl out of the hole that led down to the deepest depths of hell, up the steep, winding stone stairway, and into the foundations of Osgood’s building. How long ago had Osgood—or rather, the devil that possessed Osgood—conceived the plan to blast the Gypsy Travel Agency to smithereens? How long ago had he plotted to build on the ruins? Because that stairway looked as if it had been constructed millennia ago. That kind of forethought—no, foresight—made Guardian’s battle against the demons seem even more futile.

But he couldn’t sit by and watch them swarm through the New York City tunnels. He had to fight. He had to do what he could to stem the tide.

And really, what else would he do with his time? It wasn’t like he could stop by a bar at night and lift a few beers with the rest of the guys.

Of course, if he’d kept his big fat mouth shut, he could be boinking Charisma. . . .

No. Don’t think of that.
He wouldn’t think about her two-toned hair or her pink, puckered nipples or the way she whimpered, deep in her throat, when he used his tongue on her, pulling her honey out of her body for his own delectation. He wouldn’t think of holding her body against his, plunging into her heated depths, finding a satisfaction and release that broke open his defensive shell and left him vulnerable. And for shit’s sake, he wouldn’t imagine what it would be like if she wrapped those full, soft lips around his dick and—

Son of a bitch.
He needed to concentrate on what he was doing.

Quietly, he moved into position and aimed his ammunition—a massive spotlight—at the stairs. In one swift move, he flipped it on.

Blinding white light blasted the scurrying little bastards. The ones who caught the full force of the beam staggered, lost their footing, fell screaming into the depths. The others scrambled around, blinded and confused, gibbering frantically.

Guardian always liked this part. He should go back to the cave and create a video game called Killing Demons for Fun, with different levels involving lights, singing, and extra points for head chopping.

When he had knocked the greatest possible number of demons off the stairs, he waved the spotlight randomly around, picking the stragglers off with a blast of light that made them moan, run, and sometimes, shrivel into little burned black husks.

But fighting them involved more than just eradicating them. He had to lure them in so he could get his hands on them.

He didn’t bother to shoot them anymore.

Now he used a hatchet to slash off their heads. He didn’t know whether that killed them, since he didn’t know whether they were alive, but it seemed the only way to actually eliminate them.

During this part, he had to be careful. If they overwhelmed him, they would drag him down, tie him up, and leave him.

He didn’t know why they didn’t kill him. It couldn’t be for anything good.

Sooner or later Taurean would find him, but it was always an unpleasant few days, and after spending so much time caring for Charisma, he didn’t have any more days to squander.

So now he pretended to be completely occupied with his light, pretended not to hear the patter of padded feet behind him.

The nasty little cockroaches fell for this trick every time.

They got close, beautifully close.

Then, turning suddenly, he blasted them with the light.

Screaming. Shriveling. A full-fledged retreat.

Yay for him.

Eventually, of course, the overwhelming odds got him.

The demons sprang at him from all sides at the same time. They leaped from the walls. They fell from the ceiling. They were endless, nasty, disgusting things, neither human nor devil, just drops of distilled malice with feet and hands, and two eyes, usually. And teeth. Way too many teeth.

His lungs burned. His heart pumped with adrenaline. He fought them, as he always did, his skills honed by too many battles like this one.

One dropped from the ceiling, grabbed the hair that had escaped Guardian’s superhero suit, and swung like a monkey. It opened its wide mouth. Fangs gleamed.

A blast of foul breath made Guardian stagger.
This is it. He’s going to bite off my face.

The demon met his eyes. Froze. Shuddered. Dropped to the ground.

Guardian didn’t understand. What was it with the demons not wanting—or daring—to bite him?

Slamming his foot into the middle of its back, Guardian leaned down and cut off its head.

The demons gibbered in horror and attacked again.

So now he fought. And he sang.

He liked Broadway show tunes. When he was feeling ironic, he sang songs from Disney’s
Beauty and the Beast
or
Phantom of the Opera
. But he favored
The Sound of Music
. The theme song and “Do-Re-Mi” made the demons cry in pain, and “How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria” made them cower and cover their ears.

But he saved the best for last, when he knew he was tiring, to drive them away so he could escape. When he had worked out enough frustration and anger, he pulled in a long breath.

The demons froze. They knew what was coming.

He lifted his voice, sang the first few words: “Climb every mountain. . . .”

They retreated.

“Ford every stream,” he sang louder, more powerfully. “Follow every rainbow, till you find your dream. . . .”

The demons whined. They sniveled.

Like a magic act, they disappeared back to the depths from whence they came.

Hands hanging at his sides, Guardian stood alone in the dark.

His spotlight was gone. Some of the braver demons had smashed it. Happened every time.

He winced as he cataloged his cuts and bruises. Turning, he trudged back toward the Guardian cave.

The Guardian cave . . . and Charisma.

Inevitably, his mind returned to the question that gnawed at him.

When he rejected Charisma, what
had
he been thinking?

Or rather—when had he started thinking like a girl?

Yeah, he got his feelings hurt when he touched her and she turned her head away. So what? When had his feelings become so delicate?

More to the point, when had his pride become more important than getting in Charisma’s pants?

She was valiant, strong, stunning, funny, sexy, and he had wanted her from the first time he picked her up, carried her to the cave, and watched her fight to recover from the demon bite.

Sure, maybe the reason she was willing to hump his brains out was because she had some perverted male beast fantasy. At least she was freaking horny, so hot her skin sizzled against his. Last night had been the best sex he ever remembered.

Okay, it was the only sex he ever remembered. But he was pretty sure it wasn’t the first time he’d had sex; it had been like riding a bike. He had the balance; he had the moves . . . he knew how to pop a wheelie.

He grinned. When he was a kid, he had flipped a lot of wheelies on his grandparents’ gravel drive, but in those innocent days, he had never imagined . . .

He froze. He stared into the eternal night of the underground.

But . . .

He saw his bike, the best blue mountain bike ever made. He saw the nubby tread on the front tire, saw it start spinning as he pushed off. He leaned over the handlebars. Heard the spit of gravel behind him. Felt the wind in his hair as he picked up speed. Saw the flash of green and brown as the forest whipped by on either side. He broke out into the valley. The grapevines. The garden. The milling crowd of people.

Independence Day. Fourth of July. The annual picnic.

Right in front of the house—right in front of it—he shifted back on the seat, pulled on the handlebars. The front tire lifted smoothly, and he rode past his parents, his grandparents, the whole crowd, thirty feet down the road and into the grapevines. Then he smoothly lowered the tire and lay low, because when his mother and grandmother got ahold of him, they were going to shriek.

But while they were scolding, he knew his father and grandfather and uncles would be giving him the secret thumbs-up. And his cousins would never top this. When he thought about how—

He heard the sound of soft feet pattering behind him.

The stench of rotting garbage wafted to his nose.

He was cloaked in darkness, below New York. And something hit him from behind. It knocked him onto his knees.

Bruises on bruises, and all for one lousy leftover demon.

Getting painfully to his feet, Guardian plucked the little rodent off his neck, dangled it in the air, and then dropped it down a shaft that went to China.

It shrieked all the way down.

Then he sought in his mind for that moment on his bike on the road on Independence Day in front of his family. . . .

His family . . .

Somewhere he had a family. A human family. Family who cared enough to grab a boy and lecture him on the dangers of popping wheelies. He saw his mother and grandmother shaking their fingers at him, while in the background Grandpa gave him a thumbs-up.

The vision had vanished. But the faces remained.

He remembered no facts, only a moment in time.

But
it told him so much—and
he had remembered.

He remembered his family, and he wanted to remember more. To explore his mind, to find the ragged remnants of sanity and recollection and weave them together into a whole life. His whole life.

But right now, no matter how much he struggled, he was here. Underground. In the dark and the still heat, and his mind would not cooperate.

So he would move on to his next priority. He had to go square things with Charisma.

If he handled this right, he could be popping wheelies with her all night long.