Dead After Dark (Companion #6.5)(70)

It was the wee hours of the morning. But Drew wasn’t tired. The hours of making love to this woman seemed to fill him with energy rather than drain him. He had brought her to release several times now. And he had held his in abeyance. That should have been onerous. But it wasn’t. Even now she was caressing his cock as she sucked at one of his nipples. She was so skilled, the sensation so intense, he seemed to find some core of stamina that allowed him to appreciate the pleasure she gave him for what it was in the moment, not the orgasm it would bring. Several times he had felt that constriction in his testicles that came with lust unreleased. She seemed to sense it. Perhaps his balls tightened. Always she would massage them gently until the aching passed. Once or twice when he was on the brink of orgasm, her eyes seemed to glow red again. He was so centered in the moment he could not focus on the questions that raised. She would whisper, “Find your center,” and he would regain control again.

He had never felt closer to a woman. She was so generous, so attentive. He was only glad he could return the favor. She rolled on to her back, her breasts flattening, and opened her knees to invite him in. He hung on his elbows above her, positioned his cock.

“Fill me. Please,” she whispered.

He sheathed himself in her wet warmth. She bit her lip in pleasure. He began to stroke in and out, slowly. He could do this. He went inside himself again, trying to get lost in the rhythm.

Until she changed it. She wanted it faster now. “I’m not sure I can hold it,” he panted.

“Now is the time to stop trying,” she breathed.

He blinked. Now? Then he grinned. He repositioned himself so that his cock touched her on that spot that women liked the most, just in front of the entrance to her womb proper, and pumped in and out a few times to stimulate it. That made her open her eyes. They slapped together in delicious counterpoint. His loins were so tight, his genitals so heavy and sensitive, he thought he might burst. But he had to wait a little longer. Surely a woman as sensual as she was could reach ecstasy just once more tonight. He grabbed her buttocks as he knelt upright, his knees wide. She wrapped her legs around him. He plunged into her harder and harder, as if he could never get enough of her. He felt her begin to contract around him, and he let go.

The explosion was like nothing he had ever felt. His seed pulsed into her, on and on, stripping him of all his fluids. His vision contracted to a single point of light. He could hear himself grunting from somewhere far away, a bass counterpoint to her shrieks.

They both collapsed, finally, nothing left of themselves to share. He cradled her against his body. This most sexual of experiences had felt almost . . . spiritual. He’d started tonight as one kind of person—alone, inviolate, sure of his purpose. And he’d ended as someone else, a man who needed someone else.

He’d never needed Emily, except as revenge on her father. He’d never even known her. He’d certainly never loved her. He knew that now. But this woman, with whom he’d shared only a few words, he knew with every fiber of his being.

He just didn’t know any facts about her. And now that he was not buried in the sensation of the moment, there were definitely questions.

Well, he’d have to remedy that.





4


She snuggled against him. They had been drowsing together for a while, but he knew she was awake. He had been wondering where to start with his questions. His preoccupation with his mission to find Emily, the incredible sexual attraction they’d felt—all had distracted him and made his denial of those questions easy. But he could no longer ignore them. He would come round to red eyes and disappearing and the wounds at his neck. He was not frightened of her, not after tonight. But he could not dismiss them as mere tricks. He would start his questions with what had happened to him. What he really wanted was to know if she had experienced it, too. “I’ve never felt anything like that.”

She stretched and pressed her breasts against him. He thought she’d stripped every drop of semen from his body, yet still he felt a stirring in his loins.

“Good,” she said, her mouth softening into a smile.

“What . . . what was that?”

“The closeness we felt?”

We. He nodded, brushing his lips across her hair. She had felt it, too.

“It is the teaching of the Tantra. It comes from the Hindu, though Buddhists and Jains practice also.”

“They teach sex?” You could study sex? Apparently. She must have.

“Well, more it is the meditation that they teach. They believe the physical is an expression of the divine. And physical acts can bring you closer to God. Like sex, if you do it correctly.”

“You do it correctly,” he murmured, holding her close. Had she done this thing with others? To distract himself from that thought, he asked, “Will you tell me your name now?”

She looked conscious, as though she didn’t realize she had never revealed even this much of herself to him. “Freya. My name is Freya.”

After the Norse goddess of fertility and plenty. That was appropriate. “Freya.” He savored it. “Well, Freya, why do you live here alone, without even removing the Holland covers from the furniture and make the villagers think you are a ghost?”

She stiffened and he thought she would push away from him. Then he felt her soften. Maybe it was resignation. Her voice was small, and she did not look at him. “I am a bad person, Drew. I have done bad things. My father required them of me and of my sisters but we did not protest. One sister went mad from doing them. And I never even thought to refuse. I had never been away from my father’s . . . house until he sent my remaining sister and me to England. We were doing this thing, and it was dangerous, and it had perhaps eaten at her mind, as well. I told her she must quit. But she wouldn’t. And . . . and then I couldn’t do it any more. So I stopped. And that meant I didn’t support her. She . . . died.” She took a shuddering breath.