Standing in the Shadows (McClouds & Friends #2)(125)

She convulsed around him, wailing. The clutching pulses of her climax almost pulled him over the top with her, but he dragged himself back. Just barely. The table was about to collapse. He pulled her, stumbling, to the bed, and tumbled her facedown onto the quilt.

She rolled over to face him before he could pin her down from behind. Not good. He wanted to lose himself in pounding oblivion. What he absolutely did not want was for her to stare up into his face with those big dark eyes that saw so much, that stripped him bare.

Then he saw her hair tangled over the pillow, her plump breasts heaving, legs splayed open, cunt glistening. A sheen of sweat made her body gleam like a pearl in the red whorehouse light.

He trembled as he stared down at her. He'd never seen the point of kinky sex props and accoutrements before, but those black stockings, those f*ck-me shoes, that smeared mascara, drove him out of his skull, like whips snapping at him, stinging him into a blind red chaos of lust and fury. The goddamn bed was too narrow to push her legs wide. He wrenched it away from the wall. He wrenched off his boots, his jeans.

He had no secrets, no masks with her anyway. He would take her from the front, and to hell with what she saw in his face.



Connor's expression did not soften as he mounted her. She flinched and braced herself, grasping his shoulders. It was so different like this. None of the warmth and tenderness of last night. None of the joy. Just hunger and need and hard anger. It made her feel alone and desolate, even while he overwhelmed her with his big body.

She pressed her hands against his chest, feeling the muscles shift and move beneath the hot softness of his skin as his hips pumped heavily against her. "I don't want it like this between us," she said.

He bore her down under his weight, pinning her to the bed. "This is the way it has to be," he said. "I couldn't pretend to feel anything else tonight, even if I wanted to. Which I don't. What would be the point?"

"I'm not asking you to pretend," she said. "I'm asking you to trust me. I'm asking you to remember. Last night, you said that we—"

"Last night you hadn't lied to me and jerked me around. Last night you hadn't driven me out of my skull with jealousy. The world was real different last night, sweetheart." He folded her legs up high and thrust, hard enough to make her gasp. "And you were the one who changed things. Not me. So take responsibility."

His words kindled a spark of anger that glowed and flared brighter every second that passed. "I always take responsibility," she shot back. "Always. All my life. For every single goddamn thing. But this time, I won't do it." She slapped at his chest, and struggled beneath him. "This time, it's not my fault, Connor! This thing is not… my…fault!"

He grabbed her flailing wrists and gazed down at her with narrowed eyes. "So are you saying that it's my fault, then?"

"I don't know! I don't understand what's happening to us. It's like we're under an evil spell. But I do know that I love you, Connor! I love you!" She grabbed his shoulders and pulled him down against her.

"Damn it. No. I don't want to—damn it, Erin!" He swore viciously and fought her, but she hung on to him with all her strength. He would have to hurt her to make her let go, and she knew he couldn't bear to.

She persisted, pulling on him until he collapsed on top of her with a harsh sob. He hid his face in the pillow and pumped himself against her, painfully hard. He let out a muffled shout. The paroxysm that wrenched through him seemed almost more like pain than pleasure.

His heart thundered against her bosom. She cradled his trembling, sweaty body and tried to pull his face to hers so she could kiss him.

He utterly refused to turn. He just shook his head and kept his face stubbornly buried in the pillow. She petted his damp hair, searching for words, but there were no words that could make the wall between them disappear. It felt as thick and cold and implacable as stone.

Connor finally pushed himself up and off her body, letting his hair veil his face. She knew that trick. She'd been using it all her life.

She reached to push his hair back. His hand flashed out and clamped over her wrist, blocking it. He shook his head, and let go.

He turned his back on her and started to pull on his jeans.

She stood up on unsteady legs, and realized that they hadn't used a condom. Scalding liquid trickled down her thigh.

She unbuckled the fragile, ridiculous shoes. Stripped off the ruined stockings. Her mind couldn't encompass it all. She could only handle little bits at a time. Connor's back to her, rigid with unspoken pain and fury. Mueller's icy attempt at seduction. Nick's revelations. Novak's death by fire. The golden dress, rent in two. Connor's seed, trickling down her thigh. The seams of her life had all burst.

She stumbled into her bathroom, and closed and locked the door.



Connor got dressed and waited, his head in his hands, for her to come out. It was a long wait. At one point, Erin's cat poked its head out cautiously from under one of the chairs. It picked its way daintily out into the middle of the ravaged room, sat down on its haunches, and regarded him. There was a cool, judgmental gleam in its golden eyes.

"Who the hell do you think you're looking at?" he asked it wearily.

The bathroom door finally opened. Erin walked out, still naked, but damp and smelling of her shower gel. Her face was severely innocent of makeup, her hair smoothed back into a tight, gleaming wet braid.