Heaven, Texas (Chicago Stars #2)(87)

“Way?”

Nothing.

She took an involuntary step backward. Garments brushed her naked body. She strained to hear the sound of an indrawn breath, a movement, a joint cracking, anything.

Out of nowhere, a hand touched her outer thigh. She jumped. Because she could see nothing, hear nothing, the hand seemed disembodied, as if it were coming from a phantom lover, something not quite human, demonic, even. It brushed over the patch on her hip, and she stiffened. It moved on, touching her waist, climbing her rib cage, caressing her tender, tortured breasts.

She could no longer stand submissively in front of this demon lover. Reaching out with the palms of her hands, she felt for him. She touched his chest and realized he had discarded his robe. The thick pelt of hair was soft beneath her fingers. Hoyt’s chest hadn’t been as hairy, and the strangeness of this body heightened her dark fantasy that she had fallen in with the devil. The configuration of muscles beneath her hands felt wrong, not what she had grown accustomed to over three decades. She was alone in thick, dark space with a demon lover, and her wicked body silently begged for his touch.

Despite the threat of eternal damnation, her hands began to roam him, learning his devil’s body by touch. His skin should no longer be damp from their bath, but it was, damp and hot. Beneath her fingertips, his muscles contracted, and for the first time she could hear the heaviness of his breathing. She dropped her hands, touching him there, where she had no business being, exploring him, greedy with desire. She tested his weight and thickness, stroked him.

Abruptly, he pushed her away, and once again she stood alone in the impenetrable darkness.

Her breathing rattled in her ears.

He turned her. His hands palmed her buttocks, kneaded them, slipped between. Once again, she felt only his hands in the darkness, nothing else, no other part of him. Disembodied demon hands separated her legs, stroked her until she hummed and quivered. Abruptly, he pushed her down on her back into the thick, soft carpet.

She lay there waiting.

Nothing.

Death thick darkness. The loom of the grave. The specter of damnation. She embraced it all.

A force—animal, human, demon spirit?—caught her knees and opened them. No other touch. Just a demanding pressure, ordering her to offer up her most tender parts in sacrifice to the dark angel.

And then nothing.

She lay waiting, barely able to breathe. Damned already, her body burned with pagan passion.

Then she felt it. The soft tickle on her inner thighs. The parting. The moist hot tracing of a tongue.

Oh, this! This! She had missed it unbearably. Dreamed of it. This lap and thrust, this rough and silken stroking, the suction, the greedy mouth full-feasting, all of it heightened by the darkness of the underworld. Her demon lover devoured her until she lost herself. With a cry she fell, spinning round and round, dropping into the embracing pit.

He was inside her before she could reclaim her self. His body covered her and filled her. She wrapped her legs around his hips, her arms around his neck. Her breasts burned as they rubbed against the thick hair on his chest. He plunged into her center, withdrew, plunged again and again, carrying her with him on his spiraling journey upward.

His cry was low and hoarse, hers a keening wail as they tumbled together into the very heart of darkness.

It had never felt more welcome.

Some time later, she began to cry. Light spilled over her as he opened the door of the closet. She curled into a ball, hid her face in her arms. Guilt and shame consumed her. My love, my love. She had betrayed her husband, betrayed the man she loved with all her heart. She had promised to love him forever, until death do us part. But she wasn’t dead. And he was still the husband of her heart, her dearest love, and she had betrayed him.

It shouldn’t have happened like this. She was supposed to have been making a sacrifice! She had gone to Way to save the town. Instead, she had ended up pleading with him to take her, and in the process, she had lost herself.

“Stop it, Suzy. Please.” His voice was ragged, almost as if he were in pain.

She plucked at the towel fallen in a heap next to her and struggled to sit as she used it to cover her shame. She looked up and saw him looming above her, still naked, wet with her.

Tears of grief coursed down her cheeks. “I want to go home.”

“You’re too upset,” he said quietly. “I can’t let you do that.”

She dropped her gaze to her lap, studying her bare knees, which were bent beneath her. “Why did you do this to me?” she cried. “Why couldn’t you have left me alone?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I’m sorry.”

He picked up his robe from the floor and slipped into it. It was dark green and richly patterned. Gently clasping her arm, he drew her up off the carpet. As she stood next to him, he pulled a white terry cloth robe from a hook by the door and helped her into it, though it was much too large for her. His hand rested in the center of her back as he steered her from the closet she had entered so many centuries before. She moved automatically beside him. What difference did it make where he took her? What more could he do to her?

He led her as if she were a child, to a comfortable, overstuffed chair sitting near the window. Her eyes pleaded with him. “Let me go now.” Once again, she began to cry.

He lifted her into his arms and settled her on his lap in the chair. Tucking her against his chest, he stroked her hair. “Don’t cry,” he whispered. “Please don’t cry.” His lips brushed her forehead, her temple. “This wasn’t your fault. It was me. I did this to you.”