Overture (North Security, #1)(50)
But the detectives are courteous and professional. Unlike the reporter, they haven’t been digging into my personal background before they show up. They aren’t aware there’s any connection between my father and what happened tonight. Did the driver interact with you before he rammed from behind? Do you know why he was chasing you?
They show me a photo of him, leaning back in the driver’s seat, a neat hole in the center of his forehead. I shiver, and Liam rubs slow circles on my back. Have you seen him before?
No, no, and no.
The doctor looks me over and declares me healthy—some bruising, he says, offering a prescription that is guaranteed to numb the pain.
“No,” I say because I think the nightmares may be worse.
Liam accepts the bottle with a grim nod, keeping it safe in case I need it.
Then he takes me back upstairs and tucks me into bed. “What about Laney?” I ask, pain and adrenaline making me jittery. “What about Cody’s truck? His dad—”
“I know,” Liam says, his green eyes fathomless. “I’ll take care of them.”
“You said he’s not your business.”
“I was wrong, Samantha.”
I clasp his wrist in a wordless plea, feeling the interplay of tendon and muscle, a silent string instrument in the form of a man.
He climbs into the bed behind me, his warmth an immediate comfort.
“You don’t have to stay.” I close my hand around his arm, pressing my fingers along the strings as if it were the neck of a violin—G4, D4, A4, E5.
He doesn’t move, but I feel his gentle amusement ripple the air. “Let me,” he murmurs. “After seeing the truck go off the road, I’m definitely going to have nightmares.”
And I sink back into the murky sleep, the one with my father shouting, pleading, cursing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
In addition to being a composer and talented violinist, Vivaldi was ordained by the Catholic Church. He was given the nickname The Red Priest in reference to his hair color.
LIAM
In my dream there are soft hands exploring me.
These are the hands of a violinist, incredibly swift and strong and sure. I suck in a breath when they find a decades-old cut on my side. It feels like a lance, the gentle fingertip tracing the scar. They move lower, lower, lower. The backs of delicate knuckles brush against stiff denim, a butterfly beating its wings against a boulder—and breaking it apart.
I roll the warm weight of her beneath me, determined to extract payment. My dick throbs with years of unspent desire. My hands aren’t nearly so soft. I’m going to rip her silk-flutter skin the way I’m grabbing her, holding her, using her, but I can’t make myself stop.
It’s a dream; I don’t have to stop.
I press my face into her hair, breathing in the sun-drenched strands. Her skin feels impossibly smooth against my cheek, beneath my lips. I lick her to see if she tastes as sweet. Like the velvet skin of a peach, holding such treasure inside.
The curve of her neck and the place it joins her shoulder. That’s where I bite down, reveling in the squeak of sound she makes, the way she stiffens beneath my thighs. Afraid. Afraid. Afraid. She should be scared of me. It would take so little force to break the skin. I must be careful. Even in my dream, I can’t hurt her.
I turn my attention lower, to the slope of her breast. The faint memory of black ruffles threatens the edges of my mind… but there is no silk here. There’s only a thin T-shirt, and the warning bells recede. My tongue finds her nipple, teasing until it becomes hard enough to bite through the fabric. I’ve never been tame.
Even when I stand in a suit, in a roomful of a hundred other people, I’m a wild animal wearing clothes. The fact that I choose not to rage and rip and roar does not change who I am.
During sex my base nature reveals fully.
I close my lips around her breast, sucking her through the cotton. My hand plays with her other nipple, which is already hard; it wants my attention there, my mouth.
“Oh God,” someone moans, but I must have imagined that.
I find the hem of her shirt and lift until her breasts are exposed to the cool night air. I nuzzle them from underneath, where a deep warmth permeates her skin. And then higher, to her nipple. This is her punishment for touching me, from waking me from hibernation.
She tastes so goddamn sweet. Like sunshine made flesh.
One of my knees nudges her legs apart. My hips settle against hers in an ages-old formation. There’s a warm notch for my cock. Even through her panties and my jeans, I can feel the cradle of her body. It’s the perfect place to settle while I kiss her breasts.
Forever. That’s how long I could remain here, feeling her warmth, petting her softness while she writhes in helpless welcome. While she makes little sounds.
Her hips move against me, hesitant and hungry.
“That’s right,” I mutter against her nipple, licking in approval. “Make yourself ready for me. I’m so fucking hard right now. I need you soft and ready.”
If she isn’t, I could hurt her—bruise her secret muscles or tear her tender folds. I clasp her hip and hitch her against me to show her the rhythm. When she comes, her tight little body will clench and release liquid that will ease the way.
She isn’t a hot shower and the jerk of my fist. Once I get my cock inside her, I’m going to stay there for a long time. Even when I break her little hymen, I’m going to slide through the blood and the arousal. When I come, I’m going to keep fucking her, the salt enough to sting any break in her skin. Even that wouldn’t be enough to make me stop.