The Story of Son(5)
Author: J.R. Ward

Man . . . she was surprised they'd picked her, for no other reason than her personality was so assertive. Then again, she'd been pretty damn ladylike around Miss Leeds. And she was an acceptable target, she supposed: a single woman traveling alone on the last, rowdy weekend of the summer.

Clearly, they had an M.O. that had worked for five decades. And they were going to protect themselves. By force, according to Michael's fear.

She was going to need help getting him out. Maybe she could have him—no, he probably wasn't going to be the kind of backup she needed, given the head f**k that had been done on him. Damn .. . she was going to have to come back for him and she knew who to bring. She had friends in law enforcement, the kind who would be willing to put their badges in the drawer and leave their guns on their hips. The kind who could take care of a messy scene.

The kind who could take care of Fletcher while she took care of Michael.

She was coming back for him.

"No," Michael said. "You will not remember. You cannot come back."

A fresh wave of anger hit. That he could obviously read her mind didn't piss her off as much as the idea that he'd prevent her from helping him—even if it was because he wanted to protect her. "The hell I won't remember."

"I shall take your memories—"

"No, you won't." She put her hands on her hips. "Because you're going to swear on your honor, right here, right now, that you won't."

She knew she had him because she sensed there was nothing he would deny her. And she had absolute faith that if he promised he would leave her memories alone, he would.

"Swear to it." When he stayed quiet, she pushed her wet hair back. "This needs to stop. It isn't right on so many levels and this time your mother picked the wrong bitch to throw down here with you. You are getting out and I'm going to spring you."

The smile he gave her was wistful, just a little lift to his mouth. "You are a fighter."

"Yes. Always. And sometimes I'm a whole army. Now give me your word."

He looked around the room with yearning in his face, his eyes intent as if he were trying to see through the stone walls and the earth up to the sky that was so far away. "I have not known fresh air in . . . a long time."

"Let me help you. Give me your word."

His eyes shifted over to her. They were such kind, intelligent, warm eyes. The sort of eyes you would want in a lover.

Claire stopped herself because being his Good Samaritan did not include sleeping with him. Although . . . what a night that would be. His big body was no doubt capable of—

Stop it.

"Michael? Your word. Now."

He dropped his head. "I promise."

"What. What do you promise." The lawyer in her had to nail down the specifics.

"That I shall leave you intact."

"Not good enough. Intact could mean physically or mentally. Say to me, 'Claire, I will not take your memories of me or this experience from you.'"

"Claire . . . what a lovely name."

"Don't stall. And look at me as you say it."

After a moment, his eyes rose to hers and he didn't blink or look away. "Claire, I will not take your memories of me or what transpires from you."

""Good." She went over to the bed and lay on top of the velvet duvet. As she arranged the lapels of the robe, he sank down into the chair.

"You look exhausted," she said to his back. "Why don't you come lie down? This bed is more than big enough for the both of us."

He braced his arms against his thighs. "That would not be appropriate."

"Why?"

All the candles dimmed. "Sleep. I will come to you later."

"Michael? Michael?"

Abruptly, a wave of exhaustion came over her. As she blacked out, she had a fleeting thought that it was because he had willed it so.

Claire woke up in total darkness, with the sense that he was looming over her. She was in the bed, as if he'd tucked her between the sheets.

"Michael?" When he didn't say anything, she asked, "Is it time for you to . . . ?"

"Not yet."

He said no more and still did not move, so she whispered, "What is it?"

"Did you mean it?"

"About getting you out?"

"No. When you asked me if I would . . . lay beside you?' "Yes."

She heard him take a deep breath. "Then may I. . . join you?"

"Yes."

She moved the sheets, making room as the mattress dipped low under the great weight of him. But instead of getting in, he stayed on top of the duvet.

"Aren't you cold?" she said. "Come inside."

The hesitation didn't surprise her. The fact that he lifted the blankets did. "I will retain my robe."

The bed moved as he shifted and the sound of the chains chilled her, reminding her they were both trapped. But then she smelled dark spices and could only think of holding him. Easing herself over, she touched his arm. When he jerked then settled, she was aware she had decided to be with him.

"Have you had many lovers?" he asked.

So he knew what she wanted, too. And she had a feeling he had come to her because he was seeking it as well. Still, she wasn't sure how to answer the question without making him feel insecure.

"Have you?" he prompted.

"A few. Not many." She'd been much more interested in winning at the negotiation table than sex.

"Your first time, what was it like? Were you scared?"

"No."

"Oh."

"I wanted to get it over with. I was twenty-three. I started late."

"Is that late?" he murmured. "How old are you now?" "Thirty-two."

"How many." Now, there was a masculine demand in his voice, an edge. And she liked the contrast with his essentially gentle disposition.

"Only three."

"Did they . . . please you?"

"Sometimes."

"When was the last time?" The words came fast and low.

He was jealous and it shouldn't have pleased her, but it did. She wanted him to feel possessive, because she wanted to have him.

"A year ago." He exhaled as if relieved, and in the silence that followed, she became curious. "And when was the last time you . . . relieved yourself?"

He cleared his throat and she was damn sure he was blushing. "In the shower."

"Just now?" she asked with surprise.

"It was hours ago. Or at least it feels that way." He coughed a little. "After I came to you—well, during the time that I came to you, I became . . . needful. To resist, I had to leave you and that is why I didn't finish you properly. I was afraid I would . . . touch you."

"What if I wanted that?"

"I will not have sex with you."

She sat up on her elbow. "Light a candle. I need to see your face while we talk like this."

Candles flared on both sides of the bed.

He was on his back, his lids closed, his red and black hair a great sea of waves over the white pillows.

"Why won't you look at me?" she asked. "Damn it, Michael. Look at me."

"I look at you all the time. When the lights are off, I watch you. I stare at you."

"So meet me in the eye now."

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"It hurts."

Claire ran her hand up his arm. The muscles underneath strained, his biceps thick and well defined, his triceps cut.

"It shouldn't hurt to look at a person," she said.

"It is too close for me."

She stayed silent for a moment. "Michael, I'm going to kiss you. Now." When she heard the demand in her voice she throttled back a little. She didn't want to force him. "That is, if it's okay with you? You can absolutely say no."

She could feel his body tremble, the subtle quakes transmitted through the mattress. "I want you to. Until I think I will suffocate from the wanting. But then you know that, don't you. You know that's why I came to you."

"Yes, I do."

He laughed a little. "That is why I am as needful of you as I am. You see everything about me and you are unafraid. And you are the only one who has ever thought of getting me out."

She moved over to him and those burning blue eyes shifted to hers.

"Raise your head," she told him. When he did, she reached out and freed his hair from the leather tie. Splaying it out fully, she marveled at the glory and the weight and the incredible colors. Then she made eye contact and started to lower her mouth to his.

His lids pulled back, his stare bursting.

She stopped.

"Why are you frightened?" she asked, smoothing his widow's peak.

He shook his head impatiently. "Just kiss me."

"Tell me why."

"What if you don't like me?"

"I will. I do." To reassure him, she dipped her head down and pressed her lips to his softly: then she stroked over his mouth. God, he was velvet. And warmth. And anxious heat.

Especially as he groaned. The sound was all male and all about sex and her body responded by going loose between her legs.

To get his mouth parted, she licked at him, becoming lost in the sensation of soft on soft, breath on breath. When he opened up, she pressed inside, meeting the hard polish of his front teeth, then sinking in. She stroked his tongue and felt his chest rise sharply.

Worried that she'd gone too far, too fast, she pulled back. "Do you want to stop—"

The growl came out of nowhere. And he moved so fast, she couldn't track him.

The room spun as he flipped her over onto her back and then straddled her, a huge male animal who didn't frighten her in the slightest. He leaned down, the weight of his chest compressing hers, his legs bracketing her hips. He was breathing hard as he put their faces together, his eyes positively glowing.

"I need more," he demanded. "Do that more. Harder. Now."

Claire recovered quickly and lifted her head off the pillow, fusing their mouths. He pushed back, forcing her down, deepening the contact. And he learned fast. In a slick penetration, his tongue shot into her mouth and she surged under him.

With his legs straddling her, she couldn't feel his erection. And she wanted that, needed that.

She yanked her mouth away from his. "Put yourself between my legs. Lie between my thighs."

He lifted up and looked down at their bodies; then he used his knee to part her and fused them together.

"Oh, God," Claire moaned as he gasped. His arousal was hot and hard through the thin layers of silk they wore. And he was massive.

"Tell me what to do," he said. "Tell me . . ."

She raised her knees up and tilted her pelvis, cradling him into her sex. "Rub yourself against me. Your hips. Move them."

He did until they were both panting and groaning and his head was buried in her neck. The silk was a conductor, an enhancement, hardly any barrier at all. And maybe because of their circumstances, because this was like a fantasy, Claire let herself go, giving herself permission for once just to feel. She didn't think of anything but the contours of his body against her own and the way his surging motion was absorbed by her core and the incredible smell of him and the heat of the sex.

When he pulled back, she was ready to have him inside. Especially as he said, "I want to see you."

"Then take off my robe."

As he reared up, he took her breath away. His hair spilled all around him in glorious waves that caught and magnified the candlelight. His face was too beautiful to be real. And at his hips, a hungry, proud length was straining behind red silk.

"You are a dream," she said.

His hands shook as they gripped the tie that was around her waist and slowly slid the two pieces apart. He took the lapels and pulled them back, revealing her br**sts.

As he looked at her, she became aware that he was making a strange sound, like the deep purr of a cat.

"You are. . . resplendent," he said, his eyes wide with wonder and awe. "May I touch you?"

When she nodded, one of his long-fingered hands came out. He brushed the underside of one breast and then traveled up to the pink, tight crown. The instant he made contact with her nipple, she arched and closed her eyes. His touch was like a flame, weighing nothing and burning her.

"Kiss me," she said, reaching for his shoulders so she could pull him down to her breast. When he went for her mouth instead, she stopped him. "On my br**sts this time. Kiss me on them. All over them. Take them into your mouth and roll the n**ples with your tongue."

Michael eased himself down her body until he was eye level with one of her n**ples. His expression was part animalistic lust, like he wanted to devour her, and part winsome, aching gratitude.

He nuzzled at her and then covered her with his lips. As she shuddered and linked her legs around the middle of his back, he sucked gently, learning her body, taking his time. Impatient, needing more, she threaded her hands through his hair and urged him on so he'd work her with power.

He didn't need much encouragement.

Sexually speaking, his natural inclination was to dominate. She might have started out as the teacher, but he was taking things from there, driving the sex, taking them both higher. He watched her as he suckled on her, his eyes greedy and hot, all male satisfaction as she writhed under him. And then he was kissing her again and his hands were grabbing on to her h*ps so he could rub his arousal into her.

They had reached the point of no return as far as she was concerned and she was about to say so when he pulled back.

His mouth was open, his fangs showing. That was when she came.

She convulsed under his body, her thighs clamping around his hips, her core pressing upward, seeking more even as it released.

She was vaguely aware as his expression changed to one of shock. Which made sense because she was shouting something incoherent and digging her nails into him.

When she'd settled down, her eyes focused.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"God . . . yes." Her voice was haggard.