The Story of Son(7)
Author: J.R. Ward

"No, you won't. You're going to finish somewhere else." She found a rhythm with her hand and sucked his head and felt him shake and sweat and . . .

And when he was wild and raw, she released him and crawled up his chest.

"Make love with me, Michael. Finish inside me."

He groaned. "You're so small—"

She straddled his hips, ready to join them, but then she hesitated as he went totally still. God, now she knew what decent men felt like, the disquiet before taking someone for their first time. She didn't want to force him into it. She was desperate for him but only if it really felt right on both sides.

"Michael?" she said softly. "Are you okay?" He wasn't and the length of time it took him to say yes proved it.

"If you think I'm taking this too f—"

His arms shot around her. "What if I hurt you?"

"Is that your only concern?"

"Yes."

"You won't. I promise you." She stroked his chest. "I'm going to be fine."

"Then . . . please. Take me."

Thank God . . . "Let's roll over. You'll like it better that way." Considering his dominant streak, she knew that he'd get into being in control. "If you're on top, you can drive the—"

Man, he moved fast. She was on her back in a split second. But she moved just as quick, reaching in between them and positioning him against her.

"Push with your hips, Michael." He did and . . . "Oh, Christ."

"Oh . . ." he groaned.

She grabbed on to him and arched. He was huge inside of her and her thighs tightened up around his lower body as she adjusted.

"Do I pain you?" he grunted.

"You feel beautiful." She encouraged him into a rhythm of surges and withdrawals, a slow erotic dance she partnered perfectly. It was glorious, his body so heavy on top of her, his skin so hot, his muscles hard and fluid. "More, Michael. I'm not going to break. You can't hurt me."

He dug in and started to pound and suddenly she smelled something in the air, something coming off his body. The dark scent was his natural fragrance, only much, much stronger and with a different underlay that was all about sex. As he went wild on top of her, his hair tangling around them, his lips finding hers, his tongue in her mouth, she had a passing thought that nothing in her life would ever be the same. Something was transferring between them, a trade made and accepted—she just didn't know what she was getting or what exactly she was giving up.

It all felt right, though.

And then her body was lost, shooting over the edge, falling in a shower of stars. Dimly, she heard Michael roar and he seized up, jerking once and then again and then many more times.

When they finished, he laid on top of her, panting, and she ran her hands up his sweat-beaded shoulders.

She smiled, sated. Content. "Was that—"

He pushed off of her and leaped from the bed, the chains rattling fast over the floor. A moment later, the water came on in the shower.

After a good dose of numb shock wore off, Claire wrapped her body in blankets and curled into herself. Clearly, she'd read the wonder of them being together wrong. He was in a hurry to clean her off of him.

Then she heard the sobs.

Or what sounded like them.

Claire sat up slowly, trying to sift through the rush of the water and isolate what her ear had picked up on. She wasn't sure what she was hearing so she put on her robe and got out of bed, making her way to the bathroom by using the bookcases as a guide. When she was at the doorway, she hesitated with her hand on the smooth jamb.

"Michael?" she said softly.

He let out a shout of surprise, then barked, "Go back to bed."

"What happened?"

"I beg you. . .." His voice broke.

"Michael, it's okay if you didn't like—" "Leave me."

The hell she would. Stumbling forward, she put her hands out into the infinite darkness, moving toward the sound of the running water. When her palms hit the spray she stopped.

God, what if she had done some harm to him? Pushed this innocent recluse too far, too hard?

"Talk to me, Michael." When there was nothing but running water, she felt tears come to her own eyes. "I'm sorry I made us do that."

"I didn't know it would feel so . . ." He cleared his throat. "I am shattered. Apart in my skin. I shall never be whole again. It was so beautiful."

Claire sagged. At least he wasn't upset because he'd found it unappealing. "We need to lie down together."

"Whatever shall I do when you leave?"

"You're not staying here, remember?"

"But I am. I must. And you must go."

Fear shrunk her skin tight. "Not going to happen. That's not what we agreed to."

He shut off the shower, and as the water dripped, he took a deep breath of defeat. "You must be reasonable—"

"I am damned reasonable. I'm a lawyer. Reasoning's what I do." She reached out for him, but met only marble tile. Turning blindly, hands in front of her, she searched for him and got tangled in the darkness as surely as if it were vines. She had a feeling he was deliberately staying away from her. "Will you quit ghosting around?"

He laughed a little. "You are so . . . assertive."

"I am."

The sound of a towel being worked over a body called her to the left, but the flapping moved as she went toward it. "Stop that."

Michael's voice came from behind her. "Were the men who loved you that way, too? Powerful and tenacious? As you were with me?"

"Can you dematerialize or something? How can you move so fast?"

"Tell me about the men who loved you. Were they as strong as you?"

She thought of Mick Rhodes, her childhood friend who was also a partner at WN&S. "Ah . . . one of them was. The others, no. And they didn't love me. Look, let's focus on the now, okay? Where are you?"

"Why were you intimate with them, then? If they didn't return your love?"

"I wasn't in love with them, either. It was just sex." In the silence that followed, an odd kind of chill set up shop in her spine. "Michael? Michael?"

"I'm afraid I feel rather foolish."

"How so?" she asked cautiously.

Somehow she knew when he left the bathroom; it was as if her body sensed his or something. She fumbled her way back out into the bigger space. "Michael?"

"I've behaved in a childish manner, haven't I?" His voice was calm and level now. Horribly so. "To have cried over something that was . . . quite normal for you."

"Oh, God, Michael, no." Normal? That hadn't been normal. Not at all. "I feel like crying right now myself because—"

"So you pity me, do you? You shouldn't. There is no crime in not feeling as I do—"

"Shut up. Right now." She wanted to point her forefinger at him, but wasn't exactly sure which direction to target. "I'm not into pity and I don't lie. Those other men are not you. They have nothing to do with us."

So they were an "us" now, were they? she thought.

"Michael, I know this is all so hard for you, and probably throwing in the sex on top of everything wasn't such a great idea. I can also understand why getting out of here is scary. But you're not alone. We're going to do this together."

She had no idea how it was going to work out or where they would go, but the commitment had been made. With their minds. With their bodies.

Well, wasn't she a romantic all of a sudden. All her life she had mocked the whole consummating a marriage thing. Sex, to her, was just sex. Now, though, she knew differently. She felt for no good reason that they were tied together. It made no sense, but the bond was there and the physical intimacy had been part of it.

His arms came around her from behind. "It does make sense. I feel the same."

She held on to his hands and leaned into him. "I don't know where we'll end up. But I'm going to take care of you."

His voice was low, his vow grave. "And I'm going to do the same for you."

They stayed that way, linked in the darkness, embracing. His body was warm against her back, and when he shifted closer, she felt his arousal. She moved her hips, rubbing against him.

"I want you," she said.

His exhaled breath shot into her ear. "You would be . . . ready again so soon?"

"Usually the guy is the one who needs to recover.""Oh. Well, I think I could do that all night long . . . . "

And as it turned out, he could.

They made love so many times, the sex blurred together into one seamless erotic episode that lasted . . . God, hours and hours. Through the second dinner. Into the night.

Michael's body was capable of orgasm again about ten minutes after he came and he was driven to explore all the carnal joys of sex. He took her every way possible, and as he got more and more comfortable, that domination strain came out in him to a greater extent. No matter how he started them off, he always ended with her on the bottom, either face up or down. He liked to hold her in place with his weight, and sometimes with his hands, making her submit to him. Especially as he drank from her throat.

And she loved it, all of it. The way he overpowered her, the feel of him thick inside of her, the clamped seal of his mouth on her throat. It wasn't until the penetrations became painful for her that she could bear to stop him and she was frustrated that she couldn't keep going. She wanted more of that sweet suffocation underneath his surging body, more of his power.

In some ways, although she hadn't known it until Michael, she'd felt like a man in a woman's body. Her attitude, her drive, her edge, all those warrior components of her personality, had never really fit the body she was in, and her interests had never been of the female variety, even when she was young.

But with Michael's massive body on her, his sex pushed deep into her, his hard muscles straining, she gave way and, in doing so, came together within herself. She was strong and weak and powerful and submissive; she was all the yins and yangs, just as everyone was. And the warmth she felt for him was transformative, changing the way she saw things: those happy, mothering women with baby food on their blouses who she'd never understood? Those men who still got a dopey expression on their faces when they talked about their wives—even after having been married for fifty years? Those people who had so many children their houses were demilitarized zones—and yet who couldn't wait for Christmas so they could spend time with their families?

Well, she got it now. Chaos and love went hand in hand and oh, the glorious grace of the world because of it.

The thought had her frowning. How would the outside treat him? How would he fare out of this prison? Where would he go during the day? What would he do?

Her penthouse apartment with all those windows was a no-go. She would have to buy them another place. A house. In Greenwich or somewhere close to the city. She would make him a bedroom in the cellar where he could stay.

Except. . . wasn't that just another cell? Wasn't she just trapping him in her own way? Because what she saw on the other side was him sequestered away, waiting for her to come to him. Didn't he deserve to experience life? On his own? Perhaps even with his own kind?

How would he find them?

Michael stirred against her nak*d body. As he kissed her collarbone, he said, "I wish you . . ."

"What?"

"I wish you fed as I do. I would like to give you something of myself."

"You have given me—"

"I shall treasure this night always."

She frowned. "There are going to be others."

"This was particularly special."

Well, of course it was. It had been his first time, Claire thought with a heated face. "I think it was, too."

That was when the final meal came. Breakfast.

Michael got up and brought the silver tray to her. As he set it down, the bedside candle flared, and in the soft light, she watched him run his fingertip over the silver fork's ornate handle.

It was close to breakout time, she thought. And he knew it, too.

Claire stood, took his hand, and led him into the bathroom. After she turned the shower on, she spoke in a hush.

"Tell me the procedure. What happens when he comes for the women?"

Michael seemed confused, but then got with the program. "After the meal, I go to the corner and secure myself. He checks through the hole in the door. The woman is on the bed, just as she came. He rolls the cart in, moves her onto it, and then departs. Later, I am drugged. He releases the chains. And it is done."

"What do the women look like?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Are they out of it? How aware are they? What's their affect?"

"They are still. Their eyes are open, but they seem unaware of their surroundings."

"So the food is drugged. That food is drugged." Which was fine. She could pull off the out-of-it thing with no problem. "How do you know when he's coming?"

"He arrives when I put the tray back out and secure myself."

She took a deep breath. "Here's what we're going to do. I want you to chain yourself up, but leave one of the wrist locks loose—"

"I cannot do that. There are sensors. I'm not sure how, but he knows. Last year one was loose because part of my sleeve got caught in it. He knew it and made me fix it before he came in."

Damn it. She was going to have to do this on her own, then. Her advantage would be the fact that Fletcher had to come over and pick her up.

Claire waited a little bit longer then shut off the water. After she flapped the towel around in the darkness, she led Michael back out to the bedroom.

She took the silver fork off the tray and put it in the pocket of her robe—then thought better of it. If she were Fletcher, she would count the silverware to make sure none of it would be used as a weapon.

Claire glanced over to the drawing table. Bingo.

She picked up the tray and carried it into the bathroom where she shoveled most of the food into the toilet and flushed. Then she headed back over to Michael. On the way past his table, she took one of his sharpest pencils and put it in her robe's pocket.