Dead People (27 page)

“You hear incorrectly.” He didn’t turn around, heading toward the back stairs. “She charges three times more than what you charge.”

“You
called
her.” She clomped up the steps after him.

“Before I called you. She already had a gig and couldn’t come until it was over. A castle in Spain.”

“I was s
econd
choice? Why did you call
her
first?”

“She’s number one.” He reached the top of the stairs and crossed the landing.

“Number one fake!” Cassie followed him into the studio.

***

Isabel stood on the landing outside the studio, listening to them argue. They thought they were so smart. They thought they could manipulate her, the way Thomas had done for too many years.

No matter how much Isabel longed to talk to Cassie—someone who could
hear
her—she never forgot Cassie’s objective was to make her leave her home.

A ghost therapist? Phooey! Why not call it like it was? Her real occupation was ghost exterminator.

The angry voices continued. Isabel slanted her head, listening. Maybe she was wrong about Luke and Cassie wanting to make love to each other.

Or maybe she was right.

There was one way to find out.

She floated into the room. Busy arguing with Luke, Cassie didn’t sense her. Neither of them paid attention when she slid the key out of the old-fashioned lock on Luke’s side of the door. They didn’t pay attention when she pulled the door shut.

As it clicked shut, she giggled. As she turned the key in the hall side of the door, locking them in, she cackled.

Sometimes being dead was more fun than being alive.

***

Luke egged Cassie on, a devil twisting to life inside of him. As she argued, a fire glowed in her eyes and her cheeks flushed with color. She sang a sweet song that needed no words, and he was dancing on shaky ground. He was more than attracted to her. He
liked
her, and that didn’t happen often.

A click came from behind him. Turning, he saw the hall door was closed.

Busy pointing out her fellow ghost hunter’s fakery, Cassie continued to argue. Luke strode past her to the door and she stopped mid word.

“Are you
leaving?
”

He tried the door. It wouldn’t open. He looked for the key in the old lock that he never used but was always there. Even this morning, he’d noticed it, his hand scraping against the intricately curved top. He’d thought of taking it out and putting it somewhere else but hadn’t bothered.

It wasn’t there now.

“Neither of us is leaving. We’re locked in.” Luke wanted to swear, to laugh, to howl. Locked in by a ghost. A fucking ghost.

“You’re kidding.” Cassie crossed over to Luke. He stood back and watched her turn the door handle, jiggling it, clasping it with both hands, gritting her teeth, putting her muscles into it.

Her face flushed a deep shade of pink. She let go of the handle and faced him, her hands on her hips. “What did you do?”

“Not a damn thing.” He leaned against the wall, crossed one leg over the other and shoved his hands into his pockets to stop himself from reaching out to her. “It’s my guess our resident ghost is playing tricks on us.”

“Isabel?” She twisted to scan the studio. “Where are you, Isabel? Open the door. Now!”

Luke’s gaze lowered from her indignant expression to the rise and fall of her breasts. No silicone there. He imagined how the weight would feel in his hands. He imagined how they would look—soft and full and ivory shaded, the nipples a pinkish brown. He imagined how—

He thrust his thoughts down, but they sprang back stronger. It was like using a water pistol to put out a wildfire.

He burned for her. He made up songs for her. He took cold showers for her.

Useless. Every time he saw her, his desire grew stronger. Louder. From a whisper to a melody to a crescendo.

“Isabel’s not coming. Until someone opens the door, there’s no way out. It’s just you and me.” He straightened from the wall, pulling his hands out of his pockets. “Before anything happens, you should know I don’t believe in one man, one woman relationships.”

 
“So? Your beliefs are nothing to do with me."

“They are when we’re locked together in a room.”

She stared resolutely at the thick wood. But he felt her silent music, the hum of her blood matching the hum of his.

He stepped toward her and her back tensed. Yet she didn’t move. Not even when he curved his hands over her shoulders. Cassie’s breath hitched, but she remained still in the circle of his arms, not softening...not pulling away.

In that second he knew. Knew she wanted him as much as he wanted her. She burned for him, the way he burned for her.

“I don’t see many long-term relationships working.” He caressed her with his voice. “Why not enjoy each other while you’re here? Most couples I know who claim they’re soul mates end up screaming at each other in a lawyer’s office.”

“Is that what you and Vanessa did?”

His hands tightened and she flinched. He immediately gentled his grip. “It was out-and-out lust with us. We were never soul mates.” Never like this. Never in his darkest nights. Never in his brightest. “Vanessa was the band’s singer, I was the songwriter. Marriage was convenient. A month later she was screwing the drummer.” He heard the roughness in his voice and lightened it. “Our breakup is public record. I don’t give a damn.”

She gave a harsh laugh. “Right, I can tell.”

“Let’s not talk about me. Let’s talk about you.” He kissed the top of her head. She tensed, then her body relaxed and she leaned against him.

His heartbeat speeded. Not yet, he told himself. She wasn’t his yet. “Are you waiting for marriage?”

“No.” Her answer came without missing a beat.

“You had a bad experience too?”

Her laughter started and caught. “How about a dozen bad experiences?”

“You’ve met a lot of lousy men.”

Her shoulders lifted a scant inch. Her neck stretched, the crown of her head pushing against his shoulder. “Ghost whispering isn’t exactly a hot occupation. The guys who ask me out are fascinated with ghosts, not me.”

“One thing you can be sure of, it’s not your paranormal skills that attract me.” He bent down to kiss the vulnerable spot at the base of her neck. She tasted sweet and salty. Hunger clawed at his throat. He wanted to suck on every inch of her skin. He wanted to feast on her.

Chapter Thirty-five

Cassie stifled a moan as his hands slid up and down her arms. Heat skimmed along her nerve ends. She felt her defenses melting. All her reasons for not doing this floated away with his kisses.

Later she might be sorry, but right now sorry was a small price to pay.

Luke sucked gently at the tender skin of her neck. She let the moan out this time, low and throaty. Warmth sparked deep inside her, flaming up, up, up.

“How does that feel?”

He asked stupid questions. How did he think it felt?

He nipped where he’d been sucking and she squeaked.

“Does it feel good?”

Damn, he was relentless. “Yes. Dammit, yes.”

He laughed, a note of victory in his voice. “I knew it. You’ve wanted me all along.”

She jerked out of his hold and twisted around. “You talk too much.” She grabbed his shoulders and pulled him close.

Her lips met his open mouth, warm and soft, burning a song of passion into her body. He pressed harder, taking over, his tongue slipping in to dance with hers. His kiss claimed her. “This is my song,” it said. And his hands...they played up and down her spine, his fingers finding the sweet chords in her body that made her melt into him.

She gripped his shoulders and clung to him. Her body wasn’t hers. It was a vessel for the passion that sang through her. She vibrated with need for him.

“Luke.” She heard her voice. Pleading. Needy. Throaty. Not like her at all.

What was he doing to her? She had so many reasons not to do this, but her reasons were melting away like ice cream under a hot sun. He touched only her arms and her lips, but her entire body cried with need. It drummed in her blood stream, a honeyed liquid seeping through her, readying her body for him.

This was insane.

His hands slid over her breasts.

Her knees turned fluid, buckling. Her grip tightened on his arms and she dropped to the floor, taking him with her. They landed on the carpet, thick enough to muffle his music when he played, soft enough to cushion their knees.

Or my back, she thought. Yes, she could lie on her back and open up her legs and then he could rub against her and—

His hand slipped beneath her top, along her skin. Her breath caught.
Oh God, oh God. Touch me more.

Her plea was silent, but as if he heard her, he pushed up her top and her bra, then curved his palms over her breasts. He squeezed softly, as if feeling the weight and heft of her.

She bucked against him. This was crazy, not like her at all. The alien who had taken over his body had invaded hers too. What happened to kissing and maybe we’ll do more tomorrow? What happened to caution? What happened to her commonsense? Where had it flown to?

He panted. She panted.
 

He kissed. She moaned.

He nibbled. She spread her legs.

And still his hands stayed above her waist, playing with her breasts as if he could do this for hours.

“Beautiful,” he murmured.

“They’re just breasts.” Her voice came out thick and dark. The calloused tips of his fingers scraped her nipples, and she shivered to the tune he played on her body.

Instead of telling how he felt, he showed her with his mouth and his tongue and his teeth. Sucking, licking, nibbling.

Until she wanted to scream,
Enough! Stop and get to it!

Instead she whimpered, clutching him. God, she was pathetic. A stream of craving ran through her. His touch felt so good she wanted it to go on forever.
 

“Never stop touching me,” she murmured.

“I won’t. Never.”

He lied.
 

She moaned. Her mind craved his lies. Her body craved his touch.

“Take me.”

His head lifted even as his fingers unbuttoned her slacks, apparently nimble from his years of guitar playing. An incentive for any adolescent boy to learn to play a musical instrument.

She laughed softly at her thoughts.

Then he pushed down her pants and she lifted her butt to make it easier for him. The pants were barely off when she sat up and tore off her top and bra, tossing them aside. Leaning back, she gave him what she hoped was a seductive smile. When he stared at her, she wondered if he thought she was grimacing in pain. But the next second, his hips nestled between her legs. He still wore jeans, and he pressed his denim clad pelvis against her.

“Fuck me,” she said.

As if he’d been waiting for those two words, he rolled off her and stood, jerking the zipper down and tearing the jeans down his legs as if she was paying him for speed.

He got down on his knees between her legs. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

“I’m ready.” Looking at him, she pushed up on her elbows. Desire tightened his face, an image she never wanted to forget. But one thing was missing. “But you’re not. Do you have a condom?”

“Shit.” His eyes closed, his body tensing, silence pulsing around them. Then his eyelids lifted, his gaze piercing. “In my bedroom. Do you...?”

She shook her head and a heavy sigh drew out of her mouth, the only sign of her vagina howling in protest, her body sobbing in disappointment. “You’d better get up and put your clothes on.”

He remained between her spread legs, looking at her nude breasts and lower, his glance burning her inside and outside her skin. “Okay,” he said.

Yet he didn’t move.

“Luke, we can’t—”

“I’ll take care of you another way.” He lowered his head down between her legs and showed her his tongue knew how to play an instrument as well as his hands. His mouth sucked, his tongue probed, his chin stubble scraped, creating a symphony of sexual tension within her.

She cried, she bucked, she curled her hands into the short strands of carpet and hung on as her body danced to his tune. Wave after wave of orgasms slammed through her, each one more intense than the other, until finally she lay limp, whimpering and blissful.

He moved up and laid down on top of her, holding her, his erection full against her belly. The energy slowly seeped back into her. Gradually, she felt his tension. She cupped her hands on his shoulders and pushed.

Lifting up a few inches, he looked down at her, a question on his face.

She smiled, feeling unlike herself. A sensual woman instead of a woman whose usual sex partner resided in her panty drawer.
Later.
She’d think about that later. But for now...

“Now it’s my turn to take care of you.”