Fade To Midnight (18 page)

“Then I'd better shut up and get to work.” He shoved her thighs wide, and buried his face between them to caress her with lips and tongue; thrusting and swirling around her melting muff. It hit her all at once, along with the next shuddering spasms, how crazy she was, dragging this big, mysterious man into her bedroom. She'd have dragged him into her body, too, if he hadn't been so stubborn.

And sexy. Her body was changing into something new, flushed with hot, wild energy. This wasn't going to evaporate on her, or fizzle out. Kev was utterly in command of himself, her body, her pleasure. All she had to do was give in, and let him nudge her expertly along to yet another shining peak, another wild, astonished free fall—

She soared, spun, dissolved. Each wrenching pulse propelling her deeper into that magic place that only he had ever taken her. Where she felt complete, and whole. She glowed, shone.

When her eyes fluttered open, they streamed with tears, but she was not embarrassed by them. It was part of the emotional intensity between them. Honest, and achingly real. Terrifying and wonderful.

He waited, poised over her, his eyes boring into hers. She blinked away moisture, dragged in as much breath as she could, which wasn't much. Tried to move, couldn't.

He'd wedged himself inside her. She gasped and clutched his shoulders as he started to move. Slow, rocking strokes. Sensual pulses, pushing that big, hard cock impossibly deeper.

“That's more like it,” he muttered, his voice a harsh rasp.

She dashed the tears away, started to say something, but she had nothing coherent to say. He could feel everything she thought and felt with his body, read it in her face, decipher her every brain wave. It was wonderful to be so close. She tried to lift herself, to meet his thrusts, but she was riveted by the slow push of his heavy body into hers. Utterly at his mercy.

She grabbed a handful of the flannel sheet and dragged it up to wipe ticklish tears on her face. Noticed a smear of black ink on the fabric as she let it drop. More tears slipped out. She was drenched. Slick with sweat. Flooded with lube. His strokes deepened. Still tight, but a wonderful sliding shove inside—and a slow, caressing drag out. Plunging, rocking. Again…and again.

She struggled up onto her elbows so that she could see every detail. Kev grasped her arms and pulled her until she was sitting, right at the edge of the bed, his shaft deeper inside than she'd known was anatomically possible. They stared down at the hot joining, damp foreheads resting against each other, hypnotized by the wet gleam of his thick cock as it slid out. They moaned together, as he surged inside once again. Each thrust making tiny, sexy liquid sounds. Gasps. Sighs.

She was so alive and aware, inside herself. Every slide of his body was a liquid, moving kiss, petting secret inner spots of unbearable sweetness, stroking them into quivering life, waking them to desperate need. Each thrust made her crave the next. She bucked against him, desperate for more, deeper, faster. Harder.

She dragged him closer, trying to speak. He caught whatever garbled thing she was trying to say with his hungry kiss, and that was fine. Better, even, because her frenzied response was more honest and to the point than any words could be.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back with wild abandon. She would let him take her anywhere. She wanted to toss away her fears, the barriers she hadn't know she had, blast down the walls around herself. She wanted him inside, at her core. One with her.

She whimpered and gasped as his thrusts quickened. He slammed against her, his breathing harsh and loud, kissing away each tear as it slid out, hips surging powerfully. She hung on, riding him with perfect trust into the thundering heart of a storm.

Losing what she thought was herself there. Finding something else in its place. Something precious and nameless. Sweet, and lovely. Her naked heart, glowing like a live coal.

Free as a bird soaring, and yet forever bound.

K
ev didn't want to drift back from this plane of existence. He wanted to stay there forever. Live there, for eternity. Aware only of her.

Edie.
Those soft, slender arms wrapped around him, his cock still in the clasp of her juicy pink pussy, her long, graceful legs clamping his thighs. Her head lay on his shoulder, heavy and limp, and her hair tickled him tenderly, fuzzy soft whorls of midnight darkness.

She fit. Like she'd been designed for his body. Pain and tension he'd never even been conscious of were instantly relieved by her touch. Her scent dragged into his lungs, gave him something his body needed more than oxygen. Every inch of his skin lucky enough to touch her was in shock from the perfection of that soft, hot contact.

He'd had sex before. He'd never really gone looking for it, and he tended to have long dry spells, but he indulged, when the occasion presented itself. But he'd never experienced anything like this.

He'd done his best by the women he'd slept with. He'd been polite, gentle, had taken pains to be a sensitive, satisfying lover. But the act had always struck him as an end in itself, leading nowhere but to a shudder of shallow release, and then a sad, empty flatness after.

And it created embarrassing situations, too. Women wanting him to feel things that he didn't necessarily feel. Or even want to feel.

Now he was drowning in feelings. Feelings that could kill him.

Edie.
He felt the name, repeating it silently against her fragrant hair. Rolling the word around in his mouth. Loving the way it felt.

He'd come like a volcano blowing, but his dick was still rock hard. Unwilling to waste a second, now that it had found the sweet haven of her body. But he had to get rid of the latex, and let her rest.

He wondered if he'd been too rough. He hoped he hadn't bruised her. That would be humbling, after his posturing bullshit about self-control, about making her wait. Strange, that impulse, but he'd sensed that she needed a rock that she could fling herself against. She needed to push, so he'd pushed back. He hoped it had worked for her. She hadn't moved yet. In fact, she seemed to have knocked herself out.

His cock throbbed hopefully in the tight clutch of her body, wanting to rock and plunge afresh into her slick depths.

He allowed himself a few rocking slides, just to feel the tight, liquid kiss of her flesh along his length, the sigh fluttering through her. Then he held the condom in place, and dragged his unwilling cock out.

He lay her tenderly down on the narrow bed, spreading her hair out behind her head like a shining, swirling fan. Arranging it, stroking it with amazed fingertips. So soft. God. She gazed up, speechless, eyes heavy and dilated. Her soft pink lower lip caught between her teeth.

He pulled the condom off, looked around. Edie cleared her throat. “There's a wastebasket under the sink.” Her voice was scratchy and dry.

He nodded, stumbled into the other room, and took care of it.

He stood out there, heart clutched with doubt. He'd always avoided even thinking about the possibility of being with a woman for the long term. It was unthinkable, given the unknowns in his life. The latent violence and danger in his past. It struck him as irresponsible, to expose some poor innocent woman to that. Or so he'd told himself.

Now he saw that reasoning for the shallow bullshit that it was. Truth was, he'd never wanted to badly enough. He'd never given a shit.

But he did now. Oh, Jesus, was he ever in trouble now.

What he ought to do was quietly put on his clothes and slink out. Leaving no address, no number. It was the responsible thing to do.

But that just wasn't going to happen. So fuck it. He let the implacable force of gravity drag him back into the bedroom, to Edie.

She'd pulled herself up, clutching the quilt. Her hair was a fuzzy, dark cape, her lips red, her eyes sultry and glowing. So fucking pretty, it made his heart stop. This couldn't be happening, but it had all the massive inevitability of fate. He'd been waiting his whole life for her.

She smiled, her eyes flashing timidly down to his tireless tentpole of a dick. “Are you, ah, cold?”

He was a blast furnace. His dick was going to be in a state of permanent inflammation, now that it knew Edie Parrish existed.

“Actually I'm burning up,” he said.

“Oh.” She picked at the pattern on the quilt with her fingers. “Well, whatever. I was just wondering if, um, you wanted to get under the covers with me, but if you're so hot—”

“Fuck, yeah! Absolutely! I changed my mind. I'm freezing. Going into shock from hypothermia. Warm me with your body heat. Please.”

She giggled, which made his heart soar. They hadn't had many smiles so far. Mind blowing revelations, sure. Thundering orgasms, definitely. But not a lot of laughs. She held up the quilt for him, and he slid his body into the narrow, deliciously warm space beside her. Not that he was complaining about the close quarters. Any excuse to touch her again was fine with him. The tighter the clinch, the happier he was.

She arranged the quilt over his shoulders, and traced the pattern of burn scars on his deltoid with her fingertip. Burns from a cigarette, he figured. It was the best he could piece together, from the nightmares.

He loved staring at her from so close. Having her beautiful face fill his field of vision. He could let his senses drown in her, and die happy.

“Sorry about the tiny bed,” she murmured.

“I don't care,” he said.

“Nothing else would fit,” she explained. “Unless I gave up the space for a dresser, which I suppose I could have, since I don't have much of a wardrobe. But when I got that bed, I wasn't figuring on…”

“On what?” he prompted.

The color flared on her cheek. He loved it. Sunrise on a snowfield, but warmer, softer. He couldn't think of anything fine enough, lovely enough, to be a metaphor for her.

“On hooking up with someone,” she finished.

“Good.” The surge of possessive hunger made his arms tighten around her. Wow. Hadn't known he had it in him. He was flustered.

“You could come over to my place,” he blurted. “My bed's huge.”

She looked through her lashes, with a mysterious smile. “Is it?”

He felt himself flush, with the sharp awareness that it did not look quite as good on his scarred, raddled face as it did on her perfect one. “Not because I'm in the habit of throwing wild parties in it.”

“Hmm,” she murmured, her eyes dropping.

“I'm just, ah, really big,” he went on. “Uh, long, that is.”

“I noticed,” she said demurely.

His color got hotter. “I didn't mean it that way.”

She slanted a sidewise peek at him, trying not to smile. She cleared her throat with a prim little cough. “Um. Neither did I.”

Aw, shit. She was enjoying his embarrassment way too much. “Anyhow,” he pushed grimly on. “The point is, there's plenty of room. My apartment is a converted warehouse. It's huge. Room for lots more rooms, if I, uh, ended up needing them. I even put in two bathrooms. In case I should someday, you know. Get lucky.”

She caught her lip between her teeth. “Um, are you, ah, kidding?”

He was pushing too hard. “I don't know,” he said cautiously. “Tell me. What response would get me what I want?”

“What is it that you want?” she demanded.

They were stalemated in their weird little word dance now.

I want you in my bed every night. I want you to bear my children. I want to put a ring on you. Body and soul. All mine. Forever.

Uh-uh. Not yet. He'd scare her out of her wits. He shrugged. “Maybe it's too soon for this conversation,” he hedged.

“It sounds like you want me to be your, um, girlfriend,” she said.

His heart leaped. “Well? So? Would you like to be?”

“There are a bunch of questions that need to be answered first.”

“Ask them. I'll answer, and you can move into my apartment.”

She covered her mouth with her hand. “You're scaring me, Kev.”

He peered at her face. It looked like she was trying not to smile, so he decided to go with the vibe rather than the face value of her words.

“I'll build you your own room,” he offered rashly. “There are huge windows. Great light, for your drawing. I've got so much square footage, I could have a skating rink in there.”

“Slow down, buddy. I don't know the first thing about you.”

That was not true. He thought about the Fade books, and his arms tightened around her. She did know him, in ways he didn't begin to understand. She knew things he'd never told a living soul. Things he'd barely acknowledged to himself. She'd seen them, dreamed them, drawn them. Anything inconsequential thing that she didn't know, she could quickly learn. And that was part of the strange wonderfulness of this whole experience. Feeling known. Feeling knowable.

He'd always been cut off, even from himself. Half his memories, half his self, forever beyond his reach. No childhood, no parents, no point of origin, no frame of reference. No image of the person who had fed him as a baby, changed his diapers, taught him to walk, talk, read. All unknowns, even the stupid, inconsequential stuff. His favorite color, his favorite rock band, his favorite breakfast cereal, his astrological sign? Who the fuck knew? A person had to have been a child once, to answer questions like that.

He'd never been a child, as far as he knew. He had no place to stand, to form irrelevant opinions. Likes and dislikes. He held himself apart from that bullshit. Indifferent. The vote was out, on all of it. It felt foolish and false to him, to develop a baseless self-concept, just for the sake of having one. It was a dumb ego game. Why bother? Who cared?

But all that had just changed. The vote was in on Edie Parrish. The possessive desire roaring through him scared the shit out of him. He had no clue how to navigate feelings like these. There had to be a technique to it, but he did not have it. And now it was too late. All he could do now was just struggle along. Try to keep his head above water.

Edie had looked into the dark inside him, with those eerily precise drawings. When he was with Edie, he felt connected. Alive, like never before. Edie knew him, if anyone could. Edie could show him the way.

“I think, um…” She bit her lip, choosing her words with care. “I think you might be building up these Fade coincidences too much. I don't want to feed any illusions you might have. About my abilities.”

He thought about that, gazing into her wide, anxious eyes, and twisted a thick lock of her hair around his finger. “How about you just don't worry about what's in my mind?” he suggested. “Let me have my little illusions. What's the harm?”

“I don't know,” she whispered. “But I feel like it's dangerous.”

So. He was coming across like a lunatic. He needed to back off. But he just couldn't. “What is it that you need to know before we can upgrade our relationship status?” he asked, baldly.

She let out a snort of nervous laughter. “Uh…”

“Ask me anything. I have no secrets.” He hesitated. “Unless you count the stuff about myself that I don't know,” he added, rigidly honest. After all, he could be anything. A killer, a liar, a thief. He hoped not, but hope was just that. Hope. He knew better than to trust it.

She shook her head. “Those aren't secrets. Those are mysteries.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Mystery has a more respectable sound to it.”

“Sexier, too,” she informed him.

He was foolishly delighted. “You think so?”

Edie's eyes fell. “Please. Duh. You're talking to a woman who draws noir graphic novels. Of course mystery is sexy. Mystery is practically a base, bottom-line requirement. For sexiness, I mean.”

He stared up at her ceiling. The scars on his cheek stung, he was grinning so widely. “Cool,” he said.

“What do you do for a living?” she demanded. “There's a basic question. I should have asked it before I fell into bed with you.”

He rolled up onto his elbow. “I have a business with my little brother.”

She looked baffled. “Brother? But…but I thought—”

“Adopted brother,” he clarified. “Bruno's the great-nephew of the guy who saved me from the thugs at the warehouse. He came to live with Tony and Rosa when he was twelve. A year after Tony found me.”

“So you were adopted by that family?”

“No. Nobody adopted me except for Bruno. He adopted me all by himself, when he was thirteen years old.”

She looked puzzled. “And how did he do that?”

Kev smiled at the memory. “He was with me in the diner kitchen. I cut myself by mistake with a carving knife, and Bruno saw the blood when I was mopping up. He grabbed the knife, and proceeded to slice his own hand open. Then he grabs my hand with his bleeding hand, and won't let go. Meanwhile, blood's streaming down to both of our elbows. Scared the living shit out of me.”

Her eyes were wide, impressed. “Wow. What was that about?”

“He wanted to do this blood brother ritual he'd read about in a kids' historical adventure novel. He wanted to make it official. He wanted to be related to me, by blood. Nothing else would do.”

“That's very dramatic,” she murmured.

“Tell me about it. He's all about drama. Bruno was intense. Or is intense, I should say. He hasn't changed. He needed eighteen stitches. I didn't have any bloodborne diseases, thank Jesus, so it was OK. But it's not like he could've done a discreet little nick. Oh, no. He had to lay himself open down to the tendons. My nerves were shot for weeks.”

He twined his fingers through Edie's as he thought about that day. It had felt good to be adopted. He could have done without the freely flowing blood and the multiple stitches, but still, the bold, crazy gesture had moved him. That was Bruno for you.