Unbreak My Heart (25 page)

"Please." She reached for him. "I'm not drunk. I'm not confused. I'm not scared. I'm a grown woman, and I know what I want."

Her hand slid down his chest, down the front of his pants, and through the material she rubbed her hand against his rigid flesh. He shuddered once again, the look in his eyes telling her clearly exactly what she was doing to him.

"You'll regret this," he warned.

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do."

She answered him with a kiss, a quick, hard kiss on his mouth, and she found herself wondering how his skin would taste as well. She wanted to feel bare skin beneath her hands, to see him, as she took him inside of her. There was a greediness within her that she'd never felt before. She wanted all of this, all of him. Every touch. Every taste. Every sensation. Now.

In the end she settled for pushing his shirt out of the way, so she could at least feel her breasts against his bare skin. He loosened his pants and shoved them down, grabbed his wallet, and quickly sheathed himself in a condom, then he took her by the waist and pulled her down on top of him. Her thighs parted easily. He slid his hands under her dress, took her hips in his hands, guiding her to him, sliding inside of her in one long, sure stroke.

She gasped and shuddered, her body slick and ready, yet still having to stretch and strain to accommodate the full length and width of him.

It had been so long, after all, and she'd never done it like this, with her on top. For a moment she couldn't do anything at all, just leaned forward, bringing the top of her body down to his, letting her head fall to his shoulder. His hands were still under her dress, guiding her back and forth in a rocking motion that had him withdrawing, almost all the way, then pushing inside of her again. She marveled at the feel of him each time he did it, then cried out from the sheer pleasure of it. Already, she could hardly stand it. He soothed her with his hands and his mouth, gently rocking his hips up to meet her shallow thrusts. He slid in and out of her easily, filling her to the brim, and she found she simply loved the sensation of having him inside of her.

He teased her, as if he had all the time in the world, as if he lived to make her come apart in his arms. No man had ever played her body with such skill or such patience. She couldn't understand how he could be so in control when an urgency was building inside of her that would not be denied.

Then he pushed her up, into a sitting position, which brought her full weight down upon him, burying him deep inside of her.

"It's too much," she said, pulling back. "I can't. I can't take it."

"You can," he whispered. "I'll show you."

He pushed up into a sitting position himself and held her. He swung his body and hers around, until he had his feet on the floor, was sitting on the sofa with her straddling him, him still so deeply inside of her.

"Stephen," she said, because she simply couldn't say anything else.

It felt so good, and it most definitely chased all the loneliness away. Eradicated it. Seared it. Vaporized it. He was inside of her, so deeply she'd never forget it.

He arched against her, showed her the rhythm he wanted with his hands on her hips. When she begged, when she pleaded, when she told him she absolutely couldn't stand it any longer, when she screamed, he kept right on going until her body shuddered around him, until he exploded inside of her.

His arms tightened around her. He'd been teasing at the sensitive skin at the side of her neck, but now he bit down gently, sending another wave of pleasure through her until she thought she could die happily in that moment, that there was nothing else in life she needed or could possibly want. This was sheer bliss, unadulterated happiness.

Slowly she became aware of the world around her. His chest was heaving as he strained for breath, his skin damp with a fine sheen of perspiration. She nuzzled her nose against his neck, was happy to feel him shudder in response. He still held her hips in the palms of his hands, still held her tightly against him. She still felt him throbbing inside of her.

She let her head fall to his shoulder, thought life would be just about perfect if they could stay this way for a while longer. She wanted to sleep sprawled all over him again, wanted to have his arms around her and wake up with him again. She wanted to do this all over again, already.

He made her greedy for the feel and touch and taste of him, made her wonder already how she was ever going to do without the sensation of him inside of her.

Was it always like that with him, she wondered? Had she simply been doing it wrong? Or with the wrong man? Maybe it was the fact that Stephen was so very much a man, when the others seemed terribly immature in comparison. Or maybe it was just that this was Stephen. Maybe foolishly, naively, she'd fallen for him completely, and she would simply have to live with the consequences. From the look on his face, he seemed to be considering consequences himself.

"Don't," she whispered. "Don't you regret it, either."

She also didn't want him to forget. She wouldn't. Not if she lived to be a hundred years old and took a dozen lovers to her bed. She didn't think it would ever be like this.

Stephen took her in his arms and shifted them both again until he was lying down and she was draped over top of him once again. She nestled against his chest, finding a spot that felt absolutely perfect.

"I slept just like this," she said.

He nudged his hips against hers. He was still inside of her. "Not exactly."

Allie laughed, then lifted her head to smile down at him. "You do regret it. I can tell. Stephen—"

"Right now, I'd like to enjoy it just a little bit more," he said, pulling her mouth down to his once again, kissing her deeply, smoothly, soothingly, until it was all they could do to breathe.

* * *

She woke the next time to the familiar sound of footsteps overhead. Stephen's arms tightened around her, and she felt him slowly coming awake. Opening her eyes, she found morning sunshine streaming in through the sheer curtains at the back of the family room.

The sound of the footsteps came to her again.

"What the hell was that?" Stephen said, looking incredulous. "Allie, is someone in this house?"

She went cold all over, despite having his warm body pressed against hers. "You hear it, too?"

"What do you mean
Do I hear it, too?"

"I thought it was just me," she stammered. "I thought I was hearing things. I didn't think it was real."

His eyes narrowed down to hard, dangerous slits. "You mean someone's been here before? And you didn't tell me? You didn't do anything about it?"

He levered himself up and off of the sofa. She had only a second to admire the clean, smooth lines of his body before he pulled on his pants and his shirt, not taking the time to button it.

He shoved his cell phone at her and said, "Call 911 and tell them someone's in the house. And stay down here."

Then he took off up the steps.

Her hands trembled as she punched in the number and gave the dispatcher her address and an only semi-coherent explanation of what the problem was. He wanted her to stay on the line, kept asking her all sorts of questions, few of which she could answer. Against his advice, she broke the connection, straightened her clothes, and headed up the stairs.

There was no one, real or imagined, on the stairs or on what she could see of the second floor. But all the doors to all those rooms were open. She slowly made her way up, closing all the bedroom doors on the second floor. At the bottom of the stairs to the attic, she called out, "Stephen?"

He didn't answer.

She nearly choked. She'd been warned. By Stephen. By Greg Malone. By Mitch Wilson, that she might be in danger here.

Slowly she climbed the last flight of steps and stepped onto the attic floor. Someone grabbed her from behind, and she screamed before realizing it was Stephen.

"I told you to stay downstairs," he said, hauling her into his arms. "Couldn't you do as I asked? Just once?"

"I... I wanted to be where you were."

Because he had his lips pressed against her forehead, she felt rather than saw his exasperated smile.

"Under any other circumstances, I'd agree with you. But not now." Still, his hand was at the back of her head, tucking her face against his chest. "You scared me."

"You scared me, too."

"Did you call 911?"

"Yes. The sheriffs department is sending someone."

"Good." He looked even more stern and more worried than before. "Now, why don't you tell me what's been happening over here?"

His voice rose on every word, anger creeping in. But his arms tightened around her at the same time. He'd been worried about her. Allie took a breath and snuggled closer to him.

"I'm not sure," she said.

"You haven't been camping out in this attic, have you?"

"No. Why?"

"There's a sleeping bag in the back corner, tucked into a dusty, old box. A bit of food and a few clothes. And a laptop computer."

"A laptop?"

Stephen nodded. "Someone's been staying here."

"Casey?"

"That would be my guess. I saw a tall, skinny boy in a pair of ratty jeans and a black T-shirt take off through the backyard." Stephen pointed to the window in the corner. "That opens onto the roof, and there's a trellis leading to the ground. The window was unlocked. That's how he gets in and out."

Allie was so glad he was safe, that he'd found a place that was warm and dry. She wished he'd trusted her with the truth, too, but they could work on that when he came back. Surely he'd come back. Surely she'd have a chance to help him.

"Did you know he was here?" Stephen asked.

"I heard footsteps a few times. At least, I thought I did. I couldn't be sure. But I never saw him. I just thought I was hearing things."

"Is that all, Allie? Footsteps?"

"It's noisy here," she said. "The wind. Tree branches. Drafts coming down the chimneys. Everything creaks and moans. I'm not used to that. The house my mother and I had in Connecticut wasn't this old."

"That's all?" he said. "A few creaks and moans?"

"What else would there be?" she said nervously.

"You tell me." His hands settled on top of her shoulders. He kneaded the muscles there, his touch inviting her to lean against him, to rest there in his arms. "Allie, please? I'm worried about you."

"You'll think I'm crazy," she said. "I think I'm crazy."

"Tell me."

"I'm remembering things. I told you that."

"That's it? Memories?"

"They're so vivid sometimes. It's like I can hear their voices," she admitted. "My mother's. Mine. Megan's. I could swear I heard her playing the piano the day I saw the bruises on her arms. Sometimes I feel like I could reach out and touch them."

Stephen frowned. "I know it's been difficult for you to be back here. I know you haven't been sleeping well. I know you're under a lot of stress."

Allie leaned against him, let him wrap his arms around her waist. "You think I'm losing it."

"No," he insisted, his arms tightening around her. "Is that all?"

Allie sighed. Was she truly going to trust him? She'd spent the night sleeping in his arms. She'd made love to him, and a part of her was ready to topple right over the edge into love with him. How could she not trust him with the rest of it?

"Tell me," he urged.

"The private detective I hired says he's not the only one looking into Megan's accident. Someone else is asking questions..."

"Allie, I hired someone the other day to do the same thing. I didn't know anything about this man you hired, and I didn't want to take any chances. I have a man I've known for years, someone I trust. He's been in Macon since yesterday."

"Why?"

"I told you I wanted the truth. I told you I was going to find it for you. I meant that." He frowned. "So we've got two private investigators chasing each other through Macon, Georgia. What else?"

"Greg found a man in Lexington named Mitch Wilson, who knew Megan when she was in Macon."

Allie told him all about Mitch Wilson, including the fact that someone supposedly tried to kill him simply for asking questions about Megan and that Megan was desperately afraid of a man from Dublin, that she thought she saw him in Macon the day before she died.

Stephen paled at that. Every ounce of color drained from his face. "Shit."

"You didn't know any of this?"

"No." He swore again. "Anything else?"

"Yesterday I remembered my mother and my father talking the day we found out Megan was dead. And my mother said my father should be happy that Megan was gone, because that was what he wanted."

"Why in the world would your father want her gone?"

"I don't know. I don't know anything else at all. Except that I'm scared. Right now, I'm really scared."

"You're not in this alone anymore. Remember that." She thought he was going to kiss her again when they heard the sirens down the road, coming closer. "And you and I need to talk."

"I know." She cautioned herself against presuming too much. Just because he'd spent the night.... But she didn't have time to ask. The sirens came closer.

"Come on," Stephen said. "Let's see if we can explain this to the deputy."

"Wait a minute. Just about Casey, right? We don't need to tell the deputy anything about Megan or Mitch Wilson or anything like that, do we?"

"I'd rather handle that ourselves. But I want to know why this kid is camping out in your attic."

"He must have thought the place was empty. It has been for years."

"He has a laptop. What's a runaway kid doing with a laptop?"

"I don't know, but I don't want the sheriff chasing after him like he's a criminal."

"He is a criminal. He broke into your house, and he scared you," Stephen growled. "He's a lot bigger than you. He could have hurt you, Allie. He could have done anything he wanted to you."

"He didn't. He wouldn't," she claimed.

"You don't know that. You don't know him. I bet nothing he told you is true. I know his name isn't Casey Adams."