Darkling I Listen (24 page)

His arms encircled her again, tightly, as her heart turned over and tears flooded her eyes. They trickled down her cheeks; she shouldered them away.

His hands clutched fistfuls of her shirt as he lifted his face, the motion shifting the shirt off her breast. His lips parted, and he drew the tip of her breast into his mouth, deeply, as if he would nurse the very essence of her into him. A sound escaped him. His body shook.

The shirt swagged off his shoulders as he stood, his arousal straining within his jeans. He would have kissed her, but her mouth was swollen and sore. So he pressed his lips to her forehead, her temple, took her lobe gently between his teeth before whispering her name in her ear, a flutter of sound that stole through her like feathery heat.

One hand moved between her legs, parted her, slid inside her—she opened her thighs and gasped softly, surprised at how swiftly the ache had become unbearable.

He nestled his mouth against the pulse beating wildly in her throat, slowly withdrew his finger and eased it, little by little along the wet cleft of her until she thrust herself into his hand again and made a whimpering sound that caused her face to heat. She had never ached so badly. Hungered so badly. Perhaps it was the images of him with other women—actresses—that had become burned in her memory over the last days, inviting fantasy. But this was no fantasy. What his hands were now doing to her body made her fantasies pale in comparison. The arousal she had experienced alone in the dark did not shake her. Make her sweat. Make her ooze.

Like warm chocolate.

His lips brushed her ear, and he murmured what he would do to her. How he would do it. Crude words. Love words. Blistering and shocking and stoking the fires until she reached out and tore at the snap on his jeans, the zipper that was pulled so taut he was forced to slide his hand into his jeans to shift his erection so she could drag the zipper down—it made a labored grind in the quiet—the denim peeled back and he caught her wrist, pressed her hand against the massive bulk of him that felt damp and hot through his thin underwear. The scent of him washed over her. Maleness. Musk. It sluiced like alcohol through her blood.

His breath on her neck made her breathe in little gasps, and she wondered if she might faint.

The jeans inched down his hips. He took her hand and put it through the slit of his Jockeys. There was crisp, thick hair there and—
"Oh, God," she heard herself whisper. "Oh, God." Her fingers closed around him. Not fully around him. That was impossible. A flicker of anxiety bit at her as she thought of him inside her, wondered if it was possible—of course it was—but oh, God—
He trembled at her touch.

His fingers closed around her hand and removed it from his underwear, then with a graceful, skilled
action,
he pushed the garment down, allowing him to drop heavily against her. That part of him felt hot and silken, and it moved like a muscle flexing as it touched her lower belly. Again his hands slid around her hips, cupped her buttocks and drew her close, loins pressed against loins so she could not tell where her body ended and his began.

The organ thickened, hardened, the delicate skin flushed more deeply, and the veins of it began to pulsate like tiny bursts of fire, like her own heartbeat. The heat felt like a brand against her.

"Undress me," he whispered.

Her hands pulled the shirt down his arms and tossed it to the floor. She caught the waistbands of his jeans and underwear and eased to her knees, drawing them down his thighs, which were rock hard and sprinkled with coarse hair, like the dark thatch at the root of his organ that heavily arced over her shoulder, brushing the side of her cheek. He stepped out of the clothes and kicked them aside.

She allowed her gaze to climb his body slowly, to worship every ridge and bulge, the taut golden flesh that looked slick with sweat, the narrow hips and flat belly, the broad, clean chest, and his developed arms. Her sex felt swollen and hot and wet, throbbing and painful, and the sensations mounted as he shifted his legs apart, inviting her to touch him—the tight purple sacks nestled between his hard thighs.

Not sure if the scent of a man had ever so inebriated her blood—but then she had never experienced this sort of erotic aroma. She felt mad with it, as if what little restraint or shyness was holding her together was snapping like rubber stretched beyond its endurance.

His hands touched her face, and she looked up into his eyes. He slid his thumb between her lips, and she closed her mouth around it, swirled her tongue around it, and sucked it as she took his organ in her hand and gently stroked it against her face.

A groan came from him, and he clenched his teeth. His eyes closed. A pulse throbbed beneath the smooth skin held against her cheek, and he buried his fingers in her hair, as if by doing so, the contact would somehow keep him from falling over the edge.

Four years. She wanted to make this special. She wanted to please him, to chase away the pain in his eyes, to obliterate the nightmares.

Her hand reached out for him. Cupped him, felt the weight of him in her palm, closed her fingers carefully around the tight sacks. His breath caught, and his body jerked. He took his erection in his own hand and gripped it tightly as his body, flushed and beaded with sweat, reflected the lamplight like minute chips of glass.

Her tongue traced the full blue vein that was hot and swelling, tasting slightly of salt, smelling of maleness that made the fullness between her own legs grow excruciating.

His head was broad and smooth, and there was a glistening white pearl of moisture on it. She licked it away, and a spasm flashed through him. He moved, just slightly, as if he were attempting to control himself. His hands fisted, opened, fisted. They shook. His body shook, but when she reached for him again, he succumbed with an exhalation of breath that seemed to rise up from deep inside him.

As if his legs would no longer hold him, he dropped onto the bed; thighs falling open, fingers twisting into the blue sheets as she took him with her mouth and tongue, drawing him in as deeply as she could manage though her lips, though they were sore and she was certain that she could taste her own blood amid the salty sweetness of his skin and fluids. Sweat ran into her eyes as his guttural groans and his rising hips turned the air thick, until the windowpanes became gray with condensation, until the sheets beneath him turned dark with dampness and he tore them from their moorings and clenched them in his desperate hands as he fought to contain the orgasm that was building.

With every flinch of his body, her hunger mounted, fueled her passion and the need to drive him mindlessly to the edge. She felt every throb and pulse upon her tongue deep between her legs until the slightest movement of her own body threatened to shatter her, and a voice in her head chanted
No No
No Not yet—
the
pain was too splendid.

A rough, fierce curse slid through his lips; his shoulders curled upward and his hands clawed for her, tunneled into her hair and curved around her scalp, lifted her head from him so he could look into her face. "Christ," he hissed through his teeth, and his dark eyes narrowed in concern. "You're bleeding. Your lip is bleeding." Sliding his hands under her arms, he raised her as he rolled and pressed her down into the mattress, drew his tongue over her lip and washed the blood away, slid down her body, fingers pressing into the soft inside flesh of her pale thighs, lifting them toward her chest and spreading her wide.

His face buried there, at the hot wet, apex, making her gasp and jump and quiver uncontrollably, helpless to stop the escalation of the climax that surged as his breath scalded her. His lips enclosed her even as his tongue sank deep into her, as if he wanted to devour her, to drink her—
The pressure exploded outward, lifting her, bowing her; shot like electricity through her legs that would have kicked and thrashed had his hands not gripped them firmly, fingertips lightly bruising the velvety skin as he held her in place, allowing her warm, rich nectar to quench him.

Before the last spasm subsided, he slid his hips into place, hooked her knees into the crooks of his arms, lifting her, spreading her wider, and crowned her opening with his throbbing head. Their eyes met and his mouth curled, then he probed her, little by little, sinking deeper with each small thrust as if he knew that no matter how wet and slick and aching she already was, her body would not be completely prepared.

And it wasn't. The stretch burned, like the first time, and with a trembling of panic she felt as if she were being impaled. Deeper. Deeper. Pausing. Easing, allowing her body to grow accustomed to him, though the effort must have been superhuman for him.

With a last sudden drive, he sank into the heart and heat of her. His eyes rolled closed. Pain and pleasure filled his face, turned his body hard as stone. The cords in his neck and shoulders expanded. His jaw worked. The breath shuddered in and out of his mouth, and when he looked at her again, his eyes were like blue glass.

He ground his body against her, as if he could not go deep enough. She felt fused to him by heat and pressure. A second climax made her shudder. He pumped his pelvis against her, frantically, driving her shoulders into the mattress so she was forced to turn her face into the pillow to stifle the cry working up her throat.

He growled a four-letter word. Several of them, then let
himself
go, head falling back and his mouth opening in a silent cry. She felt him inside her, pumping and flooding her with hot semen. With the last throb, he sank onto her with his face buried in the crook of her neck. Shudders racked him. A deep moan vibrated his chest and fell warmly upon her flushed flesh.

He entwined his fingers with hers.

They lay with their arms and legs tangled, their bodies joined, their hearts pounding together. Neither moved, nor wanted to.

Finally, Alyson opened her heavy eyes and turned her head. He blinked at her, an exhausted grin on his lips.

Smiling, she said, "So, Klem
…
I think I might love you, too."

*

He watched Alyson sleep, wanting to sleep himself but al
ready the ache inside him had
risen
again. His body hurt with it. The smell of her made him drunk, desperate to be inside her. That he had suffered four long years without a woman had nothing to do with it, he realized. Abstinence had not been easy or pleasant, but it had not been hell, either. After the Marcella tragedy, he'd needed time to heal emotionally and get his head straight. The shrinks in prison had helped him to understand his self-destructive behavior.
Not that he hadn't understood already, on some level.
He'd just learned to stop despising himself—blaming himself—for all that had happened during his youth.

Rolling to his back, he stared at the ceiling. The old heat roiled in his chest. Fear
…
that had
not gone away, perhaps never
would. It too often surged up from nowhere, unexpectedly. Mostly at night, when he was hovering in that disjointed and confusing place between wakefulness and sleep. Sort of a dream purgatory where his mind couldn't determine if what was happening was real or not. The fear would wash over him like waves of fire that he couldn't stop, igniting the images and sounds in his brain. He drew in a long, shaking breath and looked toward the window. Rain ran in dark rivulets down the panes. He was nine years old again…

"Mama, don't leave me here. Please. I want to go home. I don't like Mr. Reilly. He's creepy. And Bobby told me—"

"Bobby is a jealous little shit who despises you for your talent, darling. Keep your voice down. It's thanks to Mr. Reilly that you're working on
Those Foster Kids.
Do you want to spend the rest of your life doing those tacky commercials?"

"I want to go home!"

"Soon, darling."

"I mean, I want to go home to Ticky Creek. I don't want to live here anymore. I don't want to be an actor. I want to play baseball like Dad. Where are you going?"

"I'll be back soon. Now behave yourself Brandon. You do whatever Mr. Reilly asks you to do. And remember, as producer of
Those Foster Kids,
he could have you written out of the show, and then where would we be? I'd be humiliated,
Brandon
. I couldn't show my face in this town again. You love Mama, don't you? You want me to be happy, don't you?"

She stood in the doorway of Reilly's penthouse apartment, looking back at him, cold and beautiful as a porcelain statue. "And if you're very, very good, darling, he'll give you star billing next season. That means more money. More power. More prestige. There won't be a door in
Hollywood
that won't open to me. To you. To us." Her coral-pink lips curved. "Think how happy you'd make me, darling."

Then she was gone.

He turned woodenly and stared through the sliding glass doors at the sheets of rain skittering down the big panes. There was a balcony with pots of yellow petunias that were being pounded by the rain. He could just make out the roofs of buildings beyond, and the thought scuttled through his mind that there was no escape unless he could fly like Superman.

"Hello,
Brandon
."

Ralph Reilly walked into the room wearing a red silk robe. Reilly was enormously fat, with skin white as Elmer's School Paste. And he smelled. Something
like
fish. His eyes bugged a little like a fish, too. He had full, flabby lips that looked unnaturally red, and there were tufts of gray hair protruding from his ears. His big belly jiggled under the silk when he walked, and he wheezed when he breathed.