Sea Fever (19 page)

“Let’s talk about what you want,” he said, cool as a priest in the

confessional.

“I want to stop thinking,” she said, her voice shaking as much as her

hands. “I want to feel something besides afraid and alone. I want you.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m already sore all over. Sex isn’t going to make me feel any

worse. It might even make me feel better.” Make me feel alive.

“A comfort fuck. How very . . . romantic.” There was an edge to his

voice now. Annoyance or amusement? She hardly cared. Either was

better than his indifferent calm.

“This from a guy who did me drunk and standing against a rock?”

He did laugh, then, a vibration in the dark. She felt him shift—not

close enough, not nearly close enough— and rise on one elbow.

Moonlight from the window behind her painted the hard line of his cheek.

His teeth gleamed. “I thought that was romantic.”

She sniffed. “You thought I was easy.”

“You?” He combed a strand of hair from her forehead, his touch

lingering behind her ear. She felt the faint rasp of his roughened

fingertips and shivered all the way down to her toes. Not with cold this

time. “You’re the most difficult woman I’ve ever known.”

He watched her a moment, his dark eyes swallowing the moonlight,

making her breath catch in her throat. He laid his mouth gently, lightly on

hers, his kiss teasing, almost tender, almost . . .

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She groaned and arched to meet him, craving his taste, his tongue.

He gave them to her, feeding her in sips and tiny bites that promised more

than he delivered.

She curled her fingers into his shirt front to pull him closer. Still not

enough. Her hands wandered under his shirt, learning his shape, hard

where Alain had been soft, smooth where Alain had been hairy. Different.

She flattened her palm on his chest, where his heart beat hard and fast,

and something inside her softened. Sundered.

He was here. He was hers. At least for tonight. Tonight she needed

him.

His hands smoothed over her camisole top, shaping her breasts,

rubbing the peaks, making her clench with excitement. Her legs moved

restlessly between the sheets, twining with his. The scrape of denim

against her bare skin irritated and aroused her.

She drew back, touching her tongue to her lips, tasting his kiss on

her mouth. “You really want romantic, you could take off your pants this

time.”

Another breath of laughter. “There you go, being difficult again.”

The covers heaved as he shucked his jeans and threw them on the

floor. He rolled back to her, eyes gleaming. “Satisfied?”

Her heart pounded. “Not yet.”

He came over her in one smooth movement, nudging her legs apart

with his knee, fitting himself between her thighs. He was thick and hard

and hot against her. So very hot. Her pulse stumbled as he rocked into

her, as his lips brushed hers once, twice.

“I want to be inside you.”

“Yes.”

“Come inside you.”

Why not? She was already pregnant. And she wanted this. Wanted

him.

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“Yes.”

He licked into her, taking her mouth, his kiss deeper, wetter, wilder.

His hands slid around and under her, under her panties, against her flesh.

Fabric ripped. She didn’t care. He was pulling her down in the dark again,

in the wet, swirling blackness, his body her rock and the darkness like

velvet, thick and warm. Sensation swirled behind her closed lids,

whispered along her veins, rose in her like the tide. She lifted her hips;

opened her mouth to breathe. His hands spanned her buttocks. He gripped

her, flipped her, turned her belly down on the mattress and dragged her

hips up.

She gasped in protest. In excitement. She wanted to touch him. She

wanted to see him, his face, his expressions. There was something

vaguely disturbing about having him so close and still out of her reach,

beyond her control. Disturbing and— okay, she could admit it— exciting.

He came down on her, taking his weight on his elbows, holding her in

place with his thighs, and she could feel him, all of him, his naked flesh

hot against her back, hard against her buttocks, thick and wide at her

entrance.

Her nerves thrummed. Her belly quivered. He looped one arm

around her waist, his long-fingered hand skimming her stomach to find

her slick, soft folds. She sucked in her breath as that hand explored her

with curious delicacy, stroked her, spread her. She was warm now, warm

and achingly alive, every nerve, every muscle desperately attuned to his

touch. His fingers circled, plucking her response from her, coaxing her

open. Her hands fisted on the sheets. Waves of pleasure rolled through

her as she pressed upward shamelessly, as she arched to take him in.

She heard him grunt in satisfaction and then he pushed into her a

little way, his full head stretching her. Possessing her. Her eyelids slid

closed. She’d forgotten how big he was. How good this felt. Too much.

And still not enough.

His hair fell forward against her cheek. His breath was hot at her ear,

warm against her temple.

“Like this,” he said.

She could not see his face, but she heard his need. For now, it was

enough.

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“Yes.”

Anything to ease this terrible want. His. Hers.

With one thick thrust, he filled her. She moaned, overtaken.

Overwhelmed. In this position, she could feel everything. The strength of

his arms, the sweat on his chest, his sex deep within her, stroke after

stroke, driving away the cold inside and out. She had always been self-sufficient, self-possessed. Now he had her, controlled her, and his

command of her body, his hold on her emotions, was at once freeing,

terrifying . . . and terribly erotic. She bucked and wriggled, trying

impossibly to get closer, to take more. She wanted to touch him, needed

to reach him, but he was behind her, surrounding her, his legs bracketing

her legs, his arm hard beside her head, his face damp against the side of

her face.

He reached under her, cupping her snugly, and she felt the darkness

build and throb, felt it well and spill, felt it fill her, flood her as she came,

over and over, biting the pillow to keep from crying out. His rhythm

changed, quickened, each slow drag, each sudden intrusion, almost more

than she could bear. He pumped in and out, rigid above her, hard inside

her. Again. Again. His fingers clamped her hips. His long, lean body

convulsed. She shivered, and he groaned against her hair, burying his face

in the curve of her neck.

Well.

Eventually the bed stopped spinning and settled down with Dylan

still heavy on top of her, his weight pressing her into the mattress. Regina

lay with her nose in her pillow, feeling dizzy, trying to hold on to the

leftover warmth. Waiting for her heartbeat to return to normal. For her

life to return to normal.

She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe either. She coughed, and

Dylan rolled off her, rolled away, leaving her cold, damp, and alone. She

winced. Well, that was normal enough.

But then, without speaking, he reached for her and hauled her into

his arms. Arranging her against him, he flipped the covers over them

both. Her heart stood still. She froze in sheer surprise, her head on his

hard shoulder, glued to his side by sweat and sex and exertion.

“Are you . . . cuddling with me?”

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A snort. Or maybe that was a snore.

Regina bit her lip. “That’s so . . . romantic,” she said, needling him.

“It would be.” He sounded annoyed. “If you’d shut up.”

She grinned and snuggled into his side. Warmed, comforted, she

drifted into sleep, lulled by the rise and fall of his chest and the slow beat

of his heart.

* * *

“What is this?” Surprise rippled through Margred’s low voice. Her

small, warm hand explored him under the covers.

Caleb set his jaw, torn between the pleasure of that exploring hand

and the challenge posed by her question. “It’s a condom.”

“I know what it is. I want to know why you wear it.”

“To protect you,” Caleb said tightly.

“From what?”

“Pregnancy.”

She eased away from him, all that softness, all that warmth,

retreating. “But . . . I want to get pregnant. We want to have children. We

talked about it.”

Caleb winced, her bewilderment cutting him more deeply than her

indignation had. “That was before.”

“Before what?”

He was silent.

“The prophecy.” She answered her own question. “You are afraid

that if we have a daughter, she will be in danger.”

“Or you will.”

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“That is a risk I am willing to take.”

He had always admired her courage. But he could not, would not,

risk her life. Her safety.

“I just think with what happened to Regina . . . Until we know . . .

It’s not a good idea right now.”

“But I want a baby.”

Fear for her made him sharp. “You can’t have everything you want,

Maggie.”

His words echoed like a slap in the darkness of their bedroom.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I know.”

Ah, shit. Caleb closed his eyes. She had given up everything to be

with him, her life in the sea and immortality. All she had ever asked from

him in return was his love and a family.

If he denied her the second, would the first be enough for her?

* * *

Regina woke to a dented pillow and an empty mattress. Alone again.

That much of her life was back to normal.

She rubbed her face with her hand, wincing from the splinters of

sensation in her cracked fingertips, the shard at her heart. Damn. She

eased to a sitting position, ignoringthe morning chorus of birds outside

her window and the hit parade of pain from her various scrapes and

bruises. Some of them were turning very interesting colors. Her toes, for

instance. She hobbled to the mirror. Her throat.

She stared at her pale, hollow-eyed, battered reflection, blinking

away the easy tears that welled in her eyes. She looked like crap. No

wonder Dylan hadn’t stuck around. Just like a man, she thought, fishing

her sweatpants from the floor. Got what he wanted and . . .

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But that wasn’t fair. Last night was on her. Unlike some people, she

knew how to face up to her actions, how to take responsibility. Thinking

of the way she’d thrown herself at him, the things they had done in the

dark, she blushed. At least she didn’t have to worry about making eye

contact this morning. This way was easier on everyone. On her. Nick

would be getting up soon. Just because Dylan had managed to explain

away his presence in their apartment last night didn’t mean she was up to

explaining his presence in her bed this morning.

She dragged the sweatpants over her hips. It was already after seven

o’clock. On a regular morning, she’d have been up two hours ago. She’d

just sneak down to the kitchen and—

Her bedroom door cracked open.

She turned and gaped at Dylan standing in the doorway with a

steaming mug in his hands.

“I thought you could use this.”

“What . . .”

“Tea with honey.” He set it on the dresser, avoiding her eyes. “My

mother used to make it when one of us had a sore throat.”

Her heart slammed in her chest. Her head whirled. He’d made her

tea, was all she could think. Like his mother used to make. She could

smell it, lemon, honey, and a hint of spice.

His gaze narrowed as she continued to gawk at him. “Are you all

right?”

“Fine.” She forced the word from her tightened throat.

But she wasn’t. She was in danger, terrible danger.

Regina was a practical woman. She might have resisted Dylan’s

sulky good looks and sneering humor. She could have suppressed her

sympathy for his wounded childhood, her helpless response to his stormy

passion. Over time, she might even get over his talent for showing up in

the right place at exactly the right time.

But his awkward consideration destroyed her defenses.

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She pressed her trembling lips together. Shit. She was at very real

risk of falling deeply, hopelessly in love with him.

* * *

“We’ll be fine,” Antonia told Regina brusquely, sounding for a

moment so much like her daughter that Dylan’s brows twitched together.