Susan Squires - [Da Vinci Time Travel] (26 page)

They hadn’t spoken a word since they got out of the car. It was starting to feel creepy.

“So,” she asked, “how do you afford an apartment like Oakwood when you’ve only been out of prison six months or so? Did you have a purse with coins like Mordred?”

“Jewels, actually. My father sent me with jewels.”

“How did you keep them through the whole prison-thing? I would have thought they would have confiscated them. They’d have thought they were stolen or something.” She dug into her tostada. All of a sudden she had never been so hungry in her life.

“I hid them under a paving stone I dug up in an alley,” he said as he opened the guacamole and put the Styrofoam bowl between them. “That’s where I got waylaid by the gang. I went back after I got out. They were still there.”

“So, I guess no money problems.”

“On the contrary, as an ex-con I couldn’t sell diamonds even to a fence right after I got out. I couldn’t run the risk of getting caught. So I was broke. I had the hundred bucks they give a prisoner on the way out, but that was it.”

“What did you do?” She couldn’t imagine having only a hundred dollars, almost no way to get a job, and in an unfamiliar century at that.

He looked sheepish. “Uh . . . we watched a lot of those reality fighting shows in prison. When I got out, I auditioned to fight. I got a hundred and fifty thousand for winning the whole series of fights.”

She blinked. She’d seen promos on television for those shows. Those fights were brutal! She hated to think of him selling his body like that and taking those beatings.

“Don’t worry,” he said hastily. He must have seen the look on her face. “It wasn’t bad. I was good at it.” Then he looked stricken. “Not exactly a genteel way to earn my bread. But I won’t have to do it again. I . . . I figured out how to sell the jewels. And . . . and then I’ll find something to do with my life that’s a little more . . . normal.” The smile that was meant to be reassuring certainly didn’t reflect his own assurance.

He was apologetic? The smile that rose to her own lips was more than genuine. Heartfelt if it came to that. “I can’t believe how intrepid you are, how smart, and how . . . how brave.” There was just no other way to say it. “How will you sell the jewels, by the way? I’d never know how to do something like that.”

“I thought I’d have a few set in a necklace every once in a while. Say they were handed down in the family. These days really fine jewels have a number lasered into them so you can tell where they came from. But these won’t have that. The cuts are very primitive, too, so that story will ring true. I’ll let them be lasered and registered, and . . . voilà, provenance.”

“Really clever.” She broke off a chip and dipped it into first the salsa and then the guacamole. No one ever made guacamole hot enough, but the combo was perfect.

The silence hung between them. Neither wanted to broach the subject of what was next. On her end, she was pretty sure she knew. She’d find a job. And she’d go on writing. Maybe now her men would be a little more genuine. That would be her gift from Gawain when he was gone. She wanted to ask what Gawain would do with his life . . . what “something more normal” might be. But that would be asking him to tell her that he was going to leave her. Still, she had to say something. “I hope we can still be friends. Do you intend to stay in San Francisco?”

As she had feared, his face closed down. “I like it here,” he said noncommittally. How stupid could she be? He was probably afraid she’d become the annoying little girl she once was, tagging along and interfering with his life. She felt the panic rise as she thought that if she seemed too persistent this might be the last night she would ever see him.

The prospect was chilling. She wanted him. Like eating with a coming appetite, the wanting poured over her. Her body responded to his nearness at her elbow with a kind of electrification, though she had been bone tired a moment ago. The very . . . bigness of his body called to hers. He seemed made of a different element, heavier inch for inch than she was, harder, and that appealed to her in some way she’d never felt. Was
this
feeling what she’d written about? How inadequate her words seemed now. Anyone’s words actually. This was some kind of alchemy between men and women. Or maybe just between her and Gawain.

The only thing she knew was that she wanted him, this maybe-last night.

He was finishing his burrito, wrapping up the foil around the gooey remains. But she knew he was aware of her. Pheromones. That’s what her attraction was. One-sided attraction. His was just male preoccupation with sex wherever they could find it. This wasn’t magic.

But that’s sure how it seemed.

Gawain looked up at her and knew his eyes were changing color to that dark violet-blue of passion. She was the only person besides his father whom he’d ever let look directly into his eyes. She wanted to be friends when he wanted to worship her and serve her with his strength and his love for the rest of his life. Not fair. He wasn’t sure he could be just friends with Diana as he had been with Dilly. Not when he wanted her with every fiber of his disobedient body. His loins were aching, his balls tight, and his cock straining against the zipper of his jeans. He didn’t deserve her. He was weak of mind, weaker of flesh, because all he could think about was the soft swell of her breast under his hand and the moist invitation of her mouth. And that felt so right it must be wrong.

“Can a friend—” He cleared his throat and swallowed. He was vile. He knew it. But he seemed to have lost all his vaunted control around Diana. Would she hate him for this? He hated himself. But he couldn’t stop. His only hope would be for her to think it was just recreational sex, that it didn’t matter to him. Friends had sex sometimes, didn’t they? “Can a friend still provide some research occasionally?”

Her eyes went wide as her breath caught. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Would she just slap him? Would she shut down and run to her room? Her eyes went from cool gray-green to hot without ever changing color. She wasn’t going to slap him. And hateful or not,
he was glad, so glad, on an elemental level, that he leaned over the wreckage of their dinner and brushed his lips softly against hers.

He meant to be slow. Like he was the night before. He meant to make it light and friendly sex, nonthreatening—a sex that made no assumptions about how she felt about him. That’s what men did. It was women who always wanted commitment. Women were the ones who were supposed to think sex was a sacred bond. Diana wanted only friendship and recreational sex. So he meant to give her some half-measure of intensity she would find acceptable.

But her lips burned his when he brushed his own across them, and when she reached up with both hands and grabbed the collar of his corduroy shirt and drew him in to her he . . . he just lost control. His arms went round her of their own volition and drew her up to standing, and when she opened her lips beneath his, letting his tongue probe the moist promise of her mouth, even as she caressed his tongue with her own, he felt like a huge wave was breaking over him, rolling him over and over in its watery embrace.

He held her to his body like he could never let her go, crushing her breasts to his chest, uncaring that she would feel the hard ridge of his erection against her belly. Let her feel it. Let her know just how much he wanted her, because however much she imagined, he wanted her a hundredfold more.

“Diana,” he murmured into her mouth. “Diana. Dilly. Diana.” He pressed her back into the semidarkness of the living room. Her tiny hands were combing through his hair, and her kissing had grown frantic. She rubbed against him until he groaned. She shouldn’t rub against him like that. Or maybe she shouldn’t stop.

Then she pulled away. It was like she pulled part of his
soul with her. She was panting, and her eyes were so intense they burned. She pulled her sweater over her head in one move. It was his turn to suck in a breath. The white globes of her breasts swelled in the cups of her lacy bra. She leaned forward and reached around for the hooks.

“You’re getting behind,” she rasped.

He came to himself and went to work on the buttons on his shirt. His fingers were clumsy. In frustration, he just pulled. Popping buttons leaped in all directions. He shrugged out of his shirt and pulled it inside out to get it off his arms. He flung it against the wall and went to work on his belt.

She had already shed her jeans and underwear in one move. She stripped off her stockings and she was nude. He tried to get his breath. Here, in the light from the kitchen behind them, he could see her as he hadn’t seen her last night. That she had a beautiful body he already knew, rounded and yet tiny, delicate, something to be cherished and protected. But now her nipples peaked in desire for him, her eyes dark with passion. He thought . . . he didn’t know what he thought. He wasn’t thinking. His body reacted as though it had been jolted with electricity.

“Let me,” she said, because he wasn’t making all that much progress with his belt. And when she reached for the buckle she purposely brushed her breasts against his abdomen. Lord, he was going to come right here and now. Somehow, he kicked off his boots. And then she was sliding his jeans down over his hips. She made a little “oh” of pleasure as she realized he wasn’t wearing any underwear. He stepped out and gathered her into his arms with a growl. She turned her head up, hungry for his mouth, and he obliged, kissing her, probing her. He thought he was merciless, when he could manage thought, but she was as merciless as he, sucking his tongue, nipping at his lips. His erection poked against her belly and . . . and he
just couldn’t wait. He lifted her by her bottom. Her legs swung up around his hips. He fell to his knees on the thick beige carpet and he lowered her onto his shaft, all the while they devoured each other’s mouths. He lifted her and lowered, and thrust his hips up into her in a fierce staccato. She rocked against him, wriggling to get maximum friction. He grunted, whether in exertion or in some primal demonstration of his lust he didn’t know. She was making small mewling noises. But he wasn’t sure she could come like this, so he laid her down on the carpet and eased out of her.

“No, no,” she protested, groping for his cock. He let her find him, as he pressed two fingers against her clitoris and felt it throbbing and erect. She moaned and leaned into him. He rubbed back and forth. But after only a couple of times, she stilled his hands.

“I want you in me when I come.”

He covered her with his body and thrust inside her, jerking his hips into her until she was giving little, gasping “ohs” with every thrust. She cried out first and somehow he held on, knowing that she needed the continuing friction to extend her orgasm. The feeling of her womb contracting around him put him over the top. It felt like she was milking him of his seed as he stilled and spurted inside her. His cry escalated just as hers was fading. It was a spontaneous song that told of lust and love and a million years of men and women together.

“Diana,” he whispered. “Diana.” He nuzzled her throat, kissing. Then he slid one arm under her shoulders and one arm over her hips to cup her bottom and picked her up. She laid her head on his shoulder. They said nothing. He was afraid anything he said would frighten her away from this moment of caring, this expression of his one-sided sacred bond. He couldn’t bear to be light and devil-may-care about it, even if he was only pretending. And if he admitted anything like what he felt, she’d be gone by
morning, he was sure. He carried her into the king-size bed and shifted her to one arm while he pulled back the spread. He couldn’t bear to let her go even for an instant. When he laid her in the bed, he lay down beside her and drew her once more into his arms. This . . . this felt right.

Diana woke in Gawain’s arms. They hadn’t bothered to close the draperies last night, so pale early light streamed into the room. Gawain was still asleep, his dark lashes brushing his cheeks. He looked like a boy, with his dark comma of hair and his fair, fine skin. She wanted to reach out and touch it, but she didn’t want to wake him. Her eyes moved down to his shoulder. Livid bruises stood out against the pale skin as well as the strange Celtic knot tattoo. Had he been so injured in the fight? She felt a pang of guilt. She’d practically raped him last night, she’d wanted him so badly. Of course he was nothing loath. He was a guy after all. The man had bewitched her. Who said he didn’t have his father’s magic?

As if he felt her eyes on him, he stirred, and she felt something else stirring as well. It rubbed against her hip.
Dear me! After last night?
Not surprisingly, she felt an answering tingle and its accompanying wetness between her legs. She would make love to him night and morning forever if she could. But she hadn’t expected him to want more from her. Maybe it was just a natural morning erection and she should ignore it, because it didn’t really mean anything.

“Mmmmmm,” he said without opening his eyes, and reached for her. That gave her license to stroke his cheek. And the other tattoo just under his collarbone. He was so warm and sleepy. His lips were soft as he kissed her forehead. He was awake. She knew it. But he didn’t open his eyes. He bent to kiss her. So she closed her eyes as well. She was made only of feeling and touch, and smell.

And it was good. They made sleepy morning love, having never said a single coherent word since dinner last night. Well, he’d said her name a couple of times. Did that count?

Afterward, they dozed off again. She should have felt too guilty for that. It was time to get on with the rest of her life after all. She had to call her editor and tell her that the book wasn’t going to be in on time, or anywhere near it. She should apply for unemployment insurance and start looking for another job.

But the world could wait. It wouldn’t have to wait long. Gawain was bound to go today.

When she woke again, he was already in the shower. He came out fully dressed, his dreadful bruises on shoulder and side covered, his hair wet and slicked back against his head. When he saw her looking at him through the open bedroom door his expression was . . . tentative. When had Gawain, parfait knight, looked tentative?