The Drake House (14 page)

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

The look he gave her must’ve said it all.

“Oh,” she said, then broke eye contact. “Um, can you put this on?” she asked, holding up the ankle alarm. “Wayne said it just snaps on, but it won’t stay closed.”

“Yeah,” he muttered and crossed the room to her.
And then you’re going to the guest room away from her.

She sat on a corded ottoman, the exact shade of her ivory skin, and crossed one leg over the other, still clutching the towel around her.

Breathe in through the nose, count to ten, out through the mouth.

Kneeling next to her, his knuckles brushed her ankle when he fastened the alarm. Her sharp intake of breath told him she felt the charge too. When he’d pressed her against his car and kissed her last week, he was stunned at the immediate response and need in him. Then when he kissed her in the kitchen the other night, it was seducing and promising. If he kissed her now, it wouldn’t stop at a kiss.

He tore his gaze from her legs. She’d just lost a friend today. There was enough for an emotional meltdown without him adding to the mix.

“You put the door alarm on,” she said, her voice husky with arousal.

“Yep.”

“And made tea.”

“Yep.”

Pause. “Do you want me?” she whispered, a trace of weariness and hope in her voice.

He made the monumental mistake of looking at her. Her pupils, so large and black, were nearly hiding the soft brown of her eyes. Little gold flecks swam through to deepen the intensity of them.

He swallowed. “Yep.” Standing abruptly, he headed for the door before he couldn’t.

Except then
she
made the monumental mistake of calling his name. Soft, pleading, tempting—he had to turn around.

She dropped the towel.

Underneath it all, she was more than he’d envisioned. And that was saying a lot. Perfect breasts would fit just right in his hands, and her rose-pink nipples were hardening at his gaze. A flat stomach made way for the hourglass curve of her hips to the juncture of her thighs. Damn, her small gathering of curls was red, like the natural highlights in her hair. Somehow he knew it would be. Lean, sculpted legs—and he’d always been a legs man—were toned from years of hard work.

Forcing his gaze back to her eyes, he saw the hesitation on her face. Her lips parted, reddened, as if he’d already plunged into them.

His jaw cracked. “This is a mistake.”

“Probably,” she whispered.

“You’ve had an emotional day.”

The haze in her eyes cleared marginally. “Exactly.”

“I don’t have a condom,” he whispered, mimicking her tone.

Her eyes watched his Adams apple slide up and down with a swallow. “Are you safe?” she asked. When he nodded, she said, “So am I. And I’m on the pill.”

“I don’t think—”

“Stop thinking.” Just like that. Just like it was as easy as that.

And then it dawned on him she needed this as bad as he wanted it. Needing her mind to forget and her body exhausted so she could slip into oblivion for a little while. What kind of guy would he be if he didn’t cooperate?

“Fuck it,” he ground out and strode to her.

Chapter Nine

Trisha never considered herself brazen in the bedroom. She didn’t do things like drop a towel to expose herself and demand the man take her. Sure, she usually enjoyed sex, but with the few partners she’d had, she spent more energy trying to please them than letting go herself. It was too difficult to shut her brain off and enjoy the ride.

Immediately, she knew it wouldn’t be like that with Nick. As he strode toward her, the steely determination in his green eyes had heat pooling between her legs. It was intense. He belonged on the cover of some smoldering romance novel, not here with a farm girl who…

“God, you’re beautiful,” he uttered seconds before claiming her mouth.

Well, okay. Never mind.

Her eyes fluttered closed, locking in the taste and scent of him as she molded her form to his. Framing her face with his hands, he deepened the kiss, assaulting her mouth and senses. There would be no thinking, only feeling. His hands latched onto her hips to hold her in place.

She tugged at the hem of his black T-shirt, urging it up and off his glorious, rippled torso. It was as hard as stone. Dying to touch, her fingers slid over the muscles and around his back, drawing him closer to her heat. His mouth moved over her throat, to her neck, then collarbone in a fevered torrent. She almost came right there.

“You smell like peaches,” he ground out against her throat. It sounded like a curse. “I don’t understand, but you smell like peaches. I could devour you,” he went on saying, moving lower to her breast. “It should be innocent and sweet, but it only fuels my need to take you. It drives me mad.”

Hell, she couldn’t get him to say three words to complete a sentence before and now he’s all talk? “I…like the…scent,” she forced out between tremors. “Apples seemed too obvious.”

The laugh was brief, because he moved to her other breast to continue his assault. Her fingers dove into his black hair, fisting and urging him on. When her legs threatened to give out, he slid his knee between her thighs to hold her up and she ground against the denim in anguish.

“Take these off,” she begged, unfastening the jeans and sliding them off his hips before he could argue.

Without stepping out of his jeans, he straightened and looked into her eyes, cupping her cheeks. For too long they locked gazes, breaths coming out in rasps. Flesh to flesh. The last thing she expected to see in his eyes was anxiety.
Pain
.

“Am I hurting you?” she asked, wondering how that was possible. Nothing this good could feel this bad.

“Yes,” he mumbled. “No.”

Then she remembered what he told her on their date. How after the shooting he couldn’t feel pleasure without pain. “Stop thinking. We’re here, in my room, not back there.” He looked like he wanted to back away. She pulled him closer. “Let go, Nick.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“How long has it been since you’ve been with someone?” she asked quietly.

His mouth thinned. “Too long.”

She ran her hand down his side, over his hip, and circled his shaft in her hand. Slowly drawing her fingers up and down, his jaw hardened and his eyes cleared.
There
. “That doesn’t hurt, does it?”

He shook his head, ground his teeth. “God, no. Nothing hurts around you.”

This was going to be good, judging by the enormity of his size in her hand. And he was pulsing with need. He was letting go. When his hands slid over her neck and into her hair, she stepped closer, holding him between her hand and her belly, still stroking.

“Stop or I’ll never last,” he growled. He pulled the clip from her hair, combing his fingers through. He stepped out of his jeans, allowing them to pool by his feet, and then bent to unsnap her alarm from her ankle. When his gaze returned to hers, his fingers found her hair again and held on.

The selfish part of her stopped stroking and instead drew both hands across his hips to his backside. She wanted every inch of him inside her.

Edging him backward, she kept her eyes on his, watching the question disappear with delight when he landed in a chair and she rose over him. His hands left her hair to grip the sides of the chair.

Leaning in, she began with his ear, a slow leisure taste with her tongue, then sliding her mouth over the shadow on his cheek and capturing his mouth. Everything about him was hard. His shoulders under her hands, his thighs beneath her bottom, his chest against her breasts, his lips over hers.

She broke the kiss to whisper in his ear. “Touch me.”

He inhaled sharply and paused as if restraining himself, so she slid her wetness against his erection, the friction electrifying her nerves. She was coming undone. He wasn’t even inside her yet, touching her yet, and she was ready to explode just feeling him between her legs. Grinding faster, the tension built, and when she threw her head back unable to hold it in, his arms came around her.

He rose from the chair with her legs bound around his waist, carrying her to the bed. His hands cupped her bottom, holding her in place as she came. In moments the tremors stopped, and her arms tightened around his neck when she realized he was standing by the bed, still holding her. Watching.

“Damn, Trish,” he said, voice hoarse with emotion. “That was something to see.”

He lowered his forehead to hers and she blushed. She’d never been like that before. Domineering. Possessed. And there wasn’t even penetration yet.

He rocked his hips, his shaft sliding against her sensitive folds, and she trembled again. Laying her sideways on the bed, he rose over her and settled between her legs. So close, but not. The combination of the cool sheets to her back and the heat of his skin covering her was erotic. He kissed her mouth, moving over her neck and back to her mouth again.

She lifted her hips to him, urging him to take her. “Now, Nick,” she demanded, wanting him inside her, unable to hold out any longer.

He rose on one elbow and watched her as he plunged, stretching and filling her, his gaze intense. Air whooshed from her lungs in heavenly bliss. There was something so intimate about him watching her that they both paused. When the heat built to an enormous pressure, neither able to control the force and pull, he braced both hands on the mattress and pumped.

His face pressed against her neck. She tilted her head back, offering better access, and tightened her legs around him. His muscles bunched, holding back for her. It wasn’t long. Every inch of her was rung tight with pleasure, every molecule zipping with harmony. Adjusting to cradle her spasms, his arms slipped behind her back, under her buttocks, and he moved in earnest, climbing toward his own climax.

When he exploded with a fevered grunt, she came apart again just from the beauty of having him inside her. There was nothing like it—had never been anything like it before.

****

Nick looked, for the umpteenth time, at Trisha’s hair spread over the pillow next to him. Curiously, she wasn’t a snuggler after sex. She’d driven him mad, given him the best sex of his life, then rolled over and slept.

He wanted to touch her again.

Tearing his gaze away, he stared at the ceiling. She hadn’t shown any signs of sleepwalking or nightmares yet. He didn’t have the heart to put the alarm back on her ankle, not that he’d sleep anyhow.

What happened to settling in a sleepy town and attempting to get over the damage back in Milwaukee? It was like the horror followed him, just in a different form. The incidents here in Small Rapids didn’t make any damn sense. Nightmares. An abandoned house. Phone calls.

Murder.

It was all tied to Trisha somehow. He should’ve resisted her, not because of her baggage, but because of his. Instead, they’d both given in to the need for release. And she didn’t seem phased in the least. Settling his hands behind his head on the pillow, he looked at her again.

“You’re not watching me while I sleep, are you?” she asked, her eyes still closed in the dark room. “Cause I never found that romantic, just creepy.”

Despite effort not to, he smiled. “You weren’t sleeping.”

She laughed and opened her eyes. “I don’t sleep much. What’s your excuse?”

Deciding it better not to tell Trish she was partly the reason, he leveled his gaze on her. “I was trying to piece together Andrew’s murder with the other occurrences.”

All the humor left her eyes. “And what did you come up with?”

He rose from the bed and searched for his jeans. “Nothing.” Except all this was something, and it raked his nerves. He stepped into his pants. “I want to see Alexandra Drake’s house.”

“What?” Grabbing the sheet to cover up, she launched off the bed. “Why?”

His hands paused over the snap of his jeans. “I don’t know. A gut feeling.” He sighed. “Maybe you’ll remember something.”

The look she gave him sent splinters of ice down his spine. Part fear, part understanding, she knew this was about her.

“I’ve never seen the house, Nick. There’s nothing to remember.”

“Then there’s no harm in trying.”

They looked at each other for several beats before she broke the contact. Her hands were shaking when, after walking across the room, she reached in a dresser drawer to remove clothes. After pulling on his shirt, he sat on the bed watching her dress while sliding into his shoes.

It was imperative that no one knew what they were doing. Nick couldn’t fathom the reason behind the superstition surrounding the Drake house, but his gut said someone killed Andrew because of Trisha’s tie somehow.

“Wear something dark,” he said.

****

Trisha glanced back at her house from the orchard. They’d turned on a couple upstairs lights in case anyone was watching the house. She shivered despite the mild temperature and tightened her sweatshirt.

The nightmares loomed in her vision as the tree line approached. While dreaming, she was alone, forced by curiosity and something unknown to step onto the hidden path to Alexandra’s house. Now Nick wanted her to live that nightmare.

They both stopped in front of the chain and eyed each other. Back at the house before they left, Nick said no flashlights and minimal talking, in case they were being watched. The thought tore another tremor through her. She’d grown up in this town. And one of the people she’d known all her life killed Andrew.

Because of her? Because of this? Why?

Nick drew a handgun from his shoulder holster and removed the safety before glancing around. His eyes were hard, determined. Assumingly satisfied, his gaze dropped to hers. “Stay with me. If you remember anything, keep quiet until we’re back at the house.”

Swallowing, she nodded. Resisting the urge to grip his hand, she stepped over the chain and waited for him to do the same.

Nothing happened. No frigid wind like in her nightmares. No man in the woods like the other night. No voice thanking her for coming. Nothing.

Calmer, she released a breath and began walking side-by-side with Nick, the spring foliage crunching beneath their feet. His eyes were darting everywhere at once, never settling in one location. She could barely make out her hand in front of her face.