Rage, page 14
Her hand snaked downward, stroking across the front of his jeans, whispering along strained denim. He moaned and rocked his hips forward against her palm, feeling a loosening in his belly, a trembling in his legs. He turned and pulled her tight against him, letting her feel how much he needed her.
She made a soft whimpering sound he found impossible to resist, and looked at him with the same longing he felt inside. “Blaize,” he moaned, crushing her mouth with his. He lifted her and carried her up to the loft, holding her tight to his chest. He wasn’t sure if he could hold off even that long. He’d never wanted a woman as much as he wanted her right this moment.
As he laid her across his bed, Spyder realized there was more to this attraction than just sex. Compared to the teeny-boppers, groupies and models, she was a breath of normal. He wanted her. He wanted to rock her each night and wake up with her each morning. He wanted her in ways that sex alone could never satisfy. But sex was as good a place as any to start.
They tore at each other’s clothes and he reached for her, finding her warm and wet and ready for him. Without preamble or apology, he lowered himself onto her and moved in a long, slow slide of possession into her, feeling her close around him. He needed her fast and deep and hard and her body responded with the same sense of urgency.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, meeting each thrust with her own, urging him beyond the limits of his self-control.
“Now,” she cried out, and there was no more holding back. He thrust and drove deeply into her at the same moment she arched and bucked, gripping him in an explosive climax that turned the world inside out and made him feel as if everything that came before this had simply been child’s play. There was only her. He poured himself into her, over and over and over again, giving himself to her body and soul.
They rode the crest for an eternity, then held each other tight, coming down in slow, cascading waves. When neither of them could come anymore, he rolled over, cradling her to his chest. He held her even tighter, afraid to let her go for fear she’d drift back into the dream world she’d appeared from.
She sighed and tucked her face beneath his chin and he was flooded with a feeling of tenderness unlike anything he’d ever known. With the basic primal need satisfied now, the only thing he wanted was to protect and cherish her, forever and always. In one broad stroke, he’d relinquished his heart as well as his body. At that moment he knew he’d willingly die for her.
Chapter Thirteen
At the mountainside retreat of Mother Moon, Oswald Gaderian strode across the stage. He adjusted the microphone, set a glass of water on the podium and made sure everything was in place. When Mother Moon stepped up to the dais, he stood in the wings, alert to her every move, ready if she needed anything.
His gaze swept across the assembly, taking in a sea of upturned faces raised like flowers toward the sun. The chairs were arranged in a semi-circle with aisles fanning out from the stage like rays of sunlight. His gaze swept back along the congregation, rainbow-colored robes flowed like variegated waves, from his own ninth-level saffron, to the pale lavender of the neophyte. Only young Joey and Mother Moon herself wore robes of pure, virginal white.
At Oswald’s signal the lights dimmed and the music swelled. A dozen new recruits filed down the aisles, converging at the foot of the stage.
Behind Mother Moon, sunlight glimmered through the stained glass window, turning her hair to gold, glowing around her like an aura of flowing colors. She raised her hand, silencing the crowd. It was both a greeting and a benediction.
She smiled at the new recruits, gesturing them to take their seats. “Welcome, and blessings to you all. Today we celebrate your first step on the path of a New Life.” Her smile broadened, encompassing the rest of the audience, lighting every upturned face and feeding each hungry soul. Her voice rang clear and resonant through the hushed auditorium. “We stand on the brink of a New Age. Each one of you is a vital link, a warrior on the battle front of the New Order.”
Oswald felt it happening. He always knew the moment the connection began. It started as a tingling beneath the soles of his feet, like a surge of low-voltage electricity humming along the floor. Then the hairs on his arm would lift and the air around him became heavier, dense with the combined weight of a thousand unified thoughts. He could almost, but not quite, see the psychic threads linking Celeste to each person in the room.
The pure power he felt being drawn to the stage always caught him by surprise. If it was this intense for him, he wondered what it felt like to Celeste, the focus of all that energy. It must have a force equivalent to a psychic sledgehammer. But she never faltered. If anything, it seemed to nourish her. Her stature expanded, the timbre of her voice increased. She fed on their energy, adding her own and sending it back to them in flowing waves, completing the psychic bond.
Oswald knew she always gave back more than she received, even though it took so much out of her. When she left the stage tonight she’d be drained. On rare occasions she’d let herself lean on him, and he’d practically have to carry her back to her room. At those times she looked less like the leader she was on stage now, and more like the child she was when he’d first met her. Those were his favorite moments.
A small, nudging movement drew his attention. He curled his hand around Joey’s and smiled down at the boy. Joey squeezed and smiled back. As always, Oswald was struck by the boy’s beauty and charisma. Clear blue eyes that seemed both innocent and wise at the same time were framed by smoky lashes in a face that could have been painted by the master himself.
Joey was as beautiful and innocent now as he was the day Celeste had placed the swaddled babe into Oswald’s arms with claims of a divine prophecy fulfilled. Her belief then had been as steadfast as it was to this day. Oswald knew then that the strength of her belief, coupled with his management skills, would be a rewarding and lucrative partnership. He’d been right.
At first it had been simply a business enterprise, but over the years he’d grown fond of Celeste. Together they’d orchestrated every aspect of Joey’s life. The boy had been raised from infancy here in the compound, hand-fed his own system of beliefs. But for all his private education, Joey knew little of the real world outside the commune.
Oswald placed a hand on Joey’s shoulder. Such frail young shoulders to carry the weight of the world. “Are you ready, son?”
Joey took a deep breath and nodded. The timing was perfect. Celeste turned and held out her hand. Oswald released his grip and Joey walked across the stage to a surge of applause, joining his mother at the podium.
Standing together on the stage, Oswald was struck again by how much the boy looked like his mother. Too much, perhaps—as if her genes alone had created this child. You could almost believe her claim that Joey’s birth was the result of the second Immaculate Conception in the history of the world.
Unless you looked closer, deeper. Oswald had no proof, but he’d developed his own theories over the years. He was sure that Joey’s genetic structure was indeed pure, distilled, multiplied—not by Immaculate Conception, but something more ominous.
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He suspected there was nothing at all miraculous about Joey’s conception. There were clues that only someone as close to Celeste as he was might decipher. Oswald had looked deeply into Joey’s eyes and seen the boy’s father staring back. No wonder Celeste chose to believe an angel had given her this child. She’d either consciously or unconsciously blocked everything else out, choosing to believe in divine intervention rather than the more sinister truth—that her own brother Algernon was Joey’s biological father.
Mother and child gazed out from the stage, bathed in adoration and combined in a singular cause.
“It’s all coming together,” Oswald murmured. This was what they’d planned for. It would be their crowning moment of glory.
Yet he couldn’t help feeling sad. At the core of each beginning was an ending, and for some the end was already at hand.
Spyder watched Blaize sleep. She looked so peaceful, her hand curled into a loose fist beneath her chin, her hair spread across his pillow in a silky tangle. Once their initial hunger had been satisfied, they’d made love again, tender and slow the second time. He wanted to touch her, but he knew if he did he’d want her again. And again. He’d never grow tired of wanting her.
At this moment he’d give anything to curl up beside her and sleep, cupping her within the warm, protective curve of his body. But he was afraid to sleep. Afraid to dream. Afraid the dream would become reality and he’d wake up to find her corpse growing cold beneath him, his shriveled penis locked in the death grip of her ice-cold womb.
As if feeling his thoughts, she stirred. “Shhh…” he whispered, brushing the hair back from her forehead. “Sleep, little love.”
And she did, her breath soft and steady. He tucked the blankets around her and pulled a chair alongside the bed. Although he didn’t trust himself to sleep, he didn’t want to be too far away, either. He wanted to be there if she called out in her sleep, ready to chase her nightmares away. He wanted to be the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes.
Something told him he’d just traded one addiction for another. But it didn’t matter. Any other physical cravings paled in comparison, and this was one addiction he wouldn’t fight.
Unable to resist the urge to touch her, he reached out. His hand moved down the side of her face, marveling at the softness of her skin. He traced the line of her jaw, his finger moving down until he reached the pulsing hollow of her throat. His breathing quickened and his heartbeat raced. His fingers spanned the curve of her neck. A delicate blue vein throbbed beneath the surface of her pale skin. He followed the trail with his fingertip, a dim part of his mind noting that he was hard again, harder than he’d ever been, though they’d already made love twice tonight.
He wanted her again. He wanted to pour himself into her and hear her cry out his name in the darkness. His fingers tightened. She squirmed and whimpered in her sleep, a frown creasing her forehead. He watched in horror as the pressure increased and his fingertips began to sink slowly into the softness of her skin.
With a strangled moan he tore himself away, his chair scraping across the wooden floor. It was another ten minutes before his breathing returned to normal. By then his erection was gone, and so was his conviction that he could keep Blaize Donovan safe from whatever demons chased her.
He had his own demons to fight.
Algernon shot straight up in bed. His skin was clammy and his heart hammered in his chest. They’d almost caught him this time. They were getting closer.
He didn’t need a psychiatrist to interpret the dream symbols. The stinging scorpion at his heels, dogging his every step, the gates that seemed to open onto safety but only led to more dead ends, the fires that sprung up, blocking his path. They were all there. All the characters from his novel—Scorpion, Gate, Fyre—pursuing him even in his dreams.
“What do you want from me?” he screamed. But there was no answer. His voice bounced off the bare walls and echoed back to him with taunting echoes. He had to get away. There was only one place where he knew he’d be safe. Maybe, just maybe, he could outrun them.
He threw a few essentials into a suitcase—enough clothes for a week or so, his toothbrush and razor. He moved around the house, taking only what he absolutely needed. In the bedroom he swept the relaxation tapes and headphones from his dresser into his suitcase. He went into the office and ejected the disk with his only copy of the final draft of the final manuscript on it, then switched the computer off. In the kitchen he grabbed an apple and put it in his pocket for the drive to his sister’s place.
When he reached the door, he turned and looked back once more, suddenly sure that he’d never see his home again.
Chapter Fourteen
Blaize yawned and stretched, coming awake slow and lazy. She heard the soft strumming of a guitar and knew where she was even before opening her eyes. Her body tingled and a spontaneous smile welled up from somewhere deep in her center. It would be real easy to get used to waking up to morning serenades, especially after long nights of wild, mind-numbing lovemaking.
Spyder looked up from his guitar, as if sensing she was awake. His fingers still moved casually back and forth along the strings.
“Hi,” she said, rolling onto her side and propping herself up on her elbow.
He grinned. “Hi yourself.”
“Don’t stop,” she said. She watched him play. He had wide, strong hands, with perfectly tapered fingers that caressed the strings with graceful, almost sensual strokes. She remembered those hands on her body, strumming her, stroking her, soothing her. She tore her gaze away, aware of a smoldering excitement building inside her.
These feelings were new and exciting. What had happened to her? Well, she knew what had happened, the question was how? Spyder made her feel things she’d never felt before. She alternated between amused and confused, furious and curious, frustrated and satisfied. He brought out a side of her she’d never known existed—a wanton, brazen, impulsive, devil-be-damned side. She liked that side of herself.
And here she was in his bed. Two people who, by all rights, shouldn’t have anything in common, discovering they were a perfect match. But why me? she wondered. It didn’t make any sense at all.
She pushed the thought away. It didn’t matter. Right now, for the first time in longer than she could remember, she felt wonderful. Who would have guessed all she needed was a little sleep, a little rest, a little…mmmmm…maybe “little” didn’t apply in this instance.
Spyder leaned his guitar against the wall. “That was an interesting smile,” he said, unfolding his long limbs and sauntering across the room toward her. “Want to tell me what you were thinking?”
“Come a little bit closer and you’ll find out firsthand,” she said, sliding one bare arm from beneath the blanket he’d wrapped around her.
“You’re insatiable,” he drawled. “And I love that about you.” He reached the edge of the bed and took her hand, pulling her to a sitting position.
She didn’t stop the covers from sliding down to her waist. She felt completely at ease as his gaze swept downward. The look in his eyes made her feel sensual and beautiful and desirable—things she’d never in her wildest fantasies believed.
He gave a low whistle. “Mmmm-mmmm. You could tempt a saint, woman.”
“That’s a moot point,” she replied. “Since there are no saints here.”
“Moot,” he repeated, tapping his chin. “You sound like a schoolteacher.”
“I am a schoolteacher, remember?”
“That’s right. Schoolteacher, songwriter and storyteller.” His voice was low and husky, and his eyes twinkled as he teased her. “Am I going to have to start bringing a dictionary to bed with us?”
Us. The word sent a shiver rippling through her body. “A dictionary and a thesaurus,” she shot back.
He cocked his head and gave her a wicked smile. “Darlin’,” he said, “I don’t think I’ll need a dictionary to understand the words you use in bed with me.”
She felt a flush of warmth rise to her cheeks as she remembered the sexy words he’d coaxed from her. Like her nakedness, the bawdy pillow talk had felt completely natural. Everything they’d said and done felt comfortable and right.
His voice dropped to a low, husky murmur. “Where did you come from?” he asked. “How did you find me?”
“Is that one of those Zen questions?” she asked. “Like, what is the meaning of life?”
The bed dipped when he sat on the edge beside her. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s the question every man asks when he finds the woman who makes him feel complete.”
Her cheeks warmed and she looked away to hide the emotion she felt. It sounded like the stuff of romance novels, but he was right. She knew without a doubt that he was her destiny. The sexual attraction they felt was simply frosting on the cake. In the short time they’d been together she’d felt the connection, the bonding of Yin and Yang into a complete whole.
But there was more than lust involved. There was the way he looked at her. He made her feel beautiful and desired. And when she saw herself through his eyes, she was no longer plain and unappealing. She could actually believe she was as beautiful as he said. She knew she was wanted. Not for her money. God knows Spyder didn’t need her money. He had money to burn. And unlike Richard, there was no subterfuge. He couldn’t hide the emotions he felt—whether it was disbelief or annoyance or lust. It was all there on his face. She knew Spyder could have any woman he wanted. But he’d chosen her.
Or had he? The thought wormed its way into her brain. Maybe it was all too pat. Hadn’t she herself said they came from two different worlds? Maybe they were simply being manipulated, like everything else in her life right now. She pushed the thought away, not wanting anything to spoil the mood. If this was a fantasy, she didn’t want it to end.
He tossed the sheet aside, uncovering her. She was completely at ease naked in front of him, something she’d never felt before. With Richard she’d always worn something to bed and pulled the sheets up after they made love. But even in the full light of day, she was comfortable being naked under Spyder’s adoring gaze.
“What’s today?” she asked. She wouldn’t have been surprised to discover a lifetime had passed since she’d entered this sanctuary.
His hand trailed between her breasts downward to her tummy. “Sunday.”
“You didn’t sleep at all last night?”
“I’m a vampire,” he said, baring his teeth and lunging toward her neck with a mocking growl.
