Keeper of the Shadows

chapter 13



For the first time in her life Barrie had species envy, wishing at least to be a different kind of Keeper, maybe an Elven Keeper like Sailor, so they could just teleport and be back at home, in bed. There were more kisses in the dark luxuriousness of the limo on the way home, deep, delicious, toe-curling kisses that set her ablaze again...but no matter how she teased and writhed and caressed, Mick kept deliberately moving her hands above his waist and concentrating his oh-so-skillful efforts on her throat and ears and mouth until she was nearly mad with desire.

“I hate you,” she murmured into his ear with the last breath she had left, and he laughed into her hair, and said, “Oh, just wait.”

As the limo pulled up toward the gate of the estate, Barrie somehow found the presence of mind to get the remote from her purse. As the limo headed up the drive, Mick suddenly rolled on top of Barrie, and for the first time since they’d gotten back in the car, he not only kissed her but let her feel the whole hot, hard length of him on top of her, bruising, demanding...until she was liquid in the seat...

And then he pulled back and opened the door to lift her out of the car, because she was too dazed to manage it on her own.

At the doorway he took the key from her, scooped her up in his arms and kicked open the door.

Low lights were on in the front hall, and they were reflected in the antique mirrors on the walls. He took a glance around at the art, the mirrors, the sculpture, and she could see he was pleased, but also that there were more important things on his mind.

“Bedroom...” he said huskily.

“Down the...hall to the left.”

He was kissing her neck as he walked in, and all she could feel was fire rising from the very core of her, so she didn’t understand why he stopped still in the doorway.

She opened her eyes in a dreamy haze, looking at the room through the romantic spill of moonlight through the French doors...and realized that there were piles of clothes all over her bedroom, including covering the bed, with the cat sleeping on top of the biggest mountain. She’d forgotten her dress crisis of the afternoon.

“No closets?” he asked her dryly, and she blushed from head to toe.

“I couldn’t figure out what to wear.”

He set her down and looked her over in the copper dress. “You did perfectly,” he whispered.

And then she was on the bed, where he was unbuttoning her dress, and his fingers were tracing trails of fire down her bare back, up her thighs. Then the perfect dress was on the floor and Mick’s hands were on her body, and she was lost.

She pulled his tux shirt out of his pants and slipped her hands into his shirt, finding smooth, warm skin and rippling muscles...breathing harder and harder as he kissed her mouth, her neck, her ears. Her hands were fumbling with buttons, zippers, needing him naked, needing him against her, inside her.

He lifted her onto the bed, and for a moment he was not touching her as he made the piles of clothes disappear, and those few seconds were the longest of her life until his hands were on her again and she was arching up with her whole body, so she could feel all of him against her.

Their bodies lifted, fitted together, and his lips on her throat practically made her burst into flame. Her hands were moving on his back, reaching down for him, when he took her wrists in a strong grip and pinned them above her head as he moved on top of her, opening her mouth under his, opening her legs with his hips to rock against her, rubbing the ramrod bulge of him against her, slow and teasing, as his right hand caressed her breasts until moans were coming out of her throat.

His hand was between her legs now, opening her, thumb and finger circling and teasing until she was slippery wet against his hand, and then somehow it was no longer his fingers but the huge head of his sex, velvet softness over steel hardness, the ridge of him exciting her into madness, and she moaned and arched her back, urging him inside her. “Please...”

“Barrie...” he muttered roughly. He plunged, and she cried out, and he plunged again with a low growl in his throat, and their bodies found that ancient, intoxicating rhythm, desire and longing and knowing.

Moonlight flooded the room, bright and blue on their skin, and their bodies were reflected over and over in the mirrors, a hundred thousand times, and it seemed to Barrie that she could feel the ecstasy of every version of herself as they moved together. It was better than dancing, better than flying, a tidal wave of pleasure rippling through every version of themselves until they were crying out together, a thousand lovers and just two, melding into one.