Suddenly the house didn’t feel menacing at all. She felt as if she were stronger than the entire world. And then even the world didn’t matter, once he kissed her.
His kiss was seductive, electric. Their mouths were locked as their clothing was shed and he backed her toward the massive sleigh bed. He fell onto the mattress, bringing her down with him. His laugh was husky, exciting. His body molded to hers, and still she couldn’t get enough of his mouth. She felt him moving, and every pulse and supple brush of his body seemed to fill her with a rising urgency. With some kind of shared inner instinct, they both knew that foreplay would have to wait for next time, and she clasped her thighs around his hips, spiraling into sensation as he thrust slowly into her, held for breathless seconds, then stroked in earnest. She clung to him, rising madly against him, aware that the mind was indeed a wicked tease, because on some level she’d done nothing all day but anticipate the sleek heat and energy of his body, done nothing else since the first time he’d touched her.
She was aware of the almost desperate sound of their breathing, the thunder of their hearts. She savored the damp, powerful feel of his body, the tautness of his abdomen and thighs, and the fact that he was in her, arousing parts of her she hadn’t known existed. She knew the frantic fever of wanting more and more, the honeyed feel of rising and needing, and then the sweet explosion of a violent climax that left her shuddering against him as they both trembled and surged again and again, until the tidal wave receded and his erection became an intimate and gentle warmth.
He moved to lie beside her then, stroking her hair, and she curled against him, happy, for the moment, just to be.
She was still drowsy when he rolled over, reached into the nightstand near the side of the bed and produced a gun, which he set on top of the stand.
She rose on an elbow, looking at him.
“We’re out in the middle of nowhere,” he reminded her.
She nodded, suddenly uneasy again.
But not nearly as uneasy as she would have been at home, she admitted. Or anywhere without him.
Would any broad-shouldered, powerful man have done? she asked herself mockingly.
But the answer was an honest no.
“All you all right?” he asked her.
“Sometime,” she said, “you need to teach me how to shoot that thing.”
“It’s pretty easy. You aim, hold your arms steady and squeeze the trigger. But we can practice anytime you want.”
He decided to run downstairs for drinks; Kendall opted to take a shower. While she was drying off, she heard noises below and ventured out in her towel to the top of the stairway. She listened, and realized that he was checking the locks on the windows and doors.
A few minutes later he was back, bearing a thermos of cocoa, cups and a bottle of brandy. She laughed, and applauded his arrangements.
They poured themselves hot chocolate with brandy, lay in bed and talked about the things they could do for the Halloween party. Then they made love again, indulging in long, slow kisses that tasted like chocolate. And they were kisses that traveled. Her shoulders, his ribs. She was fascinated with every inch of him, and she noticed details. Like the three scars on his back, the swirl of hair just below his beltline, the fact that his second toe was longer than his first. Then she concentrated on the area most crucial for lovemaking, covering his body with the length of hers. Later, when she could have sworn he was dozing, she felt a quickening along her skin as his lips teased along her spine, and fingers ran over her hip and down the length of her thigh. They made love again, and again; it was demanding and passionate, the climax rich with energy and wonder. At last they fell asleep in one another’s arms, her last thought that she was so happily sated and exhausted that she would certainly sleep like the dead.
And she was sleeping deeply when she was startled awake, by…what? A whisper? A voice? A touch? She didn’t know.
But she was wide awake. And Aidan wasn’t with her.
16
He was walking through a deep fog, as gray and opaque as a shroud.
He could hear a distant and mournful tolling, like a call for the dead.
And then they came.
An army of them. They walked past him, their skin as gray as the mist. Their eyes were black, hollow and deeply shadowed. They marched in rows, as if they had been summoned to some great meeting, and at first he thought that they didn’t see him as they passed.
And then he realized that, from the dark pits of their eye sockets, they were watching him.
Then he saw her.
She was still distant, but a light radiated from her. She was clad in a flowing white gown, and alone among the hordes of the dead, she was beautiful.
She was trying to speak to him, and he tried to hear.
He was no longer just standing there, letting the dead march by. He was walking, trying to make his way to her. She needed to tell him something, and he needed to hear it.
But the fog was like soup; walking through it was like wading through a swamp. He strained…and then he stopped.