Tess Gerritsen - Peggy Sue Got Murdered

He brought her into his room and sat her down on the bed. He took her hands in his. Her touch was like ice.

Thomas came into the room, bearing a tray with the brandy and two glasses.

"Leave it," said Adam.

Thomas, ever discreet, nodded and withdrew.

Adam poured a glass and handed it to M. J. She looked blankly at it.

"Just brandy," he said. "A Quantrell family tradition."

She took a sip. Closing her eyes tightly, she whispered, "You Quantrells keep fine traditions."

He reached up and gently brushed a lock of hair off her face. Her skin felt as cool as marble, as cool as a corpse. But the woman beneath was alive and trembling and in need.

"If only I knew," she said. "If I just knew what I was fighting against. Then I wouldn't be so afraid." She looked at him. "That's what scares me. Not knowing. It makes the whole world seem evil."

"Not the whole world. There's me. And I'll take care of you-"

"Don't make promises, Adam."

"I'm not promising. I'm telling you. As long as you need me-"

She pressed her fingers to his lips. "Don't. Please. You'll back yourself into a corner. And then you'll feel guilty when you can't keep your word."

He grasped her hand, firmly, fiercely. "M. J.-"

"No promises."

"All right. If that's what you want, no promises."

"From either of us. It's more honest that way."

"You'll stay here, though. As long as you need to. Unless… there's some other place you'd rather go?"

She shook her head.

He felt an intoxicating rush of happiness, of relief, that here was where she wanted to be. With me .

"There's no other place," she said softly.

The way she looked at him then, her eyes wide and moist, all her defenses gone, was enough to make a man's heart break. He had not planned to kiss her, but at that moment, she looked so badly in need of a kiss. He drew her closer, cupped her face in his hands.

It was only a brushing of lips, a taste of her brandied warmth. No passion, no lust, merely kindness.

And then, like a spark striking dry tinder, something else flared to instant brightness. He saw it in her eyes, and she in his. They stared at each other for a moment in shared wonder. And uncertainty. He wanted badly to kiss her again, but she was so needy, so vulnerable, and he knew that if he pressed her, she would yield. She might hate him in the morning, and she would have good reason. That, most of all, was what he didn't want.

He took a much-needed lungful of fortifying oxygen, and pulled away from her. "You can stay here, in my room. It will feel safer." He rose to leave. "I'll sleep in yours."

"Adam?"

"In the morning, we'll have to talk about what happens next. But tonight-"

"I want you to stay here," she said. "In this room. With me."

The last two words came out in barely a whisper. Slowly he settled back down beside her and tried to look beyond the glaze of fear in her eyes. "Are you sure?" he asked softly.

Her answer left no doubt. She reached out to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pulled him against her. Their lips met. Hers were desperate, seeking, and he responded instantly to that unexpected assault with a hunger just as fierce.

He reached out to bury his fingers in her hair. It felt like the mane of a wild animal, crackling and alive. Suddenly she came alive, and all of her fear and exhaustion broke before a swelling tide of desire. Her hair brushed his face, and he inhaled the warm and feral scent of a woman. Such delicious sounds she was making, little whimpers and sighs, as her mouth eagerly met his, again and again.

They tumbled back onto the bed and rolled across the covers. First she was on top, her hair spilling like sheets of silk over his face. Then he was on top, covering her body with his. No passive participant was she; already, he felt her pressing up against him, her back arching, her body starved for more intimate contact.

Fear had made her desperate; he could sense it in her kisses.

He forced himself to pull back. "M. J.," he said. "Look at me."

She opened her eyes. They had the brief, bright glow of tears.

He took her face in his hands, cradled her cheeks so she could not turn away from him. "What's wrong?"

"I want you," was all she said.

"But you're crying."

"No, I just want you…"

"And you're afraid."

There it was-the briefest of nods, as though she didn't want to say it. "I'm afraid of everything," she said. "Everyone. The whole world."

"Even me?"

She swallowed back another flash of tears. "Especially you," she whispered.

Gently he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I'll prove it to you. I'm absolutely harmless." He kissed her again, this time on the lips. A slow, lingering kiss. He could tell from her sigh, from the way her fingers reached eagerly to undress him, that she was beyond caring about fear, about anything but having him. Tonight she wanted to forget, to be lost in the amnesia's frenzy of lovemaking.

His shirt slid off his shoulders. Her fingers moved enticingly down his abdomen, to fumble at the cold metal of his buckle, and he too was suddenly soaring beyond rational thought. It was too late to consider what he should or shouldn't do, too late to worry about the regrets of morning. They were both pulling at each other's clothes. A few more buttons undone, another parting of fabric, and her blouse was off, her breasts bared. She gasped in a sharp breath of pleasure as he trapped her wrists, pinned her arms above her head, against the pillow. Her gasps melted to warm and liquid whimpers as his mouth explored her neck, her throat, her breasts. She was moaning now, struggling against his imprisoning grasp, longing to trade torment for torment, but he denied her the satisfaction. He was both too cruel and too generous. First he would drive her mad, his lips seeking all the tender, needy places of her body. She strained against him, that wild mane of hair tumbling at his face, drowning him in its heady animal scent.

Then, suddenly, her hands were free and their clothes were off, and he was plunging deep into her. Not gently, as he'd wanted it to be, as he'd thought it would be, but with a fierce and frightening violence. She did this to him, this witch with her animal hair and her scent of hunger and her hands clutching his back. She had driven him to this, and now she was reveling in the madness she'd unleashed, joining in it with a mindlessness of her own. There was no need for words, no place for words. This was instinct, the ancient language of touch and smell and hard, driving need.

And rapture. Oh yes, the rapture.

He felt it now, felt it rush through his body, through her body, as though they were connected, as though souls were joined.

It swept through them, over them as they clung together, helpless against its power.

And then, like shipwreck survivors who have ridden an incoming wave, they were left stranded, exhausted on some wide, warm beach.

Slowly he eased off her and pulled her into his arms. What a fever she had stirred in him! He still felt weak from its aftermath. But what a joy it was now, to feel her curled up against his chest.

She shivered and he eased the covers over their bodies, hugged her closer. "I'll keep you warm," he said. "Trust me."

"I want to," she whispered.

He kissed the top of her head, buried his face drowsily in her hair. "Give it time. Things work out."

"One way or another."

For a long time M. J. lay in his arms, waiting for him to respond, but he said nothing, and she realized he was sleeping. They were both exhausted, but he was the lucky one-he was able to fall asleep, untroubled, unafraid.

He wasn't the one falling in love.

She burrowed closer, wondering about the man whose heart she felt beating against her cheek. The man who had everything.