Fangs For The Memories

CHAPTER 8

Jane lay in bed, holding the necklace up in front of her, watching it sway and glimmer in the lamplight. The center stone was larger than a silver dollar, oval cut and multifaceted so it seemed to capture light in its golden depths. Square-cut diamonds encircled the large stone and twinkled like a dozen stars.

She wouldn't even hazard a guess at how many carats it was or how much it must have cost. And she didn't doubt the stones were real. She shook her head, disgusted with herself. She shouldn't have taken it, even in pretense. That was a necklace intended for someone else-not a woman Rhys didn't even know.

Why had she accepted it? She could have argued. She could have convinced him it was too soon in their engagement. Anything. But she had taken it, and worn it. And for a brief moment, she pretended the exquisite gift was really for her. Not because the item was obviously expensive, or beautiful, but because the necklace made her feel as though she belonged-to him.

She rolled over and gently placed the pendant on the night-stand, the chain pooling like liquid gold around the jewel.

Resting her hands under her cheek, she continued to stare at the present.

Sadly, this had been one of the nicest Christmases she'd ever had. What did that say about her life?

She let her eyes drift shut as memories of her life in Maine came back to her. Christmases in a run-down, eerie old house, her father too lost in his fantasy world to give his daughter the attention she ached for. The loneliness.

As always, guilt filled her. Her father had done the best he could. And maybe she had always expected too much.

She opened her eyes again and gazed at the necklace. She'd just hold on to this night for what it had been-a lovely time. The gift and the snow and the fire. That had all been so nice. And Rhys's kiss. So very nice.

She rubbed the knuckle of her forefinger over her lips. The soft skin tingled even now from the memory of Rhys's kiss. His touch had been so wonderful, so perfect. And while he was holding her, the thought hadn't even entered her mind that she shouldn't be returning the kiss. When he touched her, it was as if everything was okay and suddenly made sense.

The night had been wonderful, and she would remember it that way-even after the real world came tumbling back to them both.

She closed her eyes again, exhausted. Who knew, maybe this was all just a dream anyway, and tomorrow she'd be home in Maine. Alone.

Jane started, her eyes snapping open as she tried to get her bearings. She was in Rhys's apartment, in the lovely blue and white room. But the room no longer felt comfy or safe. Something hung in the air, eerie and sinister.

She held herself very still, barely breathing, the covers up to her chin, listening. The room was absolutely silent; not even the sounds of the city penetrated the stillness. But she didn't need to hear whatever was in the room. She could feel it. Dankness hung in the air and crept over her skin like cold, clammy hands even under the thick covers. She fought back a shiver, remaining perfectly still.

The sensation didn't subside. In fact, it grew stronger. The clamminess encircled her legs, moving up them. It swirled around her arms, pressing down on her, restraining her.

Moving only her eyes, she glanced at the clock. It was after six-thirty A.M. The room was still softly lit by the lamp on her nightstand, and soon the sun would rise. She knew she was being ridiculous, but none of that seemed to matter. She still felt someone there. Someone or something that she could only describe as evil. And she knew she had to run. The pressure was increasing, suffocating her.

Mustering her courage, she held her breath and shoved out of the bed. She leapt over the platform, directly to the floor. The action might be the behavior of a frightened child, afraid of a monster under her bed, but she didn't care. She just knew she had to get out of that room.

She raced past Sebastian's door, even though his room was closer. Her only thought was to get to Rhys.

She didn't knock, but thrust the door open and ran inside. She slammed the door behind her only to realize that left her shrouded in complete blackness. She cracked the door just slightly to allow a hint of light from the hallway and rushed to the bathroom. She flicked on the light switch, then ran back to the door and closed it again. This time she flipped the lock too.

She peered at the bed where Rhys lay on his back, the blankets covering him from the waist down, leaving his chest bare. His eyes were still closed.

How had he slept through her running around, slamming doors?

She crossed to the bed and touched his shoulder. The coolness of his skin surprised her.

"Rhys," she whispered.

When he didn't move, she whispered his name louder.

No response. Panicked, she jostled him, practically shouting his name. What if the evil she'd felt in her room had gotten to Rhys first? He wasn't moving, and in the dim light, she couldn't tell if his chest was rising and falling as he breathed.

Just as she was about to leave to go check Sebastian, Rhys's eyes fluttered open. "Jane?"

"Oh, thank heavens," she cried, and flung her arms around him as much as his reclining position would allow.

Lethargically, almost as if he was drugged, his arms came up to hug her back. "Jane-what is it?"

She pulled away from him. "Someone is in my room."

Rhys frowned up at her, confusion clear on his face. "What?"

Jane could tell by the heaviness of his eyelids, it was his exhaustion rather than her words that confused him. So she said them again slowly, "Someone is in my room."

"Did you see someone?"

"No-but I could tell he was there."

He nodded, although she was fairly sure he didn't believe her. He patted the other side of his bed. "Get in."

She hesitated, then scooted around the bed and scrambled under the covers. She turned to face Rhys, but she could tell he had already fallen back to sleep. He was once more totally still.

She rolled back over and stared at the closed and locked door. The cold, creeping feeling on her skin was gone. Everything felt normal, but there was no way she was stepping back into that hallway. Or back in her room.

She shivered and pulled the covers tighter over her. Maybe it had been a nightmare. Or residual anxiety over what had happened to her with the guy from the bar. Or even the mugging. But it didn't really matter, because she was staying right here-even if Rhys did think she was a big chicken in the morning.

Christian materialized into the derelict building that he had converted into his makeshift home just as the first rays of sun peeked over the city's skyline.

He crawled onto the mattress he'd situated in the center of the building, where those lethal rays couldn't reach him.

Exhaustion overcame him as it did for all his kind, especially on a day that was clear and the sun was bright.

But his last thought before he sank into blackened oblivion was that Rhys had a woman. He'd gone to see if he could sense how Rhys had fared his attack, and he found the little mortal from the alley. And he could sense Rhys's possession all over her.

Very interesting.

He would have to keep an eye on that.

Rhys leaned on an elbow and watched Jane sleep. Both of them had managed to sleep the whole day away.

She lay snuggled against his side, her head nestled in the crook of his arm. Even, quiet breaths whispered warmly over his chest and shoulder.

He didn't understand what he found so fascinating about just watching her breathe. But there was something so mesmerizing about it. Something thrilling about the tiny flutter of her pulse just above the slight jut of her collarbone.

He lifted his hand to touch the spot, but instead brushed a strand of her cropped hair away from her cheek. His fingers lingered, and he marveled at the softness of her skin, the flawlessness of her complexion like porcelain decorated with pale pink. A single finger trailed down to her lips, the skin there pinker and even softer.

He moved his hands away, hating to disturb her sleep. She looked so relaxed, so unguarded-not at all like the often wary, uncertain woman from the night before.

Of course, he could understand her apprehension. She had been uprooted from everything she'd known and thrust into a whole new world, surrounded by strangers who were completely different from her.

Too different, his mind warned, but he pushed the thought away. No-he had gone about things wrong. He just needed to make sure she understood, truly understood that he intended to care for her. He sensed boldness buried under that uncertainty. She would be fine here.

He moved his hand to rest on her waist and held her.

She burrowed against him with a content sigh. Then her eyes flew open, and she stared up at him, all that trustfulness gone.

"Good morning."

"Hi," she said, shifting away from him.

He knew he should let her go, it was the gentlemanly thing to do, the appropriate thing, but his hand held her fast.

Her eyes widened more, but she stilled against him. She swallowed, then said, "I shouldn't have come here. I–I thought there was someone in my room. But I think it must have been a nightmare."

He nodded. He remembered. "I will check your room for you. I should have checked last night, but I must have been more tired than I realized."

"Then I should let you rest." She tried to slide across the mattress again.

He had been tired, more exhausted than he could ever recall feeling. Sleep had fallen over him like inescapable blackness. But now he felt incredible. Rejuvenated, energetic.

"I'm very well rested," he assured her, allowing her to put a little space between them, but not releasing her waist completely. He rubbed his hand gently over her side, the touch not insistent or aggressive but rather lulling, coaxing.

She quieted again, those green eyes holding his.

"I know I should let you go," he told her honestly. "But I love holding you. Touching you."

Nervousness filled her eyes, but Rhys knew it was desire that darkened them to the shade of evergreens at dusk.

She didn't say anything for a moment. Then she admitted, "I like you touching me, too."

Her tentative words were all the encouragement he needed. He pulled her against him and pressed his mouth to hers.

Jane kissed him back, her arms coming up to clasp around his neck. Her rational mind still insisted this was not the right thing to do, that she could get hurt. That it wasn't fair to Rhys either. But her body was merrily singing, tra la la, and completely ignoring her mind.

She gave in to her singing body, which now hummed as well with a combination of nervous excitement and passion. She sank her fingers into Rhys's silky hair, pressing tighter to his hard length.

His mouth molded to hers, caressing her, tasting her. His teeth nipped gently, and his tongue teased.

She moaned, loving each different touch, mimicking them, wanting him to feel exactly as she did. On fire.

He responded with a groan of his own and deepened the kiss.

His hand continued to stroke her through the thin cotton of her pajamas, sliding slowly upward and then down, then back up again. His palm felt huge and hot, his fingers magical. She wanted them on her bare skin, all over her. She didn't know she could feel this way or want so badly. And even though she was nervous and uncertain of what exactly to do, she didn't want this to ever stop.

But it did. His lips left hers and he stared down at her. The room was illuminated only by the faint light from the bathroom, but she could see his eyes, burning as if flames blazed in their amber depths.

"Jane, tell me to stop. Tell me this is unfair to you. Tell me we should wait."

She stared up at his beautiful face, at his wide, sculpted lips and the arrogant flare of his nose. And those eyes that seemed to penetrate deep inside her.

She reached up and brushed a lock of his hair back from the chiseled line of cheekbone. This was the time to do the right thing. To stop.

"I can't," she whispered. She wanted him too much, and she'd waited so long to feel this way.

He groaned as if her words caused him pain, but his lips returned to hers with such fierce hunger she couldn't feel any shame in her weakness. Everything felt too right.

One of her hands caressed the smooth skin of his shoulders, delighting in the ripple of his muscles under her fingertips as he levered himself over her.

The hand at her waist caught the hem of her camisole pajama top, pushing it slowly up her stomach, his broad palm velvety against her skin. He nudged the material upward until her breasts were bared. He drew back, his gaze roaming over her.

"Oh, God, Jane, you are so beautiful."

Bliss skipped through her veins, over her skin. She'd never felt this way. She'd always thought she'd be embarrassed for someone to stare at her naked, too self-conscious, but she felt no embarrassment, only deep, agonizing need.

Her breasts ached and throbbed. Her nipples tightened, ordering him to touch them. And he obeyed, swirling the hardened peaks gently with his fingers and thumbs. And still he watched her. He watched his fingers teasing her, and her reaction as he did so.

She groaned and arched into his touch, begging him for more.

Again he obeyed, leaning forward to capture one of her nipples in his mouth, suckling her, carefully rasping the tender flesh with his teeth.

She gasped and squirmed against his length, registering for the first time that he was naked as she felt his hard arousal sear her thigh. Her surprise was quickly overwhelmed by the heat of his mouth on her, suckling her.

His mouth moved to lavish the same excruciatingly wonderful attention to the other nipple.

"Please, Rhys," she begged.

"Please what, Jane?" he asked, his voice breathless, his eyes glowing even brighter than before.

"I–I don't know how to tell you what I want."

His eyes held hers. "Just tell me. You can tell me anything."

Her heart hammered in her chest, in her ears. Anything? His words were the most thrilling fantasy she could imagine.

She stared up at him. He was so beautiful, the cut of his jawline, the shape of his lips, his silky hair framing his face. And his body. He was truly a fantasy personified.

And she didn't have a clue what to do with him.

"How about this," he said as he leaned forward to nuzzle her ear, his breath caressing her skin, his words soft and rich like brushed suede. "I'll do something, and you tell me if you like it."

She nodded, letting her eyes drift shut, savoring the feeling of his lips so close to her earlobe.

He nibbled the soft flesh there.

She whimpered, feeling the tiny bite throughout her body.

"Do you like that?"

She nodded again.

He kissed her neck, his lips teasing the sensitive skin below her ear.

She shivered, again feeling thrill dance through her limbs.

His lips lingered for a moment, before he asked, "Did you like that?"

"Yes." Her voice was breathy.

"Should I stay here?" He licked her neck. "Or move back to these?" He lifted himself up on one arm, so he could move a hand to her breasts, lightly brushing his palm over her so it barely skimmed the erect, aching points of her nipples.

She gasped, the sound almost anguished. "My-my breasts. Please."

He grinned at her, the curve of his lips so arrogant, yet his eyes were filled with so much desire that he was breathtaking. Then his finger plucked at one of her swollen nipples, and her breath rushed back in a low hiss.

"Do you like this?" He squeezed the hardened bud again, rolling it gently between his thumb and forefinger. "Or this?" He replaced his fingers with his mouth.

"Rhys." His name was a broken cry on her lips.

He continued to draw on her aching nipples, pulling them deep into his mouth, using his tongue to tease her.

She held her breath, the ache inside her so strong and intense it was almost unbearable. Is this how making love always felt? As though she was careening toward something she didn't quite understand, and Rhys was the only one who could save her.

"I love touching you," he murmured against the swell of her breast. He rasped his tongue over her other nipple. "I love tasting you."

She writhed under him, her body begging for the things she couldn't voice.

"Where should I touch you next?" His question would have sounded offhanded if his breathing wasn't as labored as hers.

She wiggled against him again. One point on her body, centered between her thighs, desperately pleaded for his attention. But she still couldn't tell him what she wanted.

"Maybe you would like to be touched down here." He trailed a finger between her legs, a faint brush against where she was desperate for him to caress, to touch.

Her hip instinctively lifted, pressing herself against his hand.

He groaned deep in his throat, then muttered roughly, "Janie, you are enough to kill a man."

She wasn't sure that was a compliment, but she didn't have much time to contemplate his words, because his fingers hooked the waistband of her pajama bottoms and tugged them down. Then his finger parted her to touch that one focal point. That one spot that would both drive her mad and give her back her sanity.

He stroked her, until his name was just a mindless mantra that she repeated over and over. And several times she thought the wonderful magic of his fingers against her and her repeated prayer were going to give her release. But just as she was on the edge, he'd pull back.

"I–I can't take anymore," she panted at him. She blinked up at him, her eyes clouded with passion.

He grinned at her, his own eyes dark with desire.

"Then tell me what you want? You have to invite me in."

"I can't."

"You have to."

She stared into his eyes, and the hunger she saw there gave her courage. It stole away her inhibitions.

"Rhys, I want you inside me. Please."

Then he moved so the full, hard length of his body was on top of her. Skin against skin. Muscles flexing. Heat burning.

She gasped again.

He braced himself, lifting some of his weight off of her. "Are you all right?"

All right? She sighed, moving her hands to stroke the muscles of his back, drawing him more fully against her. "I don't think I've ever been better," she said sincerely.

He stared at her for a moment, then gave her a smile, rich with desire and awe. "Nor I."

His head came down, and he kissed her again. His body rocked gently against her, a wonderful friction along her breasts and belly. But she wanted more. She wanted all of him.

She parted her legs, cradling his hips, feeling his heavy erection against her.

He continued to kiss her, his tongue swirling with hers as his hand moved down between her spread thighs. His fingers parted her, and he swirled a finger around her clitoris.

She moaned into his mouth and writhed.

"Please," she begged again, against his lips, and she felt him smile.

His hand left her to position himself to enter her. Moving carefully, he held her gaze as he penetrated her, inch after inch of heavy, thick pressure.

"Are you all right?" he asked when he was deep inside her.

She nodded. She felt stretched and sensitive, but she also felt wonderful, full of this gorgeous, powerful man.

Rhys remained perfectly still. It was damned near killing him, but he wanted this to be good for Jane. He wanted to show her that she was marrying a generous lover-not the beast from the other night. That she would never regret becoming his.

But damn, she felt good. Tight and hot and so wet.

He ground his teeth and kept his hips motionless. Balancing his weight on one hand, he slid his other hand over Jane's body. He teased her puckered, rosy nipples, but when she began to squirm, he slipped his hand down between their joined bodies.

She was parted wide, filled with him. Her clitoris bared to him. He touched the tiny, engorged nub, brushing over and around her until Jane's hips began to move, slight jerks up and down his erection. A miniature imitation of the hard, deep thrusts he planned for later. But right now, this was about exquisite torture for both of them.

He increased the pressure of his fingertip on her.

She moaned, the sound almost pained. Her hips lifted higher, forcing him deeper. Her muscles flexed, pulsing around his erection.

He pressed his finger harder against her, quickening his pace, a rapid, relentless flutter until she cried out and contracted violently around him, nearly pulling him over the edge with her.

He watched her as she closed her eyes, her pants gradually turning to slower, deeper breaths. Finally she blinked up at him, her eyes clouded with dazed satisfaction, her cheeks pink.

"Oh, my," she managed in a breathy voice.

He smiled. That seemed to be her favorite response to an orgasm.

"Good?"

She nodded, the pink in her cheeks deepening to red.

"How about this?" He pulled the full length of himself out of her body, until only the head was still inside her warmth. Then he slowly but steadily entered her again.

Her eyes widened. "Oh, my," she breathed, her hands pressing against his back.

He grinned, and then moved again. And again. Thrusting harder and deeper until they were both straining and panting, and this time he didn't stop until they both cried out in ecstasy.