The Witching Hour (Lives of the Mayfair Witches 1)

Silence.

"It was good of you to bring me here."

Silence.

"Maybe ... "

"Maybe what?" He turned around.

She stood with her back to the lights again. She'd taken off her coat, and she looked angular and graceful in the huge cable-knit sweater, and all long legs, magnificent cheekbones, and fine narrow wrists.

"Could it be that you were supposed to forget?" she asked. That had never occurred to him. For a moment, he didn't answer.

"Do you believe me about the visions?" he asked. "I mean, did you read what they said in the papers? It was true, that part. I mean the papers made me sound stupid, crazy. But the point is there was so much to it, so much, and ... "

He wished he could see her face just a little better.

"I believe you," she said simply. She paused, then went on. "It's always frightening, a close call, a seeming chance thing that makes a large impact. We like to believe it was meant ... "

"It was meant!"

"I was going to say that in this case the call was very close, because it was almost dark when I saw you out there. Five minutes later I might not have seen you at all, couldn't possibly have seen you."

"You're casting around for explanations, and that's very gracious of you, I really appreciate it, I do. But you see, what I do remember, the impression I mean, it's so strong that nothing like that is necessary to explain it. They were there, Dr. Mayfair. And ... "

"What is it?"

He shook his head. "Just one of those frissons, those crazy moments when it's as if I do remember, but then it's gone. I got it out there on the deck, too. The knowledge that, yes, when I opened my eyes I did know what had happened ... and then it was gone ... "

"The word you spoke, the murmur ... "

"I didn't catch it. I didn't see myself speak a word. But I'll tell you something. I think I knew your name out there. I knew who you were."

Silence.

"But I'm not sure." He turned around, bewildered. What was he doing? Where was his suitcase, and he really did have to go, only he was so tired, and he didn't want to.

"I don't want you to go," she said again.

"You mean it? I could stay for a while?" He looked at her, at the dark shadow of her long lean figure against the distant faintly illuminated glass. "Oh, I wish I'd met you before this," he said. "I wish I ... I like ... I mean, it's so stupid, but you're very ... "

He moved forward, the better to see her. Her eyes became visible, seeming very large and long for deep-set eyes, and her mouth so generous and soft. But a strange illusion occurred as he drew closer. Her face in the soft glow from beyond the walls appeared perfectly menacing and malicious. Surely it was a mistake. He wasn't making out any true expression. The figure facing him seemed to have lowered her head, to be peering up at him from beneath the fringe of her straight blond hair, in an attitude of consummate hatred.

He stopped. It had to be a mistake. Yet she stood there, quite still, either unaware of the dread he felt now, or uncaring.

Then she started towards him, moving into the dim light from the northern doorway.

How pretty and sad she looked! How could he have ever made such an error? She was about to cry. In fact, it was simply awful to see the sadness in her face, to see the sudden silent hunger and spill of emotion.

"What is it?" he whispered. He opened his arms. And at once, she pressed herself gently against him. Her breasts were large and soft against his chest. He hugged her close, enfolding her, and ran his gloved fingers up through her hair. "What is it?" he whispered again, but it wasn't really a question. It was more a little reassuring caress of words. He could feel her heart beating, her breath catching. He himself was shaking. The protective feeling aroused in him was hot, alchemizing quickly into passion.

"I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know." And now she was silently crying. She looked up, and then opening her mouth, she moved very gently into kissing him. It was as if she didn't want to do it against his will; she gave him all the time in the world to draw back. And of course he hadn't the slightest intention of doing so.

He was engulfed at once as he'd been in the car when he touched her hand, but this time it was her soft, voluptuous, and all too solid flesh that embraced him. He kissed her over and over, feeding on her neck, her cheeks, her eyes. With his gloved fingers he stroked her cheek, felt her smooth skin beneath the heavy woolen sweater. God, if only he could take off the gloves, but if he took off the gloves, he'd be lost, and all passion would evaporate in that confusion. He was desperate to cling to this, desperate; and she already mistakenly believed, she was already foolishly afraid ...

"Yes, yes, I do," he said, "how could you think I didn't want to, that I wouldn't ... how could you believe that? Hold me, Rowan, hold me tighter. I'm here now. I'm with you, yes."

Crying, she collapsed in his arms. Her hand ripped at his belt, at the zipper of his pants, but these were clumsy, unsuccessful gestures. A soft cry came out of her. Pure pain. He couldn't endure it.

He kissed her again, kissed her neck as her head fell back. Then he picked her up and gently carried her across the room and up the iron stairs, walking slowly round curve after curve, and then into a large and dark southern bedroom. They tumbled down into the low bed. He kissed her again, smoothing her hair back, loving the feel of her even through the gloves, looking down at her closed eyes, her helpless half-open lips. As he pulled at the sweater, she struggled to help, and finally ripped it over her head, her hair beautifully tousled by it.

When he saw her breasts through the thin covering of nylon, he kissed them through the cloth, deliberately teasing himself, his tongue touching the dark circle of the nipple before he forced the cloth away. What did it feel like, the black leather touching her skin, caressing her nipples? He lifted her breasts, kissing the hot curve of them underneath--he loved this particular juicy crevice--then he sucked the nipples hard, one after the other, rubbing and gathering the flesh feverishly with the palm of his hand.

She was twisting under him, her body moving helplessly it seemed, her lips grazing his unevenly shaven chin, then all soft and sweet over his mouth, her hands slipping into his shirt and feeling his chest as if she loved the flatness of it.

She pinched his nipples as he suckled hers. He was so hard he was going to spill. He stopped, rose on his hands, and tried to catch his breath, then sank down next to her. He knew she was pulling off her jeans. He brought her close, feeling the smooth flesh of her back, then moving down to the curve of her soft clutchable and kneadable little bottom.

No waiting now, he couldn't. In a rage of impatience he took off his glasses and shoved them on the bedside table. Now she would be a lush soft blur to him, but all the physical details he'd seen were ever present in his mind. He was on top of her. Her hand moved against his crotch, unzipped his pants, and brought out his sex, roughly, slapping it as if to test its hardness--a little gesture that almost brought him over the edge. He felt the prickly curling thatch of pubic hair, the heated inner lips, and finally the tight pulsing sheath itself as he entered.

Maybe he cried out. He didn't know. She rose on the pillow, her mouth on his mouth, her arms pulling him closer to her, her pelvis clamped against him.

"Ride me hard," she whispered. It was like the slap--a sharp goad that sent his pent-up fury to the boiling point. Her fragile form, her tender bruisable flesh--it only incited him. No imagined rape he had ever committed in his secret unaccountable dream soul had ever been more brutal.

Her hips slammed against his; and dimly he saw the red flush in her face and naked breasts as she moaned. Driving into her again and again, he saw her arms flung out, limp, just before he closed his eyes and exploded inside her.

Finally, exhausted, they tumbled apart into the soft flannel sheets. Her hot limbs were tangled under his outstretched arm, his face buried in her fragrant hair. She snuggled close. She drew the loose neglected sheet over them both; she turned towards him and nuzzle

d into his neck.

Let the plane wait, let his purpose wait. Let the pain go and the agitation. In any other time and place, he would have found her irresistible. But now she was more than that, more than succulent, and hot and full of mystery and seemingly perfect fire. She was something divine, and he needed it so it saddened him.