She hung suspended in time, in place . . . in a dream. Yet he kissed as if he were real, not a shadow in the night, and as he lingered, her body stirred, her breasts swelling, the familiar longing growing deep inside.
How many nights had it been? Two months? More? Sometimes he didn’t come for one night, two, three, and on those nights she slept deeply, worn out by the hard work and the thin air at this high altitude. Then he’d return, his need greater, and he touched her, loved her, with an edge of violence sharp as a knife. Yet always she sensed his desperation and welcomed him into her mind . . . and her body.
This time, it had been almost a week.
He slid the zipper down on her sleeping bag, each tooth making a rasping noise, each noise making Karen’s heartbeat escalate another notch. He started at her throat, cupping it, pressing on the pulse that raced there. He pushed the bag aside, exposing her to the cold night air. ‘‘You wait for me . . . naked.’’ He pressed his palm between her breasts, feeling her heart beat. ‘‘You’re so alive. You make me remember. . . .’’
‘‘Remember what?’’ He sounded American, without a hint of an accent, and at the times of madness, when she thought he must be real, she wondered where he was from and what he was doing here.
But he didn’t want her to think. Not now. Greedily, he caressed her slight breasts, one in each palm. His hands were long, rough, callused, and he used them to massage her while with his thumbs he circled her nipples.
She made a raw sound in her throat.
‘‘You’re in need.’’ His voice deepened. ‘‘It’s been a long time. . . .’’
‘‘I’ve been here.’’
‘‘And that was my torment.’’
It was the first time he’d ever suggested he needed this as much as she did. She smiled, and somehow, in this pitch dark, he must have seen her.
‘‘You like that. But if you’ve tormented me, I must torment you in return.’’ His head dipped. He took one pebbled nipple in his mouth and suckled, softly at first, then, as she whimpered, with strength and skill.
He made her go crazy.
But, then—any woman who dreamed a shadow lover was already halfway to insane.
She grabbed a handful of his hair, and discovered how very long it was . . . and soft, and silky. She tugged at him, pulling his head back.
‘‘What do you want?’’ His voice was a husky whisper.
‘‘Hurry.’’ She was chilled. She was desperate. ‘‘I want you to hurry.’’
‘‘But if I hurry, I won’t get to do this.’’ He pushed the sheet down farther, caressed her belly and thighs. Lifting her knees, he spread her legs, exposing her to the cold, shocking her, making her suck in a startled breath.
‘‘Let me see.’’ He tilted her hips up. ‘‘Are you ready?’’
His fingers glided from her knees along the tender skin on her inner thighs to the dampness there. With a delicate touch, he opened the lips and dabbed a touch on her clitoris. ‘‘I love your scent, so rich and female. The first time, it was your scent that called me to you.’’
Horrified, she tried to draw her legs together. ‘‘I bathe every night.’’
‘‘I didn’t say you smelled. I said you have a scent that calls to me.’’ His nails skated up and down her thighs, pushing them apart again . . . and they were sharp, almost like claws. Almost a threat. ‘‘Not to any other man. Only to me.’’
‘‘Are you a man?’’ The question slipped out, and she regretted it. Regretted injecting reality into the dream.
‘‘I thought I had conclusively proved my manhood to you. Shall I do it again?’’ The hint of warning was gone; he sounded warmly amused, and the finger he pushed inside her was long, strong . . . and clawless.
The impact made her fling her head back, and when he pushed a second finger inside, her hips moved convulsively. ‘‘Please. Lover. I need you.’’
‘‘Do you?’’ Slowly he pulled his fingers back, pressed them in, pulled them out . . . and as he pressed them in, he pinched her clit between his thumb and forefinger.
She screamed. She came. Orgasm blasted her away from this cold, bleak mountainside and into a fire pit. Her thighs clamped around his hand. Red swam beneath her closed eyelids. Heat radiated from her skin.
He laughed, one compelling stroke following another, feeding her madness until she collapsed, shivering and gasping, too weak to move.
He covered her with himself.
‘‘I can’t,’’ she whispered, and her voice shook. ‘‘Not again.’’
‘‘Yes, you will.’’
‘‘No. Please.’’ She tried to struggle, but he stretched out on top of her. Her head was buried in his shoulder; obviously, he was tall. His body, heavy with muscle, pressed her into the cot. His flesh was cool and firm. His shoulders, chest and stomach rippled with vigor, and his heart thrummed in his chest.
Power hummed through him, and he easily held her as he probed again . . . but not with his fingers.
She was swollen with need, and his organ was big, bigger than both his fingers. As he worked himself inside her, she whimpered, her body gradually adjusting to the width, the breadth, and all the while the aftermath of climax made her inner muscles spasm.
He held her wrapped in his arms, clutching her as if she was his salvation.
And she embraced him, her arms gripping him against her chest, her legs clasped around his hips, giving him herself, absorbing . . . absorbing all his ardor, all his need, knowing this was a dream and wanting nothing more.
When the tip of his penis touched the innermost core of her, they both froze.
Darkness held them in a cocoon of heat and sex and emotions stretched too tight for comfort.
Then their passion flashed bright enough to light the night.
He pulled out and pushed back in, thrusting fast and hard, dragging her with him on his quest for satisfaction.
She held on, rapture flowing through her with the heat and intensity of lava.
The tempo built and built until above her his breathing stopped. He gathered himself, rising high above her, holding her knees behind him . . . then plunged one last time.
Ecstasy exploded her into tiny fragments of being. She came, convulsing with pleasure, until she was no longer an austere, lonely workaholic, but a creature of joy and light.
Unhurriedly, he dropped back on top of her, bringing the silk sheets and sleeping bag up to cover them. Reaching down to the floor, he pulled a large blanket over them . . . but no. She touched it with her hand and discovered fur, thick and soft. A skin of some kind, then.
Had he taken her on a trip back in time, back to a century where a man brought the woman he desired proof of his hunting prowess? Wasn’t that a better explanation than madness?
As the perspiration cooled on their bodies, as their breath and heartbeats returned to normal, she realized—nothing had changed. She reclined on her narrow cot in her tent at the foot of Mount Anaya. The darkness still pressed down on her; the sense of wrong in this place still oppressed her. Tomorrow she would rise. He would be gone. And she would go to work, another day spent in hell. And she wept.
Christina Dodd, Into the Flame
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