"It's okay," she whispered, her fingers threading his hair. "It's okay."
It wasn't okay. Nothing was… nothing but this. He scooped her close, some thread of sanity warning him to mind his strength. She was small, crushable…
Fierce. Her hands roamed him. Her mouth demanded his.
He gave it to her. And took hers in return.
Taste joined scent, tangling with touch and heat to burst inside him in kinesthetic pinwheels. He turned with her in his arms— once, twice, spinning the two of them inside the darkened house. He slapped the door, shutting it. The lock clicked. Her purse slid from her shoulder. Her coat spilled to the floor.
Within seconds, he forgot everything he knew about a woman's needs, how to tend them, build them. Her breath, her hands, told him he could, that she neither needed nor wanted tending. She wanted him.
He needed her. Needed inside. Beneath the black dress she wore panty hose. Damnable stuff, but it ripped easily.
The sound of it tearing nearly hid the catch of her breath, but he caught it. He flung his head up, nostrils flared, searching her face. No, that was hunger he saw, not fear. Good, yes, good… He kissed her again to thank her. Her hands gripped his shoulders, her fingers digging in hard.
A tremor shook him. Here. He could do it here, standing. Her weight meant little with need riding him so hard. But he wanted, craved, the feel of her beneath him. For that he needed softness beneath her.
He cupped her bottom, lifting her so that her heat met his.
The living room. The couch there was soft. He could make it. He could get that far. He began to walk. She wiggled, wrapping her legs around his waist. He made it out of the kitchen. Using touch, memory, and luck, he passed through the windowless dining room into the muffled charcoals of the front room, where a crack in the drapes leaked city light.
The couch was five paces away. Four.
His phone chimed. Without missing a step he unclipped it from his belt and flung it aside. The crack of plastic meeting brick told him it hit the fireplace.
He laid her down on the couch, propped himself over her, one hand at his belt. But his hand shook. Her hands joined his, helping with the button, the zipper. He kissed her, finding some ease in the intimacy of joining their mouths, scents, breath… "Mon fleur" he whispered, finding her with his fingers. "So beautiful… ton petales comme une rose, so soft…"
Then he was in and moving, and lacked both air and mind enough for words. It was a short, hard climb to the top, bereft of finesse but joined, joined, with her matching him thrust for thrust. The world became musk and motion, sensation too keen to sustain.
He reached between them, found the bud hidden in her petals, and she cried out. Her body arched. The ripples of her climax pulled him over after her.
An aeon later, with the world resettled into more ordinary shapes, with her breath warm on his skin and his chest still heaving, she murmured, "What… was that… you said? It was French."
"I praised your flower." He touched her to show her what he meant.
"Oh." Her sigh mixed happy with sleepy. "It sounds better in… damn."
It was her phone ringing this time. "Telemarketers," he said.
"At two in the morning? Off." She pushed at his chest.
"I'll get it." He forced himself to move.
"I might as well. It's either my father again or something about the case." She rolled off the couch, stood, and frowned. "My legs don't work right after you've vaporized the bones."
It was easier to smile now, so he did. She padded back through the darkness toward the kitchen, naked and untroubled by it. He followed. The demon's claw mark was burning after all that exercise, but otherwise his muscles were warm, loose. He felt comfortable in his body again.
Lily bent to get her purse, presenting him with a pleasant view. He wondered if she realized how clearly he could see in the dim light.
"Mr-r-row," said Harry.
The big cat was sitting by the refrigerator, glaring at him. Harry liked to blame Rule for any disruption: rain, closed doors, an empty food dish. This time, though, Rule conceded that the cat had a point. He had delayed Lily. "I'll tend to your beast." He opened the refrigerator, spilling chilly white light across the floor.
Lily grinned. "You already did." She thumbed her phone. "Hello?"
He felt something damp and warm on his leg and glanced down. A thin trail of blood dripped down his leg from the wound. He frowned, puzzled. It had been scabbed over earlier.
Lily was close enough for Rule to hear his father on the other end: "Good. You weren't asleep. I trust my son is around."
Her eyebrows went up. "He is. Just a moment. Calm down, Harry," she said to the cat, who stropped her leg vigorously, purring like a furry chain saw. She held out the phone.
"Yes?" Rule pulled out the carton of milk.
A deep bass rumbled in his ear. "You screening calls now, or is something wrong with your phone?"
"I need to replace it." The pieces weren't likely to go back together correctly.
"Damn technology. Always breaking or getting bugs. Get a new phone first thing; we'll need to stay in touch. I've spoken to Leidolf."
"Yes?" Rule was puzzled. What about the conversation with the Leidolf Rho could be so urgent that Isen needed to call at this hour?
"I've also spoken to Szos, Kyffin, Etorri, and Ybirra, and I've got calls in to the others. Should hear back soon. You weren't the only heir attacked tonight."
SIX
THE inhabitants of Los Lobos didn't see many visitors from los Estados Unidos. U.S. tourists went to the province's capital, More-lia, or to Patzcuaro, near the beautiful lake of the same name. A few made it down to Playa Azul for surfing. But there was little to draw them along the highway that skirted the coast to a tiny fishing village, so the pale-skinned man sitting on the patio in front of the village's only cafe attracted a lot of attention.
He was probably used to that. No one who looked the way he did could have passed through life without drawing many eyes. Especially female eyes.
Pity he was crazy.
His Spanish was very funny, so at first they weren't sure if he meant what he said, but he'd drawn a picture for Jesus Garcia, who owned the cafe. He really was looking for el dragon. But his money spent as well as anyone else's, so they shrugged and indulged him. If it made him happy to hunt for creatures that did not exist, why spoil his pleasure?
At the moment the crazy man was scowling at his map as if he could make the little lines move into patterns more to his liking. He had a cup of coffee near his elbow, and his plate held the remains of his breakfast. He'd eaten four eggs and several tortillas, but he'd ignored the sliced mango.
The two old men at the other front table who'd observed and commented on his breakfast sniggered when the waitress approached the stranger's table. Carmencita put so much sway in her hips it was a wonder she didn't hurt herself. But the man was busy disapproving of his map. He didn't notice.
"Le gustaria mas, senor?"
The tone of voice, more than the words, pulled Cullen's attention away from the topographic map. His smile was an automatic response to that husky purr asking what more he wanted, but it tilted into real appreciation when she removed his plate and wiped the table—a process that seemed to require her to bend over a lot. He looked where she meant him to and admired the view.
"Ah… ahora, no. Pero mas tarde…" He let his expression say what his limited Spanish couldn't. She understood well enough. She gave him back a torrent of words he couldn't untangle, though it seemed to involve setting a firm time. He laughed, told her no comprendo, and eventually she had to settle for the ambiguous later that he'd promised.