Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars (19 page)

Her teeth pricked into his lower lip.
Tugged.

Nay,
’twas real. Zounds!

On a groan, Caradoc looped his arm around her waist, tucked it beneath the side she lay upon, and dragged her flush against his body.
Her curves molded around him like custom crafted armor. Gently sloping hips meshed against his, parted just slight enough that beneath his boxer-briefs the tip of his hardened cock nestled against warm flesh. Full breasts pressed into his chest, her nipples sharp little buds against his skin, despite the covering of her sweater. Their abdomens touched, bare skin to bare skin.

Her hands, however, worked free.
She caught his face between her palms, lifting up, kissing him as if she were starved for the taste of him.

He
mirrored her, sliding his hands into her hair as he too rose off the pillows. Urgency flowed between them, charged by the flashing light, the calamitous rumble of the clouds. Too much time had passed between them, too many wounds left to seep without salve. Too long had they gone without the one fulfillment that rendered arguments insignificant and bonded them in ways that defied definition. All that remained was need. Raw, aching, and unquenchable.

He matched the hard demands of her mouth.
Answered the seeking thrust of her tongue with equal hunger. His hands slipped from her hair, glided down her arms, and latched onto the hem of her sweater. She leaned away only long enough to allow him to pull it over her head. Then she was in his arms again, her mouth on his, her hands reaching behind her back to release the clasp on her bra. He set his hands over hers and slid the thin straps down her shoulders to her elbows. Gasping for a breath, he broke the kiss to guide the straps over her hands.

Lightning triple-fired, giving Caradoc a mind-numbing glimpse of smooth, creamy skin and rosy nipples.
He longed to feel their weighty softness in his palms, to feel the hard points against his tongue. Countless dreams did not compare to the reality of warm flesh and sweet flavors. Leaning forward, he traced one taut silhouette with his index finger. His mouth followed the slow descent until he reached the hard bud. He closed his lips over it with a quiet groan.

Isabelle’s gasp rang out over a clap of thunder.
Her fingers latched into his hair, pressing his head closer as she arched her back. Beneath his lips, her heart beat like a drum. Bent near to her body in their sitting position, the scent of her arousal flooded his nose. She let out a low moan that vibrated against his tongue.

His body answered like she had cracked a bullwhip.
His cock pulsed. Desire surged through his veins.

As if she could hear the roaring of his blood, she pushed at the waistband of his
boxer-briefs and guided them over his hips until the mattress forbade further removal. Denied the opportunity to linger at her breast, Caradoc released her nipple with one last meaningful suckle and kicked off the rest of his clothing.

Before he had fully settled back onto the mattress
, Isabelle was in his lap, her thong removed, her wet flesh rubbing against his eager cock as her breasts rubbed against his chest. He slid his hand beneath the graceful slope of her buttocks and lifted her until the tip of his shaft aligned with her slick opening. Lowering her, he slid into her tight sheath on one prolonged thrust.

God’s…
blood…

Caradoc’s body shuddered in time with hers.
His breath lodged somewhere between his lungs and his throat, and he opened his mouth, gasping for air. Isabelle’s fingernails scored into his shoulders, her equal efforts at breathing evidenced in her tight grip.

And then she moved.
With her legs wrapped around his waist, she gripped with her thighs and eased herself up the length of his erection, erasing Caradoc’s ability to hold on to his control. He gripped her waist, thrust up high into her warm wet depths.

A soft cry slipped off her lips.

He guided her into a steady motion, bringing her body down as he lifted his hips, raising her up as he sank away. She moved in time with him, their rhythm punctuated by her soft gasps. Each little noise, each grip of her hot flesh as she took him deeper pulled innumerable feeling from inside him. Sensation gathered. Built to intoxicating levels.

His thrusts became harder.
Her gasps transformed into quiet mewls.

Beyond the balcony doors, the storm echoed the tempest that raged between them.
A bright flash mirrored the specks of light that lit behind his closed eyelids, and as thunder crashed overhead, ecstasy burst through Caradoc. It carried him through time, transporting him past the barrier of three years without Isabelle, and collided with a force that turned his lungs into a vise and stilled his heart. He groaned with the power of it, his voice blending with Isabelle’s sharp cry of pleasure.

As their bodies stilled, and his senses slowly returned, he felt the flutter of her flesh around his cock.
He wound his arms around her slender frame and gathered her in his arms. Soft kisses fell upon his cheek. Her hair caressed his arms. He opened his eyes and pressed a tender kiss into the hollow between her neck and shoulder.

His Isabelle.
His seraph.

Sensing now was not the time for words,
he sank into the pillows, taking her with him. He closed his eyes to the loving caress of her palm against his abdomen and the pelt of rain against glass.

Chapter
18

The light tap of raindrops lured Isabelle from tranquility. Warm comfort enveloped her. Her mind was still. More silent than it had been in longer than she could remember.

She opened her eyes to the corrugated expanse of Caradoc’s chest beneath her cheek.
Her palm laid on one taut pectoral, ivory skin a contrast to his sun-kissed muscling. She inched her fingers to his collarbone, cupped his shoulder, and caressed the thick rise of his bicep. Mm. Masculine perfection. She’d missed waking up like this.

Turning her face into his chest, she breathed in the lingering scent of sandalwood.
No more comforting aroma existed in the world. She pressed a kiss to his warm skin and rubbed her cheek over his heart before snuggling into his embrace and letting out a contented sigh. No nightmares. No dreams at all.

Heaven.

Slowly, Isabelle took a mental inventory of her body and the numerous places she connected with Caradoc. Her torso blanketed his from shoulders to waist. Each breath they shared brushed his abdomen into hers. Each exhale drew them apart. Her right hip lay against his left, putting her left thigh atop his. The rest of her leg twined between his. She rubbed his calf with the arch of her foot, then smiled as his soft cock stirred near her hipbone.

The gentle motion of his fingertips against the base of her spine announced his awakening.
She tipped her face up to look at his, admiring long thick eyelashes that dusted over noble cheekbones. His mouth was soft, the corners lifted with the faintest hint of a smile.

Content to bask in the silence, Isabelle merely watched him drift between full wakefulness and the deep slumber he’d been in moments before.
Her body felt heavy, the longing she’d been unable to escape sated. The sensation took her back to the previous night, when she’d pretended sleep while he undressed her and put her bed. The emotion that had filled his whispers had shattered what remained of her resistance. Provoked all the things she’d been trying to hide from not only him, but herself as well. She couldn’t ignore him, nor the love they’d shared, any longer. Her kiss had resulted in cataclysmic bliss.

Ecstasy she didn’t regret.

Isabelle’s eyes snapped open and the feeling of absolute perfection plummeted out the soles of her feet. Oh, holy God. She’d done it again—slept with Caradoc without any protection. How stupid could she get?

Shoving to her hands
, she shook off his arm, sat upright, and buried her face in her palms with a groan. She hadn’t been on birth control then, nor was she now. Let alone the fact she’d been pining for Caradoc, a baby pretty much killed any chance at a sex life. Protecting herself had never entered her mind.

Caradoc’s hand glided up her spine as he sat up beside her.
“What troubles you, love?”

“You.”

“Me,” he repeated flatly. His hand fell away with his sigh. “You regret last eve.”

Well, not exactly.
Just the stupidity involved with her unthinking decision to satisfy desire. But explaining all that brought September up again. For the first time in weeks, she was hungry, and she didn’t intend to have that conversation before she could gobble down a whole tray of food.

Instead, she scrambled to the other side of the bed and swung her feet off the mattress.
“We can talk about this later.”

As she reached down to collect her jeans, Caradoc’s arm banded around her waist and hauled her back into the bed.
Before she could squirm out of his hold, he pinned her on her back, sank the full weight of his body into hers and trapped her in place. “Nay, Isa. By all that is sacred, you shall listen.”

“I don’t want to listen.”
She pushed at his shoulders, aware she was being deliberately stubborn.

He squeezed his knees together, imprisoning her thighs, and captured her face between his large hands.
“Aye, I well know that. But you shall.” The harshness of his voice gave way to genuine tenderness that flowed through the gentle caress of his thumb across her lips. “Three years have passed since I made the mistake of leaving you. A day has not passed that I do not regret that choice. I have thought of naught but you.” He lowered his head, feathered his lips over hers. His words became a whisper. “Dreamed of making love to you. Of hearing the ecstasy in your voice. Feeling my own.”

Sinking his chest into hers, he slowly straightened his legs until their bodies were flush, the evidence of his desire hard against the juncture of her thighs.
“I have watched my brothers fall in love and wished that I could go to you. I shall not let you leave believing the love we shared in England was meaningless.” His mouth fluttered across her shoulder. “’Twas more meaningful than you can comprehend.”

His heartfelt confession should have softened her brimming anger.
It should have made her wrap her arms around his waist, spread her legs, and welcome him into her body once more. The hum in her veins evidenced her immunity to him, but instead, his words sparked incomprehensible anger. He said one thing. Did another. For three years, she’d given everything she had both financially and emotionally to September. Not once had he called. Not once had he done anything to imply he spoke the truth. No matter what he said now, the brutal reality was that he’d abandoned her.

Isabelle shoved at his shoulders determined to break free.
Against her will, all the pent up resentment erupted. “If it was so meaningful, Caradoc, you shouldn’t have left me to raise your child alone!”

His head snapped up, eyes wide with shock and disbelief.

Isabelle went utterly still.

* * *

Like great balls of solid iron weighed down his body, Caradoc inched upright, supporting his weight on his hands. A child? He stared down at Isabelle as every last fiber of his being ground to a halt. Her eyes held his, matched in their wide surprise. The rigid nature of her body mirrored the tension in his. Seconds passed like hours before his throat loosened enough he could choke out, “What did you say?”

She expelled a short breath and rolled her eyes toward the top of her head.
“You heard me,” she mumbled.

“Aye, I heard you say you bore my child when you know such is not possible.”
Annoyed beyond all measure, he pushed away from her and rocked back on his heels. “I am incapable of fathering children. My seed is sterile. So tell me, Isabelle, whose child did you bear?” Try as he might, he could not control his temper. The thought that she had borne another man’s bastard ate at something so deep inside him, he thought he might implode. She belonged to him. No other had a right to touch her. Yet, she had clearly given herself to another.

“What the
hell?” Isabelle rocketed upright, dragging the sheet to her chin to cover her breasts. “How dare you accuse me of lying! Your vasectomy obviously didn’t work. Her name is September, and she’s almost three years old.”

He gritted his teeth so tightly he expected them to crack.
If the child were so young, it could only mean one thing—she had been pregnant when she came to him, or had not shared the same three weeks he had if she could take a lover so soon after they had parted. “Was it the man you came to Kiddington Hall with? James was his name, as I recall.”

Color rose to her face, crimson fire that shot out through the narrow slanting of her eyes.
“James? You think I slept with
James?
Good God, Caradoc, he’s twice my age and has a wife!”

“Aye, and he made it no secret he would like to have you in his bed.”

A low sound, resembling a lionesses’ growl, rumbled in her throat. She reached behind her and threw the pillow at his chest. “I didn’t sleep with James! I slept with you!”

He grabbed the pillow in a deadly fist, wanting naught but to shred it into pieces.
Instead, he slammed it into the bed near his thigh. “And how long did you wait until you welcomed another between your legs? A week? Mayhap a month?”

Isabelle threw back the covers and sprang from the bed.
“I’m leaving now.”

“Aye, mayhap you should
.”

“Yeah, that’d make it easier, wouldn’t it?”
She rifled beneath the quilt until she located her sweater. In one swift yank, she had it over her head and thrust her arms through the short sleeves. The eyes on her bronze serpents glinted in the dull grey light. “Easier to ignore your responsibility, just like you’ve ignored me since you walked out of our hotel room. This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come to you. Shouldn’t have believed in you.”

Unable to form words, he watched helplessly as she jerked on her jeans.
Her words cut like daggers. Her claims rendered him speechless. She spoke of impossibilities. The curse of the archangels stripped him of the ability to be the father she declared him to be. Neither he, nor any other knight, could reproduce.

A fact he had taken comfort in,
should truth be told. Whilst he held no distaste for children, he unexplainably feared them. The siblings his mother had borne had all succumbed to illness, their tiny bodies too frail to weather disease. He had seen one too many peasants’ babes freeze to death in the vile cold of winter. Heard too many grieving mothers and witnessed too much sorrow in bereft fathers’ eyes.

Farran alone was a testament to the heartbreak children could create.
His loss had nearly destroyed his salvation.

Isabelle shoved her feet into her shoes and stormed through the bedroom door.

Caradoc needed to say something before he made a greater mess of things. Leaping from the bed, he stalked to the door as Isabelle reached her purse. “Isa.”

“What?” she snapped, not bothering to look at him.

“It cannot be my child.”

“She.
Not
it—
she.” She turned around and something hard hit him square in the sternum.

Caradoc looked down to find her wallet at his feet.
He bent over to collect it.

“She’s the most delightful human being in this world.
Her laugh is brighter than any sunshine.” Isabelle’s voice waivered, and she paused. More quietly, she added, “She looks just like you.”

With shaking hands, Caradoc popped the snap on the black leather, and her wallet spilled open, revealing a bright assortment of pictures.
As he folded the plastic casings to the first one, the door to his suite slammed shut.

* * *

Too enraged for tears, Isabelle raced for the solitude and sanctuary of her room. She barricaded herself inside, and in a moment of uncontrolled outrage, hurled her purse against the locked door.

Another man’s child!

She understood Caradoc didn’t want children, but she’d never
dreamed
he would accuse her of lying about September’s parentage. She’d be more than happy to drag him to the nearest clinic and prove him wrong with a DNA test. But that would mean having to talk to him, something she didn’t ever intend to do again.

Good thing September would never realize her fantasies about a knight in shining armor disguised a calloused asshole.
James—for God’s sake! The thought made Isabelle’s skin crawl. She’d had three,
three,
lovers before Caradoc. Brent when she was eighteen and in college. Allen the summer she’d been twenty-two. Michael through her twenty-fifth and twenty-sixth years. She hadn’t slept with anyone else until two years later when she met Caradoc.