The Second Lie (Immortal Vikings Book 2) (18 page)

Porkchop inserted his head between the seats, smooth floppy ears and two dark beady eyes peering at him and Christina. A pink tongue lolled out.

“Porkchop approves,” the driver said.

“Better than having him go for my ear.” Stig’s eyes went back to the paper bag.

“You look like you’re interested in an early breakfast.”

A tendril of shame at his obvious greed crawled through him, but it didn’t stop his agreement.

“Have at them. I should eat bran anyway.”

That was the end of the conversation exchanged on the drive. By the time they turned off rue Sainte-Marguerite to Luc’s house deep among the trees, he was covered in flakes of croissant, having stuffed himself like a shameless child. Christina had crashed on his shoulder, her neck almost as boneless as his had been after his fall. Her exhaustion was inevitable, given two strong beers, ten time zones and the aftermath of an amped-up chase and fight.

“Thank you for the ride and the pastries. Afraid I pinched all four.”

“Think nothing of it.” The other man pulled around to the back door and didn’t get out of the car, as if a few minutes together had been enough company.

“Give me a second to see if I can carry her.” She was small enough to lift easily, but her eyes fluttered open.

“I can walk.” She twisted, trying to release herself from his arms.

“But I like carrying you.” He bent his knees to reach the back doorknob without letting her down. “Gives me great surges of masculine satisfaction, which makes me vulnerable to anything you suggest. You should take shameless advantage of me.” Inside the kitchen, he paused by the fruit basket of apples. “Grab one or two of those, won’t you.” Hopefully he would expend more energy quite soon.

She snorted. “Really, I can walk.”

Since she wasn’t trying to get out of his arms, he shouldered through the swinging door into the hall. “Haven’t you climbed your quota of stairs tonight? Relax.”

“How was the pub?” Luc called from his lounger.

Stig paused at the bottom step. “Let’s say I hope the new Stavros is as handy with carpentry as the old one was.”

“Sounds like I missed a good time.”

Thankfully, Stig held Christina facing the other direction, so she didn’t see Luc’s wink. Upstairs, he lowered her to her feet in the doorway of the bedroom where she’d slept the night before, then retrieved another stack of sheets and blankets from the armoire at the end of the hall. When he turned back, she hadn’t moved.

“What are you doing?” She walked backward into the room as he advanced.

“Getting ready for bed.” Behind him, the closed door shut out the rest of the house, leaving the tiny room under the eaves in silence except for their breathing.

She retreated to the far side, separated from him by the width of two single beds and the narrow aisle between them, but he could swear that his heart heard the beat of hers.

“You’re...you’re sleeping over there.”

He couldn’t tell whether she meant that as a statement, an order or a question, so he proceeded to unfold the rectangular bundle in search of two sheet corners.

“I’m going to sleep here.” That sounded like she meant it.

“That’s why I’m making a second bed.”

The moment she reached for the other two corners and helped him shake the sheet to air it, he knew he wouldn’t have to use this bed. But he should still go through the motions.

“I was willing to take my passport and go.” At the top of the mattress, their heads almost touched as they simultaneously bent to tuck their corners. “Remember that.”

“Miss Mancini, are you threatening me? It makes me shiver so.” It did. But not for the reasons he pretended.

She rolled her eyes at him and moved to the foot of the bed. “Quit teasing.”

He followed on his own side like a puppy behind a fence. If she knew what hearing the word
tease
come out of her mouth did to him while he watched her bend to tuck a sheet corner, he suspected she would shut up out of sheer perversity.

She finished her side and straightened, staring at him as if daring him to argue about whatever she was about to say. “If you want my help, I want a cut. I deserve it.”

If he wasn’t mistaken, she was about to try to squeeze him for millions. The uncertainty and confusion of the evening faded as he watched her, the woman with the intensity of five people packed into her small shape. The deep breath she took raised her chest. If he looked away to tuck his sheet, he might miss the view.

“Five million,” she said, her tone as firm as he would be in a few moments if she kept talking filthy lucre. “Two out of what Ivar pays you tomorrow, three more at the end.” She exhaled, the movement hardly as compelling as its counterpoint, and continued. “Plus Angelina’s passport.”

She had demands. They gave him urges. After last night on the car bonnet he knew they could fulfill each other. He bent to the final corner, both to conceal his body’s obvious reaction to her gambit and to see what she’d say if he didn’t answer, not because he cared about a bed he wasn’t going to use. What he wanted to do was pin her to the mattress and take her once for each million dollars she demanded. He wanted to watch her clutch the spindly brass rails at the headboard and cry his name as he pounded into her pussy until neither of them could count. Five million, five minutes, he’d have her spread and open and screaming his name.

“Is this called chenille?” Her voice didn’t shake at all as she smoothed the tufted white blanket he’d grabbed with the linens.

Since he wouldn’t get her to bet against herself through silence, and she wasn’t ready to jump him yet, he stroked his hands along the bumpy blanket in tandem with hers. They both pretended the cover needed to be smoothed a hell of a lot more than any bed ever. Their hands didn’t touch, but they went down the fabric at the same time, her small one and his large one, both feeling the contrast of the bumps and softness of the blanket. The little nubs of decoration were smaller than her nipples would be, tufted but not as stiff as what he would coax from her body. Because he’d caressed the skin of her thighs last night, he knew his destination was silkier and warmer than this fabric.

When her eyes locked with his in the lamplight he could see her pupils, large and dark, and her lips, parted to help her breathe. She must remember his touch. Like him, she struggled for air in a room that had become too hot for blankets. And still they both stroked the bedcover, unable to step away or crash together unless one of them moved first.

“Five,” she whispered as if her voice had disappeared.

“What does a good girl like you do with that much money?” If she lied, he’d kiss her until she told the truth; if she told the truth, he’d kiss her until she moaned his name. Simple plan.

“That’s my business.” She stopped petting the blanket and edged to the center of the room, rubbing her hands on her thighs. Her fidgets meant she was aware of her body, but she wasn’t actually leaving, so the awareness was in his favor.

He continued to stroke the nubby white spread, lifting his hand at the bottom, watching her eyes follow his action as he placed his hand higher on the bed and completed the motion again. Each time he smoothed out an invisible wrinkle, she rubbed her hands across her thighs as if she wanted to be touched. “You don’t think when you impound half my wages, I can inquire?”

He bent to rest both palms on the edge of the bedframe, and yes, her gaze moved to his buttocks. She was so far from indifferent that he suspected he could pull her across the end of the bed and she’d be wet already. But that wasn’t how he wanted to do this tonight. He heaved at the frame, and the bed legs groaned across the wood planks as the new bed slid into the other one. “What if you’re investing in virtual coins or stuffed animal currency with my money? Shouldn’t I have a say?”

“No.” Her eyes fixed on the suddenly larger sleeping arrangement in the middle of the floor. Her cheeks had flushed darker.

“No?” He came around the end of the bed to where she stood, stopping a few inches tighter than normal personal space. The distance between them was close enough to cross by merely leaning. “Or yes?”

“Yes.” She drew out the final sound into a sigh of agreement.

Yes, he’d been right that her needs and his matched.

“I thought there was a chance you’d say that.” One hard kiss was all he’d give her now. Her lips were the same perfect fit he remembered, plushy heaven for a man who’d spent an evening revisiting bad parts of his past, but the moment she opened her mouth and softened her body into him, he retreated. No pushing too fast tonight. Tonight had to be different from the wild taking in Calais. Tonight had to be slow and build trust, so he released her and crouched at her feet.

“What are you doing?” Her voice had the breathiness of a well-kissed woman. Good.

“Same thing I was doing three minutes ago.” He untied his shoes. “Getting ready for bed.” She hadn’t backed away, so he reached for her laces. “Here, let me untie your trainers. Lift your foot.”

“Last night, we didn’t...” she rested one hand on his head and pressed for balance, “...we didn’t use any...”

He realized what she was struggling to say, but she’d never believe that the immortals were unable to father children, given that she thought he was full of fabrications and fairy dust in the first place. Of course a man who hadn’t had a cold virus, nor crap-all else since the sixth century, didn’t have a condom in his pocket. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to worry about a surprise.” Her voice was small and quiet, but he admired that she wanted to be clear with him. “I use a long-term birth control.”

“And I don’t have anything catching.” That much was true. Once Grendel’s blood had dried, no one else had ever become like them. Their crew alone had survived the ages, only Beowulf killed by dragon poison.

The contact of her fingers on his scalp was better than any energy bar, any caffeine, any shock. She stood in front of him and pulled her foot out of the shoe he held, then he switched to hold the other. Mundane tasks, when shared, rose to the level of seduction. The dance of bodies and hands doing complex jobs, like making beds and unlacing, mimicked what hands and bodies wanted.

He peeled off her socks and couldn’t resist cupping her bare arch in his hand. This was the instrument that had tortured him into mindless madness last night. Her ankle was so delicately formed that he could wrap his fingers completely around the fine bones. She swayed, a tiny sign of the strength of her desire impacting her gymnast gracefulness. He set her foot slightly apart from the other to give him access to her legs.

The jeans she wore were too long. Kneeling on the floor, he pushed the rolled fabric higher on her calf and let his palms shape her taut muscles. Her smooth skin begged to be stroked and the faint scent of her sex intoxicated him. If he had to refrain from pressing his face to the apex of her thighs, he would need to grow another spine, because the urge to lean into her and absorb her was too overwhelming for one weak man to resist.

Her hands shifted from using his bowed head for stabilization to sifting her fingers through his hair. The attention felt more personal than even a kiss. He’d never been a saint, and he knew more than a bit about women. This type of touch was what people who had bonded more intimately than sex shared. Her hands in his hair, his cheek resting on the hot scratchiness of her new denim and his hands on her calves, these were the definition of connection.

“I was terrified tonight.” Her quiet sentence cut into his chest.

“Me too.” Seeing that idiot lay his hands on Christina had made him want to tear the world apart. If the investigator had used a weapon, had put a knife to her throat like Skafe had done to him, if, if...He couldn’t allow those thoughts to proceed, not when he was so close to her that she could read his reactions.

He lifted the bottom hem of her shirt. The skin of her stomach was smooth, beautiful. He pressed his lips to the spot above her navel and breathed the fragrance of her. Hot and enthralling. Musk. Earthy. He could use all the wine descriptions he’d learned in order to play Geoffrey Morrison and not come close to the fascination of her skin.

“You fell out that window. I thought you were dead.”

“It’ll take a lot more than a spot of defenestration to kill me.” His hands stroked the backs of her thighs, the denim an unwelcome barrier, but the pressure urged her closer. “I’m immortal.”

“Don’t joke. Not about that.” She tugged on his hair, the small tension mirroring the pull growing in his belly.

He obliged and stood, and they were thigh to thigh and chest to chest and he could bury his face in her hair. It smelled less musky than her skin, more like the crisp citrus of white wines. She would like that comparison if he shared it.

“Please.” Her hands clung to his shoulders.

“Please what?” Her responses said she wanted the same thing he did, so he backed toward the combined beds.

“Please be careful. I’m scared.”

He froze at the words no man wanted to hear. This should be a celebration, nothing to fear, nothing to distract from the cocoon two bodies made. “Not of me.”

“Not of you. For you.” She stood on her toes to brush fluttering kisses on his cheeks and lips. “For us.”

“That’s all I need to know.” He eased her to the narrow bed. Her hair spread across the white pillowcase, the dim lamplight shadowing her face and darkening her hair to a spill of Indian ink. He toed off his loosened shoes and stretched next to her, both of them fully clothed. Propped on one hand and elbow, he watched her face as he stroked his other hand along the shape of her body. “Tonight I want to take my time.”

“I noticed.” She smiled, and it was more beautiful than any portrait he could remember. Her smile was warm and real and here with him, inviting.

He ran his hand from her shoulder across her collarbone. Her head tilted back and her eyes closed as he followed the curve of her breast to her ribs, her waist, lower, to the tight jeans and her hip. Everywhere he stroked he felt her tighten in anticipation and regretted what he’d missed the first time when she’d gone this path alone in her chair.