The Callahan's: Ultimate Sins Part 12

Crowe's hard hands gripped the cheeks of her rear, arching her to him as he drew back, pulling the length of his c.o.c.k from her. Her juices glistened on the hard flesh that sank inside her. Slick, coating the heavy width, lubricating it for- The next heavy thrust speared to the depths of her v.a.g.i.n.a, forcing apart the tight muscles and delicate flesh and throwing her headlong into the dark, erotic pain she'd never realized she needed.

"More." She could barely gasp out the word. "Please. More."

Buried full-length inside her, Crowe fought the need tightening his b.a.l.l.s, the release threatening to escape his control, and clenched his teeth to hold back just a little longer.

There was no latex separating them. He was inside her, bare, the snug grip of her p.u.s.s.y rippling around his flesh, milking at the iron-hard shaft of his c.o.c.k.

He'd forgotten to use a condom only once in his life, that first time he'd taken her. He hadn't forgotten it before, nor since.

Until now.

Until the need to feel her, hot, slick, and naked around his shaft overrode his normal caution.

Drawing back, his gaze trained on the pleasure radiating through her expression, Crowe fought and failed to free himself. Instead he pushed inside her again, her cries echoing around him as the fist-tight grip she had on him drew a hard groan from his chest and obliterated the last ounce of reason he'd possessed.

Hard, driving thrusts pierced her flesh, each forceful thrust inside the depths of her p.u.s.s.y pus.h.i.+ng her closer, burning deeper as he came over her. His elbow braced at her shoulder; the other hand slid between her b.u.t.tocks, his fingers finding the hidden entrance of her rear.

She was holding on to him now, her nails digging into his flesh as a heated pressure began to push against that forbidden entrance.

The blunt pressure of his finger penetrating, stretching her, sent spikes of fiery sensation to rake over nerve endings far too sensitive. It was pleasure. Pain. Agony and ecstasy.

"Yes." Lifting to him, crying out for him, that sharp edge of bliss clawed at her, raking talons of sensation dragging her into chaos.

Pus.h.i.+ng inside her, stroking overly sensitive, overly responsive nerve endings, he penetrated the ultra-snug entrance. Each shallow thrust buried his finger deeper, took more of her as his c.o.c.k stroked hard, deep, into the violently aroused tissue of her p.u.s.s.y.

First one finger stretched her, then a second. Hard, pistoning thrusts of his c.o.c.k drove her higher through the swirling sensations. Each alternate thrust of his fingers pierced her with a dark excitement, that painful edge of pleasure.

Each piercing, stretching thrust of his erection inside her p.u.s.s.y pushed her relentlessly, mercilessly along that sharp edge of bliss bordering agony.

"That's it, baby," he whispered at her ear as she fought to take him harder, deeper, her hips writhing beneath him. "f.u.c.k me, little fairy. Sweet, sweet Amelia. G.o.d, I love f.u.c.king your tight little p.u.s.s.y."

She exploded.

The words, punctuated with the hard thrusts of his fingers inside her a.n.u.s, and the blinding, stretching thrusts that parted her v.a.g.i.n.a, overloaded her senses.

Pleasure gathered, tightened, then released inside her in such a wave of blinding, burning sensation that every particle of her body, her mind, her soul, became filled with it.

It radiated. It seared her senses and burned through her soul, jerking her against him, shuddering through her with such chaotic ecstasy she wondered-for a moment-if she had died.

She knew for a fact it changed her.

The question was: How had it changed her, and would she survive it?

CHAPTER 7.

What the f.u.c.k had happened?

Lying still and silent before dawn began peeking over the mountains, Crowe stared into the moonlit night outside the balcony doors, directly across from Amelia's bed.

It wasn't the first time he'd been here.

The room as well as the bed.

Once, long ago, he'd taken her here, in her bed, after slipping onto her balcony, then into her room.

He'd kissed her awake that night. Covering her lips with his hand as she came in his arms, he'd buried his face in her hair and given himself to the pleasure he'd been certain couldn't have been as destructive as he'd thought it was the first time.

He'd been wrong.

Then as well as now.

Now, because he'd been certain, once again, it couldn't have been as good as he'd remembered. And he was right. It was so much better than he'd remembered that it defied description.

"You're quiet."

The sound of her voice, soft in the darkness, should have surprised him, but h.e.l.l, he'd known she was awake. He was aware of her now in a way he hadn't been seven years before. So aware of her that for precious moments as his release met hers, he'd been certain they'd been a part of each other.

"Just thinking," he finally answered. "I thought you were asleep."

Her head lifted from his chest, her hair caressing his flesh like living silk.

Watching, he was struck, not for the first time, just how fae she seemed sometimes. Far too delicate and tiny against him, yet pulsing with some unknown magic he couldn't decipher. A magic that mesmerized him, even as it eluded him.

That was the power she had over him, and it was d.a.m.ned dangerous. Not just for his peace of mind, but also for her safety as well as his family's.

She stared down at him, those pretty turquoise eyes somber and far, far too knowing.

"Just say it," she whispered, resigned pain echoing in her voice.

The soft demand had his eyes narrowing on her, a chill racing up his spine.

"Say what?"

"What you came here to say." Holding the sheet to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her gaze pierced him clear to his soul. The thought left him feeling a bit off balance.

G.o.d, where was that ice that had s.h.i.+elded him for the past seven years? In the s.p.a.ce of the time he'd been buried b.a.l.l.s-deep inside her, he swore the heat of her hunger had melted it.

"You didn't deserve this life," he sighed.

Her laugh was soft, and filled with such bitterness he wanted to strike out at the world for the pain that had created it.

"No, Crowe," she retorted. "It's you, Logan, and Rafer who didn't deserve it. It was the women you could have loved, the lives you could have had, the happiness and joy that was stolen from all your parents. That was undeserved, yet inflicted anyway. It was so undeserved that I'm wondering how you could bring yourself to be here in his daughter's bed."

The question was there, unvoiced, and for a moment, for one incredibly insane moment, he nearly told her the truth. He wanted to tell her the truth with such strength that the words nearly fell from his lips.

"Why are you here, Crowe?" The question fell from her lips instead, firm, the demand that filled it bringing a heavy breath from his chest.

"DNA tests are in."

Amelia felt the breath still in her chest. She wanted to scream. The need to voice a wail of denial lay unrequited from a lack of air rather than a lack of will.

Instead she fisted her fingers in the sheet to still their trembling while she locked her teeth together, firmed her lips, and promised herself she wouldn't allow them to tremble.

"He's alive," Crowe continued when she said nothing, but only stared into the savage features of his face. "We won't fool him a second time, Amelia. Drawing him out won't be easy. This time it will take more than a suspicion that you belong to me. This time you're going to have to convince him you belong to me-"

Slowly, as though every cell in her body ached, she drew away from him until she sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers gripping the mattress as her head lowered for long minutes. Finally, forcing herself to stand, she turned and faced him.

Gloriously naked, achingly wounded, he thought, as the fury he'd kept buried for so long began to burn in his gut.

"Convince him I belong to you?" she whispered.

"We'll have to convince everyone, Amelia-"

She shook her head, then lowered it again, slowly. "I belonged to you seven years ago," she said, her voice hollow, shredded with such pain he flinched. "Now I don't think there's enough left of me to belong..."

He wanted to jump from the bed, pull her into his arms, and show her different. Instead he watched as she pulled her gown and robe on before leaving the bedroom, the door closing softly behind her.

He let her go, not because he wanted to. Not because he needed to.

He let her go until he could find a way to once again control the bitter, overriding rage about everything he'd been forced to walk away from seven years ago. Because staring in her face moments before, he'd realized just what he may have lost.

The cup of coffee sitting on the table in front of Amelia whispered steamy promises in the dim early-dawn light. Soft, foggy wisps of heat rose from the dark liquid, drawing her gaze and holding it for long moments before a long, slow breath parted her lips and once again her gaze turned to the winter wonderland the world had become overnight.

The snow that had fallen the night before covered the backyard in a thick, heavy veil of white. It covered trees, brush, plants that lay dormant for the winter, and the cement and polymer figurines that filled the back garden.

The weeping cherry tree, barely six feet in height, looked like a heavy mound of white fluff. The half-grown fir trees held the snow with an air of strain, while the very air swirled with the remnants of the flakes that had blown in overnight.

The ugliness of the cold autumn months was covered with a jewel-bright white cape of frigid beauty. As cold and perfect as the heart of the man lying in her bed upstairs.

His heart might be cold, but his touch and his hunger had been anything but. He had been burning hot, incredibly s.e.xual and wicked. And he had been everything, every part of him she had missed in the past seven years.

And she was just as weak as she had been all those years ago as well.

Weak and incredibly stupid, because she wanted to believe his heart wasn't frozen. And she knew better.

She'd known better as he held her after that final, explosive climax, her head cus.h.i.+oned on his chest, the sound of his heartbeat against her ear. With his hands buried in her hair, his fingertips rubbing against her scalp, he'd sent her racing from complete peace and relaxation into a h.e.l.l she'd prayed she'd never know again.

He's alive. This time it will take more than a suspicion that you belong to me. This time you're going to have to convince him you belong to me- Amelia looked down at her hands. They were still trembling so fiercely she was actually hesitant to lift her coffee cup again. She'd already singed her fingers carrying the d.a.m.ned thing to the table.

Wayne was alive.

Drawing in a shaking breath, she fought back her tears and a lifetime of memories. Memories she'd hoped she could put behind her, yet it seemed they would forever haunt her.

"You shouldn't sit in front of open windows," Crowe informed her quietly as he stepped into the room.

Moving to the side of the window he pulled the shades closed, effectively blocking the view of the outside as he blocked the view inside as well.

"There seems to be a lot of things I can't do," she said softly. "But f.u.c.king you now isn't one of them, right?"

Sitting across from her, Crowe watched her silently. Still, she could feel his look like a physical caress. As though the air itself were determined to remind her of what it felt like to be touched by him.

"Don't kill the messenger, fairy-girl," he murmured, the look in his eyes too calculating to suit her. "I just delivered the news, I didn't make it."

"Neither do you seem too concerned by it," she stated, crossing her arms on the table as she stared back at him painfully. "And perhaps, Crowe, that's the part that really worries me. You act as though it's nothing more to be worried about than walking across the street, and I think you know better than that."

Watching her, Crowe was reminded of a time, years before, when he'd acknowledged just how slick his Amelia was.

That girl's smart as a whip. Watch out for her, boy. Once she sets herself on a goal, or a man, she won't let go.

That was Clyde Ramsey's warning the summer Crowe had made her his lover. And Clyde had been right. She was smart as h.e.l.l, intuitive, and with a heart far too tender for the world she lived in and the people who ended up using her.

And that included himself.

He wondered when she had woken up and realized she'd been all used up.

"Why should it worry you, Amelia?" he asked, shaking his head as he stared around the room, remembering the stories he'd heard over the years, the suspicious bruises she'd carried, the quiet air of sadness that had always surrounded her.

"Why shouldn't it worry me, Crowe?" The blue-green of her eyes darkened, an emotion akin to betrayal gleaming in the rich color. "He's a serial killer with how many decades of murder attached to his name? Do you think he's just going to step out and wave his hands with a cheery little Here I am?"

"Not if he's smart," Crowe decided, reaching out to catch her hand as it formed a fist on the table. "And I think he's smart, Amelia. Smart enough to know I'm waiting on him. But he's not smart enough to completely lose sight of everything I'm doing. Or that you're doing. Trust me, he's close. Close enough that this time he'll make sure we're sleeping together, and when he's certain, when he's convinced we've gone on without him, then he'll give us that cheery little Here I am."

Enclosing her small fist with his much larger one, Crowe tasted the bitterness of the deception he was practicing. He hadn't expected that. He'd been protecting Amelia in one form or another for years, and until now, he hadn't realized how often he'd deceived her to do it.

"You're waiting for him," she repeated softly, pulling her fist from beneath his hand. "Perhaps that's the part that frightens me, Crowe-knowing that you're waiting for him, and knowing the lengths you'll go to catch him. It makes me wonder what, or who, you're willing to sacrifice for your own revenge."

"I'll sacrifice whatever it takes, Amelia." Reaching across the table, his hand was around the back of her neck, pulling her forward before she could evade him and glaring back at her, his lips nearly touching hers. "I'll sacrifice whatever the f.u.c.k it takes. Even us."

Slowly, she shook her head. "You can't sacrifice what never was. And there never was an us."

He released her then, sat back and let his lips tilt with a mocking curl. "There's always been an us, Amelia. There always has been, and whether you like it or not, in one form or another there always will be."