Chapter 40 - Want Me, Take Me, Haunt Me, Make Me
By Isabel Crowley
“My God,” Maxwell said, stopping cold in the bathroom doorway.
Rationally, he was being absurd. He’d known Perthrux’s servant had injured Hazel, and he’d certainly seen worse than the assortment of bruises and cuts mapped out on her bare skin. His service had shown him quite a bit about the human body’s frailty and the forces that could act on it.
Seeing Hazel made all his prior experiences seem like textbook illustrations.
One bruise covered her right side, starting an inch or two under her breast and wrapping around to her lower back. At its thickest, it was as wide as Maxwell’s hand was long. Darker bruises covered her left side from her shoulder down to her hip, and a long, thin cut stretched down her outer thigh. Maxwell, trying and failing not to stare, saw lighter patches of black and blue on her arms and thinner scratches scattered all over her.
She noticed his reaction—how could she not?—and her smile had as much self-consciousness as humor in it. “It’s more of a mood-killer than either of us realized, I know. I understand if you’re having second thoughts.”
“Yes and no,” said Maxwell, trying to put the thoughts he was having into a coherent form. “If I didn’t worry about hurting you, I’d have you against the wall right now. But I do.”
Hazel’s smile grew warmer. “I’m not exactly sure how much I can take at the moment,” she admitted, and stepped forward so that her smooth, naked body brushed gently against Maxwell’s. He caught his breath. “But I’d like to find out.”
“Far be it from me to refuse a lady.”
Maxwell kissed her lightly again, lingering longer than he’d done the night before but still holding back, letting Hazel set pace and pressure alike. He didn’t lose himself as completely as he’d done before, but it still startled him when Hazel pulled away. “Shower, right?” It sounded as much like a question as a reminder—a slightly dazed question which, combined with the flush on her cheeks, made Maxwell want to reach for her again.
“Shower,” he agreed instead. “While we can still both stand.”
She’d gone to turn the water on, giving Maxwell an excellent view of her pert backside. When he spoke, she glanced over her shoulder, eyes glinting. “That sounds like a prediction.”
“Call it a promise.”
* * *
Hot water, as it had been the day before, was a mixed blessing. Hazel’s muscles appreciated it immensely. Her cuts did not. The sting came with a certain satisfaction, cleansing as it was, but she still hissed and bit her lip as Maxwell soaped up her back.
“My technique,” he asked, pausing, “or unavoidable circumstances?”
“Second. I think the only way this doesn’t hurt involves a lot of drugs.”
Maxwell clicked his tongue sympathetically and went back to his task, almost skimming her back with the washcloth. “And the substances I could get my hands on—well, a few would help with the pain, but I suspect I’d have to hold you up.”
“Could be awkward,” she agreed. “Besides, I should stay relatively alert these days.”
“Rather than in your normal opium haze, you mean?”
“Hey, we haven’t known each other that long. For all you know, I could have been this century’s Samuel Coleridge before Chapman hired me.”
“Ha,” he said, and lifted the washcloth away. “Turn around.”
She did, and distracted herself from the sharp, shallow pain of the water with the sight of Maxwell naked and wet before her. His hair lay flat and dark against his head, and droplets ran down his silver skin, almost but not quite following the red lines of his sigils. From the neck up, he looked a lot like he had when they’d met in the rain, though she could see more of his face.
Hazel could see a lot more of him in general, of course, which was a major improvement.
“Also,” she said, as she let her gaze wander downward and found him already half-erect, “I don’t think you were enjoying yourself so much back when we first started talking.”
“Not…quite,” said Maxwell, following her line of thought after a momentary pause to orient himself. “The experience had a surprising amount to recommend it, though, even then.” His smile was rich with remembered sensuality.
Intrigued, Hazel splayed one hand against the base of his throat, feeling his rapid pulse through her fingertips. “You like being tied up, then? Or was my raincoat devastatingly sexy?”
“It had its charms. Being at your mercy had more of an effect on me.” The memory was having its own effect; Maxwell’s eyes had gone dark and his cock pressed against her, fully hard now and nearly as hot as the water.
Hazel slid her hand down his chest, circled one nipple, then drew her thumb slowly across it and enjoyed Maxwell’s sharp, ragged breath. “Fascinating. Just mine?”
“Difficult—ah—” She’d started over with his other nipple. “—to say. I haven’t considered the prospect with any humans in a while. Never went beyond consideration before that. It—”
Hazel was trailing her fingers over his flat stomach, her other hand sliding up the outside of his thigh, and he broke off before finding his train of thought again.
“There wasn’t quite the opportunity. Back then.”
“Really? I’ve heard a few things—”
He caught her wrist. “Beyond my nerve and my connections, I fear. And if you continue in this fashion, we’ll end up adding to your bruises. There’s no soft surface in this entire room.”
Heat leaped from his gaze to her own body, running through it with almost kinetic force. Hazel knew he had a point, though. If opiates were a bad idea, then putting more strain on her muscles or making her injuries worse would be stupid choices too.
She didn’t care. She had to care.
Hazel shifted her weight forward. The feeling of her nipples rubbing against the damp hair on Maxwell’s chest made her pulse with need, but the contact hadn’t been her main motive. Closing the distance let her slip her wrist out of his grip. “You know,” she said, and kissed the underside of his jaw, “my knees aren’t bruised.”
* * *
Lust absolutely destroyed the brain, which was the only excuse Maxwell could find for not fully realizing what Hazel meant until she’d kneeled before him. He heard the words, they had meaning, but he was still blinking at the sudden space where she’d been when she kissed the inside of his thigh.
“I—” he said coherently, to the shining black crown of her head.
“Hmm?” Her lips vibrated against his skin, and one smooth cheek brushed past his erection. All the world shrunk to those points.
Maxwell struggled to remember how language worked. “You—” Right, yes, a subject. A verb came next. What did he need to say? That she didn’t have to do what she was clearly about to? Hazel didn’t seem the sort to act out of obligation, not carnally, which made her interest even more intoxicating.
She moved to his other thigh as he tried to think, hair brushing over him on the way, and Maxwell barely kept himself from thrusting against her face. The water poured down over him, each drop an explosion of feeling.
Water. Yes. “You still do need to breathe, darling,” he reminded her, the endearment falling from his lips before he thought about it. “Unless you’ve been keeping secrets.”
“Not that one,” said Hazel, and punctuated herself by flicking her tongue around the tip of Maxwell’s cock, making his hands flatten against the wall. “I do. Eventually.”
That was when she took the whole straining length of him into her mouth, and Maxwell’s vision went white. He was vaguely aware of his head falling back against the tiled wall, of reaching for Hazel’s head and then catching himself enough to drop his hands to her shoulders. All else narrowed to two things: pleasure and the drive for more.
Kissing Hazel could have led him to expect skill, if he’d ever connected those rather filthy dots, but he’d never extrapolated enough to predict the soft warmth of her mouth around his erection, the agility of her tongue, or the nimble way her hands insinuated themselves between his legs, stroking and cupping.
“God,” he muttered, half a curse and half a prayer, though she was the only divinity he could think of right then.
She pulled back, panting, and glanced up at him through dark eyelashes beaded with water. “We should move.”
Maxwell was too busy watching her lips to understand her words at first. He helped her up automatically, but her meaning didn’t get through to him until she turned to shut off the water. “Yes,” he said, and lifted Hazel off her feet for the second time in their acquaintance.
* * *
She got to wrap her arms around Maxwell’s neck this time, rather than lying across his shoulder, and he carried her with one of his own arms under her knees. The effect was probably classier than the cover of a Conan rip off, or it would have been if they hadn’t both been naked and wet. Maxwell’s substantial hard-on didn’t exactly turn the scene artistic either.
Then again, art was subjective.
Hazel laid her head against Maxwell’s shoulder and giggled as he strode out of the bathroom, letting herself feel softer emotions along with the lust. She laughed again as he stopped in the hall, clearly not having thought through his next steps, and cleared his throat. “Ah, bedroom? If you’d rather not, after—”
The consideration made her heart squeeze a little. “Bedroom,” she said. “It’s got the best wards, and honestly, if I’m going to sleep in there again, I need better memories.”
“Very happy to oblige,” he said, and bent his head to kiss her.
* * *
He managed to get the bedroom door open—none too smoothly, but he was beyond caring. If the doorknob hadn’t turned at his first clumsy attempt, Maxwell might well have kicked the door down or blasted it to splinters. Hazel’s presence in his arms would have been enough to drive him half mad with desire even if she’d been clothed and passive. Naked and eager, nuzzling against his neck, she was damned near fatal, even to a man of questionable mortality.
Hazel’s bed was close to the door, because God was merciful. A few steps brought Maxwell to its edge, and he started to lay Hazel down, but she shook her head. “Sit.”
“If you’d like,” he said, and perched on the side of the bed. That let Hazel settle nicely into his lap, one knee on each side of his legs, her hands on his shoulders for balance. Smiling, she leaned back just enough to look into his eyes.
“Comfortable?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Maxwell replied. He shifted his hips to emphasize the point, his stiff prick sliding against her silky curls, and then had to bite his lip to keep control. “But I have no complaints.”
Hazel gave him a bright, hot smile, her lips slightly swollen from either their kisses or her attention to him earlier. She rocked forward minutely to tease them both—and then stopped, dark brows drawing together.
Maxwell froze. “Too much?”
“No…” she said in a tone of evaluation that he found torturously arousing in itself. “But it could be before too long, or if I go too fast. Damn muscles.”
“We can stop,” he offered, sincere and desperately trying to keep reluctance out of his voice. Frustration was better—far better—than hurting her, but his body didn’t share his morals. He ached, and she was so close, so hot and wet against him, just a few short motions away—
No.
He stayed still, waiting. Hazel shook her head almost immediately, though it felt like a year or so had gone by, and brushed her lips across his. “Give me a second,” she said, and swung herself off him. While her absence let Maxwell get a better grip on himself, figuratively speaking, he couldn’t restrain a low groan as she moved away.
There were compensatory joys, though, like watching the motion of her breasts as she walked and seeing her bend to open her nightstand drawer.
“You’re not insecure about…assistance, are you?” she asked.
“No.” The response was automatic—he almost didn’t remember what insecure meant in the heat of the moment—and curiosity took a second to follow. “Whose?”
She chuckled, turning around with a slim chrome wand in one hand. “Ben Franklin’s, I guess. Or Edison’s.”
The device looked very different from the large corded contraptions he’d seen in grainy films as a young man, or in advertisements mysteriously promising to “furnish every woman with the essence of perpetual youth,” but Maxwell could guess its purpose. “Neither gentleman was to my tastes in life,” he said, stretching out a hand toward Hazel, “but they’re very welcome in spirit.”
Laughing, Hazel let him draw her back to his lap. She moved slowly as she straddled him again, settling herself with great care, as Maxwell almost held his breath in an attempt to stay calm. Soap from the shower blended with the intoxicating scent of her arousal.
“What can I do to help?” He wasn’t used to looking up at her, but their position settled his gaze generally at her neck, making Maxwell tip his head back to see Hazel’s face. It was just as lovely from that angle. “I take direction decently well, I believe.”
“I’ll test you on that. For now, just—hold still, I guess.” Another slight shift of her weight and she rose, grasping Maxwell’s cock and guiding the tip into her slick heat. She slowed down again to take him, though Maxwell thought that might have been less from injury and more from the desire to tease them both.
Certainly, it did the job. He felt each centimeter of Hazel’s descent, battled the urge to thrust up into her, and contented himself with grasping her hips once he was buried to the hilt. “Bloody hell.”
“Thank you,” she said, breathless. A rippling sensation betrayed her internal response as well. The lady liked hearing him desperate, it seemed. “I’m—”
“Close,” said Maxwell, circling his thumbs lightly so that she tensed and caught her breath again. “I know, darling. I can feel.”
Hazel made an incoherent noise, letting her head fall back and her eyes flutter closed. She brought the wand around to rest just above where they were joined, then paused, holding on to Maxwell’s shoulder with her free hand as she tried to balance her weight on his legs.
He leaned forward to nip her shoulder. “Easy. I’ll keep us from falling over.”
That reassurance was all she needed, it seemed. Hazel relaxed against him, the strain going out of her thighs and back, just before she switched on her little toy. It buzzed almost quietly, unobtrusively, but its vibration traveled up Maxwell’s body in a surge of feeling he hadn’t expected.
His groan blended with the low noise Hazel made in the back of her throat. Her hand clenched his shoulder, just as her muscles tightened around his cock, and she thrust her hips forward in greedy little motions, seeking contact with both him and the device.
“Oh God.” Her voice was ragged.
“Yes,” he said, not meaning to claim divinity but feeling the need to celebrate her pleasure, to encourage the peak that he could sense building fast. “Lovely girl. Let go for me, let me feel you—”
She didn’t need much persuasion, either verbal or physical. Maxwell hadn’t even finished speaking before she was going over, short nails digging into his shoulder, thighs rigid against his hips. The sound she made was as glorious as he could possibly have imagined—and as lost as he knew himself to be.
* * *
Later, she’d hurt. Hazel knew it even as her brain shorted out in an orgasm that left her dazed, feeling nothing but waves of ecstasy that subsided into a floating contentment. In an hour or so, her thighs would be screaming bloody murder, God only knew what her back would contribute, and none of it mattered. Right there and then, she knew herself, Maxwell, and pleasure.
She switched off the vibrator and let it fall to the floor—cleanup would wait until later too—so that she could hold on to Maxwell with both hands. “So,” she said, enjoying the chance to stare down into his eyes nearly as much as the granite heat of his cock inside her. “That’s one of the highlights of modern life. I suspect your preference is for more…classical…activity right now?”
“Timeless, one might say.” He panted the words, hips stuttering against hers. Hazel suspected it wasn’t quite voluntary, that he was trying to hold back even then. “But not at your expense.”
“No. I want it too,” she said, which she meant. She’d hurt later, but she’d hurt later regardless. That was why God made Tylenol. The future was a long way away, anyhow.
The present was catching Maxwell’s rhythm and settling into it, the tingling friction of their bodies sliding against each other, the fullness intensifying the remnants of her climax. It was his low, helpless moans as Hazel bit his neck and the way his hands clenched when he thrust upward and flooded her with warmth.
Just then, only the present was worth any of her attention at all.