Page 106 of The Woman Who Couldn't Scream
“Don’t shake your head at me,” Benedict said. “Don’t try to deny me.” He got onto his knees, lifted her bottom and pulled her onto him.
She was wet and ready, in a hurry and desperate, but it had been a long time for her and the process was long, slow, frustrating… for him.
Shecame so often she could hardly call it frustrating…
When he was finally inside, he began the long, slow strokes that brought them close, broke them apart, brought them close again and earned them intimacy in the most primitive dance of all.
She panted silently, straining toward another climax, a greater climax, one that would sweep her mind free of every terror, every nightmare, every concern.
He moaned, his arms and thighs corded with strain, sweat staining his T-shirt over the breastbone. The wash of red and blue across his face turned him alternately demonic and angelic, and she recognized both in him. He demanded more from her than she could give, and when she gave it, he demanded again. “Come on, darling,” he said over and over. “Come again… for me. Come again… with me.”
Finally she did, losing herself completely as one surge of pleasure followed another, faster and faster until he gave a shout that gave voice to pleasure for them both.
Motion slowed. He lowered her hips to the table, sank down on top of her, silent now, his fingers grasping her waist, his gaze fixed on her face as if being inside her wasn’t enough. As if he wanted to see inside her.
Merida smiled, then closed her eyes, luxuriating in physical satisfaction, in the heat of his skin against hers, the pump of blood in her veins, the brief moment when she was no longer Merida or Helen or Merry, but simply herself, one woman united with one man in the dance of joy.
Slowly Benedict pushed away, left her body, sat up beside her. The blue and red lights flashed across his body, illuminating all the shadows in brief glorious reveals. His voice seemed deeper, grittier as he asked, “Did I make you forget?”
She nodded, then afraid he hadn’t seen, she spelled, “Yes.”
“That’s good.” He lifted one knee, leaned an arm against it. “Because you made me remember.”
There was a warning there, a toughness she hadn’t heard.
She sat up, shedding satiation and gaining wariness.
Deliberately he turned his head, looked right at her. “Merry. Merry Byrd. Where have you been?”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Merida vaulted off the table, scampered toward her clothes to grab something, anything, put it on, run away.
Because he was going to kill her… again.
As she moved, her mind sorted: no T-shirt, she’d be vulnerable if she pulled it over her head; no pants, she’d be vulnerable when she pulled them on; no shoes… she snatched up her hoodie, turned and held it in front of her.
Benedict sat on the table in the same position, unmoving, watching.
Of course. Why not? He could outrun her. Because of her paranoia, she had three locks on the door and a chain; they kept her safe, but she couldn’t easily get out. And he’d already proven tonight that her puny self-defense moves could not defeat him.
But bless him. He knew exactly what to say to bring years of pent-up fury roaring back. “Merry Byrd, I thought you were dead.”
She threw the hoodie aside and advanced on him. If she was going to die, she wouldn’t do it cowering behind a feeble piece of clothing. She was going to go down fighting. “You ought to know,” she signed. “You killed Merry Byrd.”
“No.”
“You arranged for that airplane to explode.”
“No.”
“When I woke in the hospital, I cried for you. You were nowhere.”
“When I woke in the hospital, they told me you were dead.”
“Who told you I was dead?”Wait. “What were you in the hospital for?”
He paused, studied her. “Do you not remember that explosion?”
