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He kept licking her there, his thumb roving back and forth over her nipple. The marmalade was all gone, but that wasn’t stopping him. He wanted to stay there, to sink into her soft feminine body and make it his again.
“Exactly how much marmalade did I drop down there,” she murmured, “the whole jar?”
Mercifully, the tension between them had begun to dissolve. He could hear the amusement in her voice. Then he noticed that her hips were rocking against the hard wood kitchen chair and he wanted to be under her.
He took his chair and then pulled her from her seat and into his lap, wrapping her legs around his hips, positioning her over his cock. She held him, rocking against him, purring audibly as her fly rolled over his. The muted friction was good, but his cock throbbed for more, to be inside her, to have her sitting in this position, totally naked.
“I didn’t realize you liked marmalade that much,” she whispered, and gave a soft laugh, before resting a kiss on his forehead.
“You have such fabulous breasts.” His words were muffled, as he planted one last kiss on the plump, soft curve that he could just about reach inside her shirt. Then he lifted his head—with reluctance—and looked at her. Humor had chased away most of the unease in her expression.
She sighed. “Grayson, I did enjoy last night. It’s just that I don’t believe in all this stuff.” She stroked his head tenderly.
The physical pull between them was undeniable, but she needed time. “I can’t force you to believe it. I’m sorry. I should have kept my thoughts to myself.”
She was deeply in denial, even for a skeptic. Most skeptics would laugh it off at this point. Not Zoë. There was more to this. He wanted her to be curious, needed her to be so, because for some reason Annabel was engaging with Zoë more than she had with any of the recent visitors. It was significant.
When she looked at him he saw that there was hurt in her eyes. “If people communicated from the afterlife I might believe it, but they don’t.” Her eyes shone with withheld tears.
This was making her unhappy, and he was adding to that by quizzing her. Damn it. He’d handled it so badly he’d gone and upset her. He rested another kiss against her throat, squeezing her breasts gently between his hands, wishing that he’d stayed in bed with her that morning and made love to her again, instead of trying to get serious about the situation so soon. Regret filled him. He’d handled this badly. “It’s my job,” he added, absentmindedly.
“I understand that.” She looked at him as if she was about to say something else, reaching out to stroke him with both hands, when there was a loud knock at the door.
Clambering off his lap, she frowned. “Who on earth can that be?”
Grayson stood up and went to the window, lifting the lace curtains to get a look. It was Warren Kirby, one of Davot’s people. He dropped the curtain, annoyed. “It’s one of the waiters from the Tide Inn.”
“Oh, right. It’ll be about my bill.” She straightened her shirt, her expression regretful.
“I’ll get dressed,” he said, and went upstairs before she opened the front door, taking them two a time.
The bedroom was practically humming with energy. He shrugged on his shirt, and glanced ruefully at the bed. Hell and damnation. If only he could open her mind to this so that she could see and feel it, and the doubts would be gone. What was even more annoying was that the psychic activity was at such a level he knew there had to be some external catalyst involved. This wasn’t just about Annabel McGraw; something else was playing into this. This was beyond his interest in research.
Frustration hit him.
How the hell was he supposed to protect Zoë and the rest of the village, when she was being so stubborn? It took all his willpower to resist the urge to linger in the bedroom, to force her to stand there with him, where the atmosphere was still high with the vivid, rich energy that was associated with the ancient craft of sexmagic.
When he went back downstairs she was holding a phone in her hand. She was frowning. “It must have fallen out of my bag last night. Looks as if I’ve missed a call.”
He wanted to tell her that she would have more to worry about than missed calls if she didn’t listen to him. He pressed his lips together determinedly, close to saying the wrong thing again. Frustration was making him surly. He knew he couldn’t force her to believe, time would do that for him. And he was a teacher, like his father before him. You couldn’t pressurize knowledge into someone, that wasn’t the way.
She looked up from the phone and folded her arms loosely as if she was guarding herself.
“I’ll get out from under your feet,” he muttered, and then kissed her forehead briefly before striding to the front door.
He so didn’t want to leave her. With his hand on the door handle, he looked back at her. Her pretty mouth was pursed in contemplation and she was watching him with a rather wary look in her eyes.
If only they hadn’t been interrupted. “Zoë, I want you to know that I’ll be here for you, when you need me—and you will need me.” As he stepped outside and shut the door behind him, he knew that his remark sounded intimidating. That couldn’t be helped.
8
; “BLOODY CHEEK,” ZOË MUTTERED TO HERSELF as she stomped up the stairs. It was blatantly obvious that he’d only slept with her to get inside the house for the sake of his precious research. And now he expected her to hang around and assist him. Typical man—he wanted everything on his terms. Like she was going to take in that stupid nonsense about ghosts and spirits. He’d even tried licking marmalade off her chest to get her to soften up and fall into line.
No way. How stupid did he think she was?
Glaring at the unmade bed where he’d spent the night next to her, she shoved her phone in her pocket and took a shoulder bag out of her half-unpacked suitcase. She threw in a few things she’d brought to take on a day out, a book, a sweater, and some sunglasses. Then she sat down at the small dresser, brushed and clipped up her hair, still muttering to herself, and still annoyed.
