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Searching his eyes for an answer, she lost herself in their brilliance. So bright. Like green fire, hungering to consume her. And she didn't care. She leaned closer, welcoming the heat. She wanted to be consumed, burned to a cinder in the flames of his embrace.
The thought shocked her to her senses, and she pulled away. Retreating to the far end of the couch, she risked a quick glance back at him. He hadn't moved.
He'd asked her a question, although she didn't remember what it was.
"What's your view?" she stalled.
"On truth and opinions? My opinion is you ought to be in bed. You need to be well rested for tomorrow's procedure."
She heard echoes of her own frustration in his voice. But she didn't want to go to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream. She'd rather stay up all night than face those nightmares again. Stay up with Desmond.
Her thoughts headed back into treacherous territory, as she imagined sliding closer to him on the couch. She could almost feel the heat of his body pressed against hers as he leaned over and claimed her lips in a sizzling kiss.
She doused the fires of her imagination. She'd go to bed. Alone. Just like always, nothing unusual. She'd put on her nightshirt, brush her teeth and climb into bed.
But to put on her nightshirt, she'd have to undress. She pictured Desmond unbuttoning her shirt and sliding it over her shoulders, leaning forward to— No. Never mind the nightshirt. She forced herself to think about brushing her teeth, a terribly ordinary and unerotic action. She could almost taste the minty foam as she imagined the toothbrush scrubbing up, down, up, down. Her mind leapt to a vision of the two of them entwined in his sheets, moving in the same driving rhythm.
She wrenched her thoughts back to the present, guilt scalding her cheeks, and snuck another glance at him. Had he guessed the direction of her thoughts?
The lamp light reflected from his eyes, making green flames dance within them. He'd just licked his lips, and they glistened, moist and kissable. She hungered for their touch against hers.
"Yes, I should be in bed," she blurted. "I mean, I should be asleep. Asleep in my bed. That's what I meant. Good night."
She stood and hurried from the room. If he hadn't guessed what she'd been fantasizing about, her last little speech would have given it away. She might be too embarrassed to go to the hospital with him tomorrow.
The hospital. The obvious explanation for her unusual reactions calmed her. She was frightened. Her strong attraction to him was a result of fear heightening her senses. Everything would be clearer in the morning. Once the procedure was finished and her fears dispelled, he'd stop affecting her so strongly. The morning seemed a long time away, however. It would be a very long night.
Desmond watched her flee the room. Now maybe his equilibrium would return. Her reaction to his comment had sent him reeling. She'd broadcast her interest and availability as clearly as if she'd shouted through a megaphone.
Suddenly, all he could think about was tearing her clothes off, and seeing her bathed by the light of the moon. He pictured carrying her into his bedroom and falling with her into the mound of blankets and silken sheets. He wanted to bury himself inside her, to lose himself completely in her. The only problem was, he didn't know who'd imagined that first, him or Rebecca.
He'd never come so close to completely abandoning his identity before, and it frightened him. He kept a tight control over his thoughts and feelings, ever vigilant for the sort of destructive, self-indulgent behavior that led to his father's suicide. If his father hadn't used his wealth and position to all but rape Philippe's mother, there never would have been a curse.
That was one of the reasons Desmond had sworn to never use his mental powers to satisfy his needs without a person's willing consent. He'd meant his cursed needs. But his need for Rebecca was all human, all male. If he made love to her, he knew she would be willing. It would be what they both wanted. But it wouldn't be right.
If he cou
ld only put a name to what he was feeling, he wouldn't be so concerned. It wasn't desire, although he certainly desired Rebecca. No, after 150 years he'd become familiar with all the nuances of desire, both human and cursed. This was something more.
It wasn't love. He loved Gillian, had loved his wife, even loved his half-brother, Philippe. Each love was different, and what he felt for Rebecca was like none of them.
No, what he felt for her was something completely new. A hunger to merge his thoughts with hers, to absorb her feelings into him, to see through her eyes and taste with her lips. He didn't understand it. But he had to have her. And with every taste, with every glimpse, his need grew stronger.
He could stretch her visit out a few more days, claiming that she wouldn't be fit for travel. He'd use those days to convince her that she couldn't live without him. Because he was afraid in that time, he'd find out he couldn't live without her.
THE NEXT MORNING as Gillian attacked her cereal, he slipped off to Rebecca's room to wake her.
The sight of Rebecca, her long limbs tangled in the sheets, rekindled all the desires he'd banked the night before. He wanted to fall upon her and lose himself in her wonders. He ached to join himself to her, to empty himself into her and to fill himself from her. The new sensations tore at him, and he clutched the door frame until splinters pierced his fingers.
She woke with a gasp, and rearranged the sheets to conceal herself from his gaze.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
"I came to wake you. We'll be leaving shortly."
"Thank you."
He turned away, leaving tiny drops of blood on the door frame. Of course, she spotted the stains.
