Stranger on the Shore Page 14

  “What do you like?”

  Griff made a face. “Anything, I guess.” He was not good at talking about sex. That was one of the things that had always pissed Levi off. But it embarrassed Griff to talk about coming and, er, going. What was there to say, really? He was experienced enough, but no one would call him sophisticated. He tried to concentrate on pleasing his partner and enjoying himself. Wasn’t that pretty much it?

  “Anything?” Pierce teased.

  Well, no. Not anything actually. It must have showed in a line of worry between Griff’s brows because Pierce’s expression grew quizzical. He swiveled his hips in a grinding motion and Griff gasped and arched up against him.

  “You like that?”

  Griff nodded. He did. He liked the warmth of their naked bodies, the pulse of their cocks diving heavily against each other, the weight and the pressure and the tension. It all felt great, and it was going to feel even better unless Pierce got too fancy, too tricky.

  Pierce’s flat nipples were rosy brown points against the tanned, hard planes of his chest. Griff lifted his head and licked at them. Pierce sucked in a sharp breath.

  Griff closed his lips around one tiny point. He sucked hard and Pierce’s arms trembled. He whispered, “Nice. That’s nice. Do that some more.”

  Griff smiled inwardly and applied himself. He knew a few things about the proper use of tongues and lips—they weren’t only useful for talking.

  Pierce shifted, rocking up, and Griff scooted down, kissing and licking until he found the satiny dip of Pierce’s navel. Pierce quivered, his breath coming in harsh gasps, anticipating. Griff stole a quick look at his face.

  Pierce’s eyes were closed, his lashes dark and curling and trembling against his high cheekbones. His beard was blue-black and heavy at this time of the evening. His mouth looked curiously vulnerable. Griff wanted to kiss it, but maybe that was too personal now.

  Instead he slid an arm around Pierce’s waist, flipping him over. Pierce made a surprised sound, but went with it, falling onto his back, laughing a little. His cock, long and straight, jutted up all flushed and needy. Griff closed his mouth over the swollen head and devoted himself to answering that need.

  He liked the sounds Pierce was making, and the way Pierce’s hips pushed up to meet him. He liked this feeling of power.

  Pierce shuddered, panted, “You’re going to make me come.”

  Griff’s mouth was full, he couldn’t speak, he just nodded agreement.

  Pierce groaned a soft protest, though it was as much a yielding, encouraging sound. There wasn’t any stopping that train, Griff knew from experience. Pierce’s skin and hair smelled a fainter variety of that spicy cologne mingled with the musky scent of sex. He tasted salty but with a promise of sweetness.

  Pierce’s hand found Griff’s head, fingers locking in his hair in half caress, half insistence. Griff tongued and teased, always returning to that deep, delicious drag of hot, wet friction. He took his time, drawing it out, making it last as long as possible for Pierce.

  “Oh God,” Pierce said. “You...” The strangled words stopped and he went rigid, and then he was coming in white spumes like a champagne bottle shaken hard and smashed open. Too much and too hard for Griff to swallow, even if they’d known each other well enough to exchange premium bodily fluids. He laughed and wiped his forehead, enjoying the shocked magnitude of Pierce’s orgasm.

  “Where the hell did you come from?” Pierce said, when he had breath to speak again. He pulled Griff down beside him, rolling over so that Griff was wrapped tightly in his arms. “I can’t believe you did that.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Why?” Pierce sounded honestly bewildered. Clearly this was not something he gave easily or often or maybe ever. His loss. He drew back, stared at Griff with dark intensity, his hand slipping down between the moist crevices of their bodies.

  Griff closed his eyes as Pierce’s fingers closed around him. It was an awkward angle, but Pierce’s touch was warm and experienced. His palm was slick from his own release, his grip firm without crushing or bending.

  “I didn’t even think you liked me,” Pierce muttered after a time, as though he’d been thinking it over.

  It hurt more than it should have. Nothing could have made it clearer that liking wasn’t part of this, that Pierce probably didn’t like him, that it was just another physical activity. Like squash. And sexual curiosity. Which really was fine. Not like Griff was looking for love. But he did like Pierce. Even if he hadn’t quite worked out yet why.

  Since he couldn’t answer that without looking like a fool, he kept his eyes closed and faked a smile.

  Pierce’s hand moved briskly, efficiently, pleasurably up and down his cock, and Griff made himself focus on that skillful application of friction and speed. Yep, Pierce knew his stuff. He shoved into Pierce’s grip, cooperating, making it good—better—because it was good. Nothing not to appreciate in excellent technique.

  He pushed further, harder, strained for it. And there it was. His whole body seized, hung motionless between utter emptiness and complete delight, and then he plunged down into shivering, overwhelming sensation. A few seconds of such sweet happiness when everything really seemed okay, like everything could and would work out for the best. He tucked the feeling away inside, dimly aware that Pierce, having used tissue from the box on the nightstand to deal swiftly, efficiently with the mess, was holding him again.

  He opened his eyes and smiled at Pierce.

  Pierce was watching him, his expression odd. “Well, hell,” he said very softly.

  “That was great,” Griff assured him.

  Pierce kissed his brow, rested his forehead against Griff’s. They exchanged quiet breaths. “I feel like I should apologize,” Pierce whispered finally.

  “Huh?” Griff laughed uneasily and moved away. Getting a little distance, a little perspective.

  Was he supposed to grab his clothes and take off now? He wasn’t sure. How did guys like Pierce, guys who had sex with people they didn’t like, handle this part? He was definitely out of his league.

  The worst part was, he didn’t want to go. He knew he should, but he was still watching Pierce, waiting for his cue. And of course the problem was, the minute he really looked at Pierce he was instantly distracted by lust and longing.

  Every inch of Pierce’s body was tanned and taut until you got to the sharp white line of where his silk briefs—silk briefs—fit. He was not waxed. There was a sexy swirl of sable on his chest and a silky black tangle at his groin. Dark hair feathered his muscular arms and long legs, and somehow it seemed all the more masculine on someone so polished, so groomed.

  Pierce was giving away nothing, unfortunately. His expression had fallen back into its usual unrevealing lines. He flopped over onto his front, resting his head on his arms as though they were lying on a beach. The bed was as big as a beach, for sure.

  He didn’t say anything, but Griff was pretty sure Pierce could let him know without saying a word if he wanted him to leave. He studied the long line of Pierce’s naked back, surprised to note that way down in the velvety dip of the sacral region was a small, graceful tattoo. A pair of wings floated over the inked word ZION.

  “Zion?” Griff asked.

  Pierce muttered something into his folded arms.

  “What?”

  “Youthful mistake.”

  “Ah. I remember my first beer too.”

  Pierce turned his head, smiling. “That joke is older than you are.”

  “So you’re Jewish?”

  Pierce opened his mouth. Said only, “Protestant. You?”

  “Agnostic.” Griff reached over and daringly traced the black outline of feathers. “Former park ranger in Utah?”

  “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

  “I’m a
reporter. I keep an open mind. It’s part of my job description.”

  Pierce’s smile grew cynical. He glanced at the clock next to the bed. “I’ve got a busy day tomorrow. You mind if we sleep?”

  “No.” Griff closed his eyes. “Night,” he said politely.

  The light snapped out and he felt the dark drop down on them.

  “Good night,” Pierce said.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A child was screaming.

  A high, thin, terrified scream shattering the night like a fist through a mirror. And over the terrified wail a man was speaking, his voice raised in an effort to be heard, yet straining to stay calm, to reassure.

  “Griff? Griffin. Can you hear me? Listen to me. You’re all right.”

  Wait. What? He knew that voice. What was happening? He had been sleeping. Deeply asleep...

  “Griff, it’s okay.” And now the voice sounded desperate. “You’re okay. Wake up now. You’re all right. Everything’s all right.”

  Wait. Was that—?

  Griff opened his eyes and the crazy, sliding kaleidoscope of dream and memory snapped back into place. He was in a strange bed in a strange room and a stranger was speaking to him over and over, the disembodied voice sounding shaken in the dark.

  “I’m okay,” Griff rasped. His throat felt raw. He was winded, out of breath as if he’d been swimming miles beneath the ocean. His heart still thundered in his ears with the strain of trying to get to the surface. He was drenched. With sweat.

  “Jesus.” The bedside lamp flicked on. Pierce stood beside the bed, naked and beautiful and bewildered in the muted light. Ink-black eyes, ink-black scrollwork on his chest and groin. He said roughly, “What the hell was that?”

  Griff put his hand up as though to shield his eyes. Mostly he didn’t want Pierce to see whatever his face revealed. Too much, whatever it was. His voice cracked as he said, “I don’t know. I’m sorry.” But of course he knew. Night terrors. He hadn’t had one in years, but they had been a regular part of his childhood. Once upon a time he rarely made it through the night without screaming down the house.

  “We’ll be lucky if the police don’t show up.” Pierce glanced at the phone as though expecting the SWAT team negotiator to ring any second. “You sounded like you were being murdered.”

  Griff put his hand down. “I’m sorry. Really. I didn’t know I was doing it.”

  “Believe me, that did not escape my notice.” He was still watching Griff as warily as if Griff was something dangerous. “What the hell were you dreaming?”

  “I don’t...”

  “You have to remember something!”

  Griff winced, and Pierce made an obvious effort to modulate his voice. “You must remember something. Try to think.”

  How strange. He had never been asked to remember before. In fact, he had been told to forget it, put it away, think of happy things, safe things. He stared up at Pierce. He didn’t know where to begin. How to begin.

  Maybe that showed because after a moment, Pierce sat gingerly on the side of the bed. His black brows formed a single forbidding line, but he was still using that careful voice. “It was a dream. It can’t hurt you. Try to think. Is there some mental picture, some image you recall?”

  Griff closed his eyes. Tried his best to remember. His stomach churned as he zoomed in on...not what had terrified him but how that terror felt...how he had felt...desperate, helpless, lost, powerless. The feelings were what lingered. The images were only a confusing blur. They didn’t make sense. They weren’t clear...

  No. One image stood out. He nearly laughed because it was ridiculous. In the nightmare it hadn’t been funny.

  “What?” Pierce said.

  Griff turned to meet his eyes. “The mechanical bird.”

  “The what?”

  “There’s an old clock in the library at Winden House. It’s a mechanical bird in a cage. It sings at five o’clock.”

  “I remember that clock,” Pierce said slowly.

  “In my dream the bird was saying something to me, but I couldn’t understand it.”

  Pierce seemed to consider this. Finally, he said, “What do you think it was saying?”

  “Huh?”

  “What do you think the bird was trying to say to you?”

  Griff laughed shakily. “‘Cocktails, anyone?’ How the heck should I know what the bird was trying to say?”

  “It’s your dream.”

  Griff gave another uncertain laugh. He scrubbed his face with his hands, feeling the roughness of his beard, the moisture on his eyelashes. The hair at his temples was wet too. Jeez. He shook his head.

  “Take your time,” Pierce said.

  The only thing weirder than the fact that he was sitting in Pierce Mather’s bedroom talking about his nightmares was the fact that Pierce apparently wanted to analyze his nightmares. There was a lawyer’s mind for you.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Were you afraid because of what you thought the bird was trying to say or because you couldn’t understand what the bird was trying to say?”

  “I’m not sure.” He grinned crookedly. “It’s a great question though.”

  Pierce was still frowning.

  Griff made himself ask, “Do you want me to go?” He truly hoped Pierce would say no because he dreaded the idea of being alone. Not to mention he felt more tired now than when he’d first fallen asleep. But he wouldn’t blame Pierce for wanting an undisturbed rest of his night.

  “Do you think it’s going to happen again?” Pierce questioned.

  “I don’t think so. I honestly don’t know. It hasn’t happened in years. Not since I was a kid.”

  “You used to get these dreams when you were a kid?”

  Griff nodded.

  “A lot?”

  “I guess.”

  “Didn’t your mother take you to a doctor or a—a—”

  “Shrink?”

  “Hell yeah, a shrink. I’d think a shrink was in order if it was my kid going through that every night.”

  “She didn’t believe in doctors.”

  Pierce’s brows shot up and then returned to that now familiar unibrow. “No doctors?”

  Griff shrugged. He knew by now how odd his childhood sounded to other people, but growing up it had seemed normal enough. “I didn’t get sick. I mean, I got the usual things. The measles and mumps. I never broke a bone or anything like that.”

  Pierce continued to scrutinize him like it was Mather v. Hadley, with a landmark decision at stake. At last he shook his head. “No. You don’t need to go. It’s almost dawn anyway.” He climbed back between the sheets, stretched out with a sigh. He glanced at Griff and raised the blankets in invitation.

  Griff cautiously edged back over. He was surprised and even a little grateful when Pierce wrapped an arm around him, pulling him closer.

  “Comfortable?” Pierce’s breath was warm.

  Griff nodded, shifted, rested his head in the surprisingly accommodating curve of Pierce’s neck. He sighed.

  “You’re sure you’re twenty-seven?” Pierce sounded faintly amused.

  “Twenty-seven and a half,” Griff replied drowsily.

  “When’s your birthday?”

  “June twenty-six.”

  Pierce said nothing. Or Griff didn’t hear it because he was already asleep.

  * * *

  When he woke again it was to the sound of Pierce’s alarm clock. Nature sounds. The rhythmic sweep of the ocean. Pierce was warmly spooned against his back, and Griff came back to awareness feeling warm and irrationally happy.

  He was still absorbing the surprise of that as he felt Pierce waking, blinking back to alertness. He recognized the exact moment Pierce remembered who he was with, and the with
drawal was immediate. Pierce used a gigantic yawn and stretch to move away and put some distance between them.

  “Morning.” Griff was already rolling out of bed, on his feet. He found his jeans where he’d kicked them off.

  Pierce scrambled out of the nest of sheets and blankets. “Hell. I’m late.”

  “Thanks for letting me stay last night.” Griff didn’t look at Pierce. He had a pretty good idea of how much Pierce did not enjoy waking up to morning afters.

  “Of course. Do you mind if I say goodbye now and jump in the shower?”

  Friendly but brisk, as expected. He didn’t have to worry. Griff didn’t have a lot of experience at this kind of thing, but he had enough.

  “No worries. I’ll let myself out.” Griff fastened his jeans and smiled across at Pierce. “I had a nice time. Screaming fits aside.”

  Pierce relaxed enough to give a small laugh. “Screaming fits aside, me too.” He hesitated and then disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door firmly.

  The sound of the surf continued to ebb and flow, drowning out the sound of the shower.

  Griff grabbed his shirt and flapped into it as he trotted downstairs. His keys and wallet were still in his jeans pocket. He let himself out quietly.

  * * *

  Winden House appeared to be genteelly slumbering beneath a silvery blanket of morning fog when Griff got back to the Arlington estate. He parked in the star courtyard and walked down to the guest cottage. Today there was no Chloe jogging, no Marcus practicing his golf swing, no sign of anyone but Nels Newland using a hedge trimmer in the farthest square of the sunken garden. The angry buzz seemed to bounce off the wall of trees and shrubs.

  Griff walked on, lost in thought. Early in the evening he had considered telling Pierce about the weird phone call he’d received and his suspicion that the bridge had been sawn through, but he hadn’t been able to decide, and then he’d gotten distracted. He wasn’t sure now if that maybe wasn’t for the best.

  From the beginning he had pretty much been working from the angle that Johnson was the kidnapper, perhaps—though probably not—working with an accomplice on the estate. Partly that was because until he’d seen the police files he hadn’t realized there were any viable alternative theories.