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With a backward glance, Magdalene stopped at the door and turned around. The vision that was Sam, standing forlorn, backlit by the moonlight, flushed and so damn tempting, all the while completely oblivious, it seemed, to her own effect on Magdalene–it was absolutely deadly.
So she lowered her voice to that register that had undone Sam in Manhattan, before indulging in one more inappropriate moment. After all, she was racking up so many, what was one more? “You shouldn’t doubt your effect on people, Sam Threadneedle. It is quite devastating when all is said and done.”
And just like that, with the whisper of Sam’s mouth still on her fingers, Magdalene left, running away from Sam and from herself.
* * *
Except,as it turned out, running from herself proved extremely difficult. For one, she didn’t have very far to go. Her quarters were in the same building. And secondly, the brightness of the hallways, now that the lights were back on, was just too much of an assault on her senses.
With the storm outside cutting all other avenues for distraction, Magdalene returned to her apartment. The cat, ever faithful now, sat in front of her door, his face a study of patience.
Once inside, Magdalene, like Sam in her own place, didn’t bother with the overhead lights and instead lit a candle, deciding it suited her mood better, before settling Willoughby on the pillow on the floor by her bed. She took her clothes off and slid on her satin robe, the material lush, caressing her skin—and doing absolutely nothing to quench the raw, abraded feeling she was left with after touching Sam.
A glance towards the bathroom told her what she needed, since sleep would be a long time coming with desire gnawing at her.
Magdalene let the robe fall to the floor, and stepped under the chilling spray of the shower, trying to empty her mind of the events of the day that just ran like a film, scenes, moments chasing each other, becoming a beehive of noise and anxiety in her mind.
Anger, worry, sadness, and most of all desire—sheer burning desire—tugged at her thoughts, and when she ran the loofa over her breasts, she knew she wouldn’t be able to escape herself tonight.
She reached over and turned the faucet to much warmer.
Decision made, there would be no need for the cold anymore. Her blood sung with need and anticipation. It had been too long. As her hands caressed her neck, moving slowly, her heart sped up with anticipation, and she thought back to the last time she’d touched herself. It had been an eternity ago, before Sam…Sam.
One word, one name, and the pulse under her fingertips spiked. Her breathing deepened, the hot water now scorching, lashing her with memory after memory of Manhattan.
Dammit.As she squeezed a nipple, hard then harder, she tried to dislodge the images rushing her. Hadn’t she just promised herself to not think of Manhattan anymore? Hadn’t she just told herself that Sam taking her apart over and over was never to be thought of again? That thinking about her mastering Magdalene entirely—before surrendering to her with equal abandon on her knees, completely defenseless and holding nothing back—simply had to stop?
Teasing her breasts was no longer enough; not when she couldn’t stop reliving the caresses, the kisses, the little nips and harder bites from that night. She closed her eyes, touching the place where one of those very bites had left a perfect imprint on her upper thigh. That mark had stayed with her for a week, and she’d touched it every single day, getting wet every time she did so.
Wet…With water falling around her, she slowly traced the outside of her lips, feeling the excitement, the pent up arousal coat her fingers, and could wait no more…
She’d teased herself too much. The day had worn her out and Sam had finally undone her. As her fingers circled tighter and tighter around her clit, she thought of that tongue as it had leisurely caressed her fingertips—the same tongue that had delved in and out, that had tormented her with flicks long and slow, short and quick, alternating, driving her mad. Mad enough that she’d begged, and she had never begged before.
She heard her own long moan, her thighs trembling, her orgasm near, and she allowed herself to finally plunge two fingers inside, remembering how Sam had destroyed her with that unerring precision of hitting her exactly where she needed it time and again in New York. On Dragons, it was one stroke, two and Magdalene came by her own hand.
If it was Sam’s name on her lips, she was quiet enough not to hear it. Or so she told herself.
13
OF ROTTEN FLOWERS & RE-OPENING WOUNDS
The flowers started showing up soon after…
The first arrangement was pretty well massacred. Roses. Black ones. Chopped within an inch of their lives. The note could have used more imagination, or so Magdalene thought at the time. She tried dismissing it as a prank. She really did. But that little something inside her that sensed the wolf’s eyes on her didn’t allow it. And so she’d feigned a lack of concern, despite her heart stilling for a bit and her hands trembling as she waved away her secretary.
George had been quite upset, but Magdalene merely instructed her to trash the vase and its contents.
The second bouquet wasn’t cut up as much as it was dried and mangled. The note was even more malicious, and she’d struggled to suppress her gasp when she read it. David Uttley had been with her, and she refused to give that man the satisfaction of seeing her flustered.
She did not like him. His obvious pursuit of Sam aside, she never dealt well with strange, silent types. And she had distinct difficulties setting his infatuation with Sam aside to begin with. So they mostly orbited each other from a distance.
Under no circumstances would she allow this particular man to see her fear. Not that she was scared. But the words coupled with the cruelty unleashed on the innocent plants were downright vicious.
Uttley gave her a long stare out of those bluish, strangely pale eyes when she placed the note in a clear plastic bag, but in his usual manner, said very little. Which creeped her out even more. Surely, one would have a comment one way or another when faced with such senseless violence. Yet apparently, David Uttley was unperturbed.
Even more strangely, after that, the notes stopped. The flowers, however, did not. Neither did other odd and disgusting surprises in the form of dead rats and assorted mangled critters.
Willoughby’s reaction to their appearance was always far worse than her own. Once, he’d simply dropped onto the ground in what Magdalene imagined was a feline form of fainting. So him being responsible for bringing her the spoils of war was out of the question.
