Chapter Sixteen
“No,” I said firmly. Murphy could not be dead. I wouldn’t let him be.
I rolled him onto his back, put my fingertips to the pulse point just beneath his chin. His hair, soft and free, drifted across my wrist. I closed my eyes, concentrated, and felt the featherlight flutter of a pulse.
“Halleluj ah,” I whispered, leaning down to press my cheek against his chest. He wore no shirt and his skin was slightly clammy.
Though I’d felt a pulse, I couldn’t hear a heartbeat, maybe because my own was beating far too loud and fast in my ears.
I sat back. His chest rose and fell with slow, shallow breaths. Perhaps too slow and too shallow; he seemed almost drugged.
“Murphy!” I slapped his cheeks lightly.
Nothing.
I glanced around for some water to toss in his face.
Again, nothing.
How had he gotten here? Why had he stayed? Unless he’d been drugged from the beginning.
I shook him, pinched his arm, smacked the bottom of his feet, everything I’d ever heard of to wake someone up, but he didn’t and I began to get scared. What if he was dying?
“Help,” I muttered.
Leaning over, I lifted one of his eyelids, trying to see if his pupils were fixed, but it was too dark to tell. I sighed and let my head droop until we were nose to nose.
“Come on, Murphy,” I murmured, and his eyes opened, staring directly into mine.
I yelped and straightened so fast my spine cracked. I tried to skitter backward, but he sat up as if he’d been j abbed with a cattle prod, then grabbed me by the arms, dragging me across his lap.
“What—?” was all I managed before he kissed me.
Since I was damn glad to see him, too, I didn’t struggle; I didn’t want to. He was real, he was alive, and man, could he kiss.
He tasted like licorice, sweet and dark, as his tongue teased my lips, then dipped inside to explore.
Sighing, I let him, wrapping my arms around his neck and holding on.
His skin was still cool, but his hands warmed as he trailed them up my arms, then back down, settling at my waist and shifting me so I rolled over his erection. Together we moaned, the sound vibrating against our j oined lips, making mine tingle.
My fingers tangled in the hair at his nape, pressing him closer, angling his head so I could experience every nuance of his mouth.
The broad, bare expanse of his chest gave off a chill, and I ran my hands across it, rubbing back and forth, trying to warm him. My thumbs were drawn to his hardened nipples, brushing over them once, twice, three times.
As if in answer his palms swept from my hips, up my ribs, to my breasts, unfettered beneath the loose cotton blouse. His thumbs ran over the peaks in the same stroking rhythm.
“Cassandra,” he murmured against my mouth. “I thought you were dead.”
We’d both been under the same misconception, which only made what we were doing more a celebration of life than usual. I’d been so frightened, so alone; I had to be with him right now; then I could put every fear and loneliness behind.
I wiggled, uncomfortable. Our angle was all wrong. I attempted to swing my leg across his and straddle him, but my skirt got tangled with my knees. Cursing impatiently, I yanked the thing above my waist and settled across his lap, pressing us intimately together.
He leaned against the outer wall, eyes closed, hair tangled. I ran my hands across his chest again, down his arms, tracing a fingertip below the waistband of his pants.
His lips quirked; one eye opened. Reaching out, he took a fistful of my blouse and yanked me forward, pressing our mouths together again.