33
If you wanna find out what's behind these cold eyes,
you'll just have to claw your way through this disguise.
I turned. Crawford stood in his doorway, shirtless, the dim light casting him in silhouette. One shadowy hand beckoned me toward him.
I approached slowly, not knowing what to expect. His attitude bothered me. He'd been going from hot to cold, leaving me totally uncertain as to where I stood with him. That he wanted me was not in doubt. Whether it was as a man or as an operative, I really wasn't sure anymore.
He led me into his room and shut the door. I shivered a little, the pain still fresh enough to bother me.
In a low voice, he asked, "How are you feeling?"
"It hurts," I told him, suddenly not sure what we were talking about. "I took some ibuprofen. I'll live."
His eyes darkened as he strode toward me. For a moment I thought he was going to hit me, but instead he gripped my arms and crushed his lips against mine. That kiss was all about claiming, not passion; he imposed his will on me, and I complied.
I felt something inside me buckle and snap, setting free a silent cascade of tears: I would give him whatever he demanded of me, just like any other man at Rosenkreuz. I wanted to give him my heart, my soul, but this moment made me realize that I didn't own either of those to give anymore. Einmal Rosen, immer Rosen, und ich bin schuldig. We were both broken men.
Crawford pulled me against his chest, and I melted into him, lacking the will to move away. I could deny him nothing. Part of me knew where this was headed, and I tried hard not to listen to it. I loved this man, had loved him, would always love him, no matter the consequences. If I had to tell myself that love was returned, so be it. I wasn't ready to let go of the illusion just yet, if it were not real.
Strong hands tore at my clothes, removing them with haste and flinging them aside. His mouth devoured my throat, my collarbone, nipping and sucking, leaving an array of bruises like a necklace. I gasped at the pleasure of it, finally silencing the little internal voice that tried to plead reason with me. My hands tangled in Brad's hair as his teeth closed on my left nipple and I cried out.
He herded me toward the bed, unfastening his pants as we went. I stepped out of my jeans in time for him to shove me up onto the bare mattress; like my bed, his had been stripped of covers too. Brad took notice that I wore no underclothes and frowned sharply, as though accusing me of losing them somewhere.
Then he was on me, hard and strong and demanding. His hands gripped my hips, lifting me, then he thrust his full length into me, dry.
I tasted blood on my lip where I'd bit it, trying not to cry out. Tears seeped into my tangled hair as he thrust again, and again. I tried to touch his thoughts, to find some comfort there, but his shields held me at bay. He knew what I could do, and he was keeping me out. That distance hurt worst of all.
By the movement of his body, I knew he was already close. All I wanted was for him to finish, be done with me, let me alone, as if he were just another predator in the hallowed halls of hell.
Thick soft hair brushed across my face, then his lips pressed wetly against mine. He sucked softly at my cut lip, darted his tongue over the rough spot. The kiss was almost tender; in surprise I felt my mind flow against his shields again, and this time I felt a powerful tide rising within him, not one of sex but something foreign to me. This felt timeless and potent, unstoppable. It lifted my heart until I almost, almost understood.
Then Brad moaned into my mouth and came, thrusting hard and fast, his shields melting around me. My mind surged, though not so directly as that first time; I was too confused this night, too lost. Again I felt that amazing something within his mind, like a caress of destiny; distracted, my body responded to the overwhelming rush of sensations and I came hard, my legs wrapping tight about him and holding him right there, right there.
He gathered me into his arms, all ferocity and dominance gone now, replaced by something gentle and warm. His eyes shone darkly as though lit from within.
My mind whirled, trying to figure out what just happened. It had seemed like rape, but not, at the same time. That he had claimed me was not in doubt: I would wear the marks of his passion for days. I was familiar with violence; hell, everyone who's spent a day at Rosenkreuz knows it by name. And I was familiar with sex: it was my favorite weapon, and my favorite shield. But this, coming after the coldness of earlier and the mixed signals of the past weeks – this confused the hell out of me.
"Schuldig," Brad whispered, "don't ask. Whatever you're thinking right now, don't ask it."
I trembled. I had been about to ask him why.
His eyes darkened, and I realized he was weeping. I reached up to touch his cheek, to paint with the salty tears. He turned his head and caught my wet fingertips in his mouth. Brad closed his eyes, allowed the tears to stream freely, and suckled at my fingers.
I got a little excited again, in spite of the chaos of the night. Still deep within me, I could feel Brad growing hard again, too. I moaned. My legs trembled helplessly when I tried to pull him in deeper, though; every muscle in my body was complaining.
Brad leaned down and kissed me deeply, tenderly, before pulling partway out and gliding back in so very gently. He held me in his arms, kissing my face, my neck, hands buried in my hair.
Again my mind spun in confusion. First a rape that is not a rape, now this? What was he doing? Could he be crazier than Far?
He thrust, and I welcomed him. He reached between us and stroked my cock, paying special attention to the tender flesh normally hidden in the folds of foreskin. My back arched in erotic pleasure, all worries momentarily forgotten.
This time, he held motionless as he came, his eyes shut, every muscle taut. He was beautiful. He squeezed me and stroked, running his thumb around the head, and I came again, not so forcefully as before but with the same intense crash against his mind. His shields held fast, but I could still feel his pleasure and that nameless surge coursing through him like lightning.
Before the high of climax faded, he leaned down and murmured against my ear, "You're mine. I'll share if I have to, because that's part of who you are, but where it counts, you're mine." For a moment I felt a dark wind circling through his mind; then he strengthened his shields and the sensation was gone. "Never forget, and never doubt it, Schu. No matter what happens."
I gazed up into his eyes. I desperately wanted this to be something real, something pure. Something untainted by our pasts. "Brad," I whispered, "do you love me?"
His eyes went dark again, and cold, but not before I saw what could only be fear rush through their depths. Before he could speak, I pulled his head down and kissed him, fiercely, possessively. I didn't want to know what he was afraid of, when he thought of loving me. It didn't matter. As far as I was concerned, I had my answer, and for that I would endure anything.
A/N:
If you wanna find out what's behind these cold eyes,
you'll just have to claw your way through this disguise.
A direct continuation of the last chapter, there are things to be seen here… Remember: whatever else he is, Brad Crawford is the most powerful male precognitive Rosenkreuz has ever tangled with. You almost get the feeling he knows how this story is going to end…
Translation notes –
Einmal Rosen, immer Rosen, und ich bin schuldig. – Once of the Rose, always of the Rose, and I am guilty. (The first part referring to Rosenkreuz, the Rose Cross. Then, a moment of self-condemnation; if he'd meant his name, it would have been ich heiße Schuldig – I am called Schuldig.)