Dark of the Moon. Susan Krinard
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Dorian allowed her to steer him toward the door but stopped on the threshold.
“What time is it?”
“Why does that…Oh, of course. Your sensitivity to sunlight.” She checked her watch. “It should be just about dark by now.”
He didn’t move. “Think, Gwen. Consider what you’re doing.”
“I have.” She took a firmer grip on his arm and supported him along the corridor, feeling her way, dodging rats and cockroaches that had emerged with the coming of night. When she stumbled over a pile of abandoned furniture, Dorian took the lead, though his pace was still carefully measured.
The night air, even in a place like Hell’s Kitchen, was sweet compared to the close, decaying atmosphere inside the condemned building. There were no taxis in the area, so Gwen half carried Dorian in the direction of Midtown. A few hooligans, seeing a woman and a crippled man, attempted to harass them, but Dorian turned his stare on the boys and they quickly absconded.
After a good half mile, Gwen spotted a taxi and managed to get the cabbie’s attention. She settled Dorian beside her in the backseat and braced him against the driver’s reckless speed and sudden turns until they were safely in front of her apartment building. She got out and assisted Dorian from the cab.
“You need help, lady?” the cabbie asked, examining Dorian with a frown.
“I can manage, thanks.” Gwen felt Dorian lean more heavily on her arm and knew he was at the end of his strength. With a last, determined effort, she hauled him up two flights of stairs to her door. She fumbled with the key, pushed the door open with her foot, and tugged Dorian through the tiny living room and into her bedroom.
Dorian made no protest as she dropped him onto the bed. He was breathing deeply, and his skin was very pale; fresh worry blossomed in her chest.
“You just stay right there and rest,” she said. “I’ll get something for you to drink, and a little food.”
He opened one bloodshot eye. “Water,” he said. “No food.”
“All right. But you’ll have to eat sooner or later.” Reluctantly she left him and hurried to the kitchen. Plain water hardly seemed enough. She settled on making him a cup of weak tea instead, and placed a half-dozen soda crackers on the saucer.
When she returned to the bedroom he seemed to be asleep, but his eyes were wide open and she had the uncanny impression that he really wasn’t sleeping at all. She set the teacup down and stood over the bed.
“Dorian?”
He didn’t respond. Once again Gwen considered calling a doctor, but she decided to wait a while and see how well he did on his own. He’d already made a miraculous recovery.
“I’ll have to get you out of those clothes,” she said, watching his face. Still nothing. Doing her best not to disturb him, she knelt and began to unbutton his shirt. It was stiff with blood and sweat, but she was finally able to ease it off his shoulders. Dorian didn’t stir, even when she lifted his head from the pillow. She threw the shirt into the corner of the room and paused to look for injuries.
Dorian’s chest, lightly dusted with dark hair, rose and fell steadily. For a man who had obviously been near starvation, he was in reasonably good shape; his ribs were prominent, but the sleek muscles of his torso were still intact.
Gwen bit her lower lip. There was no doubt that she’d always found him attractive. If she ignored the bruising that marked his upper body, she could only judge him beautiful: perfectly proportioned, strong, undeniably masculine. It would be easy to stand here staring at him for hours.
Retreating into a purely clinical state of mind, she unbuttoned his trousers. Halfway down, she could see he wasn’t wearing any drawers. And that was hardly the least of it. His…member was fully erect, straining against the fabric under her fingers.
Torn between curiosity and self-consciousness, Gwen hesitated. She’d never seen a naked man before, though she’d read enough about sex to know that there was nothing unusual in Dorian’s “equipment” except perhaps in size. He was quite…impressive.
Watching his face to make sure he was still unaware of her movements, Gwen finished unbuttoning him. His erection almost jumped into her hand. She stepped back, swallowed and tugged the trousers down his legs.
If Mitch could see me now…if he had any notion of the crazy thoughts going through my mind…
Dorian made a low sound and turned his head on the pillows. Gwen froze, but he sank back into unconsciousness immediately.
Gwen retreated to a chair and sat on the edge. He desperately needed a bath. She still didn’t know how many of the marks on his body were the result of injuries.
And oh, how she longed to touch him.
You think Dorian is crazy. How about you, Gwennie-girl? What do you think will happen if he wakes up to find you—
She could barely complete the thought. Her face was on fire, and she knew if she looked in the mirror she would see every freckle standing out in sharp relief. She shot up from the chair and rushed into the kitchen, where she found a bottle of whiskey she’d kept in a cupboard for ages. She poured herself a shot and downed it in a single gulp.
There were just some things even the most modern woman shouldn’t take lightly. Losing her virginity was one of them. And yet. And yet…
Gwen set her glass down with a bang and strode into the bathroom, selecting several towels and washcloths from the linen closet. She took a washbowl from underneath the sink, filled it with warm water, and carried it and the towels into the bedroom.
If it hadn’t been for the rise and fall of his chest, anyone might well have believed that Dorian was dead. Gwen knew otherwise; already he looked a thousand times better than he had when she’d found him. She set the washbowl on the bedside table and dipped one of the cloths into the water. She took a deep breath and laid the washcloth on Dorian’s shoulder. When he didn’t react, she stroked the cloth over his skin, working from the base of his neck to the bulge of his biceps.
The cloth came away soiled, but it was clear that Dorian’s injuries were not nearly as severe as she’d first feared. She began to wash the lower part of his arm, then moved to his chest. Her fingers strayed, drifting over the curve of his pectoralis. Even at the peak of health, Mitch wasn’t this well developed. Of course she’d never seen anything below his waist, but she had the feeling…
Her insides tightened as she moved lower. Dorian’s stomach was ridged and firm, though it was mottled with fading bruises. She swirled the washcloth around his navel, fascinated by the sculpted vee of muscle that plunged from hips to groin.
And then there were only two choices. She could make a jump to his legs, or touch him like a lover.
She closed her eyes and stroked the cloth downward. His cock—a vulgar word, but one that could hardly shock an experienced newswoman—had relaxed and was quiescent for perhaps twenty seconds before it began to swell again. Soon it lay flat against his stomach, surprisingly smooth from base to head. She touched it with her fingertip. It was as silky as it looked, yet hard and unyielding. It would do its job beautifully.
Wanton images crowded Gwen’s head. With infinite care she closed her fingers around him.
His hand shot out like a striking cobra and seized her wrist.
Half afraid of what she might see, she glanced at his face. If the man on the bed had been Mitch instead of Dorian, she would have expected a healthy dose of shock. He would have every reason to wonder when she’d adopted such a shameless attitude, what a good Catholic girl was doing handling a man’s private parts, even if that man wanted to make an honest woman of her.
But Mitch’s instincts were all male. He was impatient for their marriage because he wanted to share her bed. Whatever his momentary reservations, he wouldn’t be able to conceal