And shit, he was such a Neanderthal, but the idea he was the only one who'd put his hand where it was was erotic as hell.
"How's this feel?" he asked, tuning things up a little.
"God... Butch." She arched wildly on the bed, her head kicking back so that her neck bent in a lovely upward curve.
His eyes latched on to her throat, and the strangest instinct went through him: He wanted to bite her. And his mouth opened like he was prepared to do just that.
Cursing, he shrugged off the bizarre impulse.
"Butch... I ache."
"I know, baby. I'm going to take care of that." He latched on to her breast with his mouth and started to touch her seriously, finding a rhythm with the stroking, being careful to stay on the outside so she didn't get thrown.
Turned out he was the one who got tossed. The friction and the feel of her and the scent of it all snowballed on him until he realized he was shadow-pumping her, pushing his hips into the mattress in tempo with his hand. As his head fell between her br**sts because he couldn't hold it up anymore, he knew he had to stop the c**k massage he was giving himself. He needed to pay attention to her.
He looked up. Her eyes were wide and a little frightened. She was just on the verge and she was getting rattled.
"All right, baby, it's okay." He didn't stop working between her legs.
"What's happening to me?"
He put his mouth to her ear. "You're about to come. Just let yourself feel it. I'm right here, I've got you. Hold on to me."
Her hands bit into his arms and as her nails drew blood, he smiled, thinking that was so perfect.
Her hips tilted up sharply. "Butch..."
"That's it. Come for me."
"I can't... I can't..." She shook her head back and forth, getting trapped between what her body wanted and what her mind was having trouble assimilating. She was going to lose the momentum unless he did something fast.
Without even thinking or knowing why it would help, he buried his face in her throat and bit her, right over her jugular. That was what did it. She cried out his name and started convulsing, her hips jerking, her body flexing all along her spine. With profound joy, he helped her ride the orgasm's pulses and he talked to her the whole time - although God only knew what he was saying.
When she'd come down, he lifted his head from her neck. Between her lips, he saw the tips of her fangs and was struck by a compulsion he couldn't fight. He pushed his tongue into her mouth and licked at the sharp points, feeling them rasp over his flesh. He wanted them in his skin... he wanted her to suck at him, fill her belly, live off of him.
He forced himself to stop and the retreat was so damn hollow. He strained from unmet needs and they weren't all sexual. He needed... things from her, things he didn't understand.
Her eyes opened. "I didn't know... it would be like that."
"Did you like it?"
Her smile was enough to make him forget his own name. "Oh, yes."
He kissed her gently, then rearranged her skirts and did up the buttons of her bodice, rewrapping the gift of her body. Easing her into the crook of his arm, he got good and comfortable. She was fading into sleep already and he was so damned content to watch her slide. It just seemed like the perfect thing to do, to stay awake while she rested, to watch over her.
Although for some reason, he wished he had a weapon.
"I can't keep my eyes open," she said.
"Don't even try."
He stroked some of her hair and thought, in spite of the fact that in about ten minutes he was going to have the worst case of blue balls known to mankind, that everything was right in his world.
Butch O'Neal, he thought, you have found your woman.
Chapter Twelve
"He does so look like his grandfather." Joyce O'Neal Rafferty leaned over the crib and tucked the blanket around her three-month-old son. This debate had been on going since his birth, and she was tired of it. Her son clearly took after her father.
"No, he looks like you."
As Joyce felt her husband's arms wrap around her middle, she fought the need to pull away. He didn't seem to mind the baby weight, but it made her anxious as hell.
Hoping to get him focused elsewhere, she said, "So on Sunday you have a choice. You can either handle Sean by yourself or you can pick up Mother. What do you want to do?"
He dropped his hold on her. "Why can't your father get her from the nursing home?"
"You know Dad. He doesn't deal with her all that well, especially in the car. She'll get agitated, he'll get frustrated with her, and we'll have a mess at the baptism when they get there."
Mike's chest rose and fell. "I think you better deal with your mother. Sean and I will be fine. Maybe one of your sisters can come with us?"
"Yeah. Colleen, maybe."
They were silent a while, just watching Sean breathe.
Then Mike said, "Are you going to invite him?"
She wanted to curse. In the O'Neal family, there was only one "him." Brian. Butch. The "him." Of the six children Eddie and Odell O'Neal had had, two of them had been lost. Janie had been murdered, and Butch had basically disappeared after high school. The latter had been a blessing, the first a curse.
"He won't come,!"
"You should invite him anyway."
"If he shows up, Mother will become unglued."
Odell's rapidly escalating dementia meant she sometimes thought Butch was dead and that was why he wasn't around. Her other option for dealing with the loss was making up crazy stories about him. Like how he was running for mayor down in New York. Or how he was going to medical school. Or how he was his father's son and that was why Eddie couldn't stand him. All of which were nuts. The first two for obvious reasons and the third because while it was true Eddie had never liked Butch, Eddie had never particularly liked any of his children.
"You should invite him anyway, Joyce. This is his family."
"Not really."
Last time she'd talked to her brother had been... God, at her wedding five years ago? And no one else had seen or heard much from him since then, either. Word in the family had it that her father had gotten a message from Butch back in... August? Yeah, end of summer. He'd given a number he could be reached at, but that was about it.
Sean let out a little whiffle through his nose.
"Joyce?"
"Oh, come on, he won't show if I ask him."
"So you get the credit for putting the offer out and won't have to deal with him. Or maybe he'll surprise you."
"Mike, I'm not calling him. Who needs more drama in this family?" Like her mother being crazy and having Alzheimer's wasn't enough of a problem?
She made a show of checking her watch. "Hey, is CSI on?"
With determination, she pulled her husband out of the nursery, distracting him from things that were none of his business.
Marissa wasn't sure what time it was when she woke up, but she knew she'd been asleep for a long while. As her eyes opened, she smiled. Butch was out cold and crowding her at her back, his thick thigh between her legs, his hand cupping her breast, his head in her neck.
As she rolled over slowly and faced him, her eyes drifted down his body. The sheet he'd pulled up earlier had slid off him, and underneath the thin hospital gown, something thick rested at his hips. Good Lord... an erection. He was aroused.
"What you looking at, baby?" Butch's low voice was mostly gravel.
She jumped and glanced up. "I didn't know you were awake."
"I never went to sleep. Been watching you for hours." He pulled the sheet back into place and smiled. "How you doing?"
"Good."
"You want we call for some break - "
"Butch." Exactly how was she going to put this? "Males do what you made me do, right? I mean, last night when you were touching me."
He flushed and tugged at the sheet. "Yeah, we do. But you don't need to worry about that."
"Why?"
"Just don't have to."
"Would you let me look at you?" She nodded at his hips. "Down there?"
He coughed a little. "You want that?"
"Yes. God, yes... I want to touch you there."
With a soft curse, he muttered, "What happens might shock you."
"I was shocked when your hand was between my legs. Is it shocking like that? In that good kind of way?"
"Yeah." His hips shifted, as if they'd rotated on the base of his spine. "Jesus... Marissa."