Read Online Blacklight Blue by Peter May - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Peter May
Tags: Mystery Fiction, Murder, Murder - Investigation, Murder—Investigation—Fiction, Fiction / Mystery & Detective / General, Cold cases (Criminal investigation), Enzo (fictitious character), MacLeod, Cahors (France), Enzo (Fictitious character)/ Fiction, Cold cases (Criminal investigation)/ Fiction
Ads: Link
an almost boyish figure. Her skin was clear and tanned and smooth, and she moved with an innate grace towards the bed, the sure-footed balance of the skier in every step, dropping her bra on the floor to reveal the curve of small, firm breasts with dark, succulent areolae. She kicked off her pants and he saw the thin strip of her Brazilian-waxed pubis below the belly. Then she released the clasp behind her head to let her hair tumble freely across square shoulders.
In all his wildest imagination, he could never have foreseen this when he boarded the train in Cahors yesterday. And yet there was something about it that felt just right. To make love to a stranger on the eve of his death. No promises made, and none to keep. Perhaps the last time he would ever make love to a woman.
But it wasn’t the sex, although she had succeeded in arousing powerful sexual instincts within him. It was the human contact. Skin on skin, the warmth of another person wrapped around him, comforting, consoling. A moment without past or future.
She straddled his chest, leaning over him, her breasts inches from his face, to release his hair and fan it out across the pillow. Then she dipped to kiss his forehead, his nose, his lips. Gentle, intimate kisses as if they had known each other all their lives. She ran fingertips through the hair on his chest, and slid down until her lips brushed his belly, and he felt the rush of blood to his loins. He ran his hands down her back, feeling smooth, firm muscles beneath his palms, and cupped full buttocks before turning her over, taking her by surprise, driven by sudden lust. She gasped as she felt his erection press hard against her belly, and he found her lips and tongue with his mouth to silence her. His fingers sought the soft, wet place between her legs, and grazed her repeatedly until she arched against him, and he slid down to bite her nipples and tease them with a darting tongue.
He felt her fingers digging into his back, and through palpitating breath heard her whisper, ‘Now. Please, now.’
When it was over, he was spent in a way he had never known before. Fatigued beyond reason, in body and mind. He wanted to weep, to tell her everything. About Kirsty and Sophie and Pascale. And the sentence of death which had been passed on him just yesterday. But these were secrets best kept. Secrets that he would carry with him to the grave.
She lay beside him, curled into his hip, her breath on his shoulder, her hand on his belly, and he felt her take comfort in him. She too, had her secrets. Stories she would never share. A sadness behind dark eyes that she would never breach. He leaned over to kiss her forehead before closing his eyes to slip away into an unexpectedly deep sleep.
Chapter Twelve
It was raining, as it always seems to be. He was at a funeral. A Gaelic funeral, like they have in Scotland, the coffin resting on the backs of two chairs set out in the street. He was one of the bearers, dressed all in black. The women watched as the coffin was lifted, and the long walk to the cemetery began. They would not follow, for the women were not allowed at the graveside.
As they came over the top of the hill, the bells of the church ringing in their ears, they saw the gravestones like so many cropped stocks on the machair below, and he couldn’t stop himself repeating the lines of the poem by John Donne,
And therefore send not to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee
.
Over and over, like a mantra, penetrating his soul.
The bearers were soaked through by now, and his hands had become wet and slippery. He found that he could no longer keep his grip. Again and again he moved his hands to try to secure a firmer hold on his corner of the coffin. But it was slipping away from him, heavy and awkward. He called for help, but it was too late. It slid from his shoulder and pitched forward to the hard earth. There was a loud crack, and the polished wooden box split open, spewing the dead man from
In all his wildest imagination, he could never have foreseen this when he boarded the train in Cahors yesterday. And yet there was something about it that felt just right. To make love to a stranger on the eve of his death. No promises made, and none to keep. Perhaps the last time he would ever make love to a woman.
But it wasn’t the sex, although she had succeeded in arousing powerful sexual instincts within him. It was the human contact. Skin on skin, the warmth of another person wrapped around him, comforting, consoling. A moment without past or future.
She straddled his chest, leaning over him, her breasts inches from his face, to release his hair and fan it out across the pillow. Then she dipped to kiss his forehead, his nose, his lips. Gentle, intimate kisses as if they had known each other all their lives. She ran fingertips through the hair on his chest, and slid down until her lips brushed his belly, and he felt the rush of blood to his loins. He ran his hands down her back, feeling smooth, firm muscles beneath his palms, and cupped full buttocks before turning her over, taking her by surprise, driven by sudden lust. She gasped as she felt his erection press hard against her belly, and he found her lips and tongue with his mouth to silence her. His fingers sought the soft, wet place between her legs, and grazed her repeatedly until she arched against him, and he slid down to bite her nipples and tease them with a darting tongue.
He felt her fingers digging into his back, and through palpitating breath heard her whisper, ‘Now. Please, now.’
When it was over, he was spent in a way he had never known before. Fatigued beyond reason, in body and mind. He wanted to weep, to tell her everything. About Kirsty and Sophie and Pascale. And the sentence of death which had been passed on him just yesterday. But these were secrets best kept. Secrets that he would carry with him to the grave.
She lay beside him, curled into his hip, her breath on his shoulder, her hand on his belly, and he felt her take comfort in him. She too, had her secrets. Stories she would never share. A sadness behind dark eyes that she would never breach. He leaned over to kiss her forehead before closing his eyes to slip away into an unexpectedly deep sleep.
Chapter Twelve
It was raining, as it always seems to be. He was at a funeral. A Gaelic funeral, like they have in Scotland, the coffin resting on the backs of two chairs set out in the street. He was one of the bearers, dressed all in black. The women watched as the coffin was lifted, and the long walk to the cemetery began. They would not follow, for the women were not allowed at the graveside.
As they came over the top of the hill, the bells of the church ringing in their ears, they saw the gravestones like so many cropped stocks on the machair below, and he couldn’t stop himself repeating the lines of the poem by John Donne,
And therefore send not to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee
.
Over and over, like a mantra, penetrating his soul.
The bearers were soaked through by now, and his hands had become wet and slippery. He found that he could no longer keep his grip. Again and again he moved his hands to try to secure a firmer hold on his corner of the coffin. But it was slipping away from him, heavy and awkward. He called for help, but it was too late. It slid from his shoulder and pitched forward to the hard earth. There was a loud crack, and the polished wooden box split open, spewing the dead man from
Similar Books
