Hillary wanted to believe that, too. But as the day progressed, she felt as if someone were breathing down her neck. Matthew seemed oddly out of sorts, too, and more than once, Hillary saw him staring at he as if he wanted to devour her.
That night, the rain worsened. It was coming down in great sheets, filling the drive and the yard with great pools of water. Hillary and Matthew had hardly spoken since that afternoon. Hillary felt exhausted, unable to even carry on a conversation. She made sandwiches for them, and as they sat down at the table to eat, something brushed against her leg.
“That cat again,” she said.
“What?”
“That cat. I felt it against my—” Something or someone grabbed Hillary’s leg and she cried out, jumping up from the table.
“Hillary, what is it?” Matthew demanded, but her reply was lost in the flickering of the lights. Outside, a blinding flash of lightning hit the old oak tree. Even as it was happening, Hillary knew there was something terribly wrong—the lights had flickered before the lightning struck.
And in the next moment, the house was plunged into darkness.
“Here’s a flashlight,” Matthew said, finding her hand and thrusting it into her hand. “I’ll go look at the breakers.”
“Matthew, wait—”
But he’d had already gone. Unsteadily, Hillary started for the hallway. She made it as far as the foyer, her whole body trembling with an unearthly fear. “Matthew?” she called out, but the rain made it too hard to hear.
She heard a noise at the door and jerked toward it. The front door flew open, banging against the wall. At the same moment, something brushed past her. Hillary jumped back, knocking up against the wall.
She saw her then, the apparition of a woman with wet hair, rushing up the stairs. Hillary screamed.
“Hillary!” Matthew shouted. She saw the light of his flashlight rushing from the opposite end of the house toward her. But she heard footsteps behind her, too, and bolted for her husband.
“I saw her! I saw her, Matthew—she went up!”
Matthew looked up the stairs. He let Hillary go and raced up, taking the steps two at a time. Hillary ran after him. Matthew marched down the hall to the room at the end of the hall and threw the door open just as another bolt of lightning hit and illuminated the room. Hillary saw what Matthew saw then—the woman hovering above their bed.
She screamed and grabbed his arm; a rush of icy cold hit her squarely in the face, and a sour smell permeated the room. The rain sounded louder, and Hillary looked to the windows. “Look!” she cried, pointing. The windows were open.
Matthew started for the window, but as he moved, an icy cold invaded Hillary’s body, passing through her. She gasped at the sensation; in the next moment, she suddenly felt on fire. Matthew whirled around and looked at her. His chest was heaving with his breath. His ravenous gaze raked over her and that thing, that hot, lusting thing, was swirling through Hillary, and she held out her hand to her husband. He dropped his flashlight and walked to her in the dark, taking her face in his hands, kissing her hard on the lips.
He lifted his head and pressed his forehead to hers. “I want you,” he said, his voice deep. “Now. This moment. Say that you want me, Hillary. Say it.”
“I want you. Desperately.” She looked at his mouth, his lips. He was a powerfully magnetic, desirable man. “Make love to me, Matthew,” she moaned.
Matthew grabbed her up in his arms. His lips found hers as he stooped to pick her up, moving to the bed and depositing her there. The ghosts, the storm, the lights—everything ceased to be of importance. Nothing mattered but this, of knowing her husband again.
Matthew crushed her to him as if he was afraid she would fly away if he let go. Hillary didn’t recognize them—the passion, so absent from their marriage in the last months, flared and erupted between them. The touch of his lips jolted her every bone. She was scorching with need and grabbed for him, filling her hands with his flesh. They quickly removed their clothing, desperate to feel each other’s skin, clinging to the warmth of their lips.
The staccato of the rain seemed to grow; it thrashed the house as hunger thrashed between Hillary and Matthew, all coming together in a perfect storm of sensation.
Hillary’s heart pumped furiously; she eagerly explored his mouth with hers, his body with her hands as if she’d never known it, her fingers dragging through his hair, stroking his face, cupping his chin.
Matthew’s mouth moved over her, exploring, as his hands caressed her. His body moved lower, his lips searing her skin in their wake. He took her breast in his mouth and a white-hot shiver of anticipation shimmered down her spine. His hand swept the swell of her hips, and he pushed the hard ridge of his erection against her.
Hillary’s breath grew ragged.