Guy N. Smith Sabat 4 The Dru

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that much difference? It might. On the other hand it probably wouldn't. And he
was already becoming aroused.
Sheenah was not waiting. Bent over him her lips were brushing his own, then
her tongue was flicking at the lobe of an ear, her slim fingers stroking his
chest, going lower . . . and lower.
Long before she transferred her attentions to the lower half of his body,
Sabat's mind was made up. Or rather, he accepted that there was no way he was
going to be able to break off and go in search of Kent. His whole body
vibrated, his hands going up to her breasts, teasing those nipples so that
they stood out hard and red.
Yet it was all so different from the last time; Sheenah was the dominant
partner and not just because he wanted it that way. Everything she did was
done to perfection, the perfect combination of tenderness and sensuousness.
'I simply adore circumcised men,' her tongue travelled the course of his scar.
'Did you know, Sabat,' her dark eyes were mocking him, 'that often the ancient
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Oke Priests circumcised their male sacrificial victims?'
'You read that somewhere?'
'Maybe,' she dropped her gaze, 'or maybe I just know it. A lot of the time
they didn't take human life, just the foreskin as a token.'
'Which lets me out,' he grunted. 'I guess I'll be for the chop if they catch
up with me then.'
She took him with a breathtaking unexpectedness, lifting herself up and
straddling him in one perfectly co-ordinated movement as though she was
mounting a horse. In that one marvellous second they were joined, a rhythm
that began instantly, gently . . . speeding up.
Two people shuddering simultaneously; not so much as a pause as they writhed
in unison, the slow build-up beginning again. Now Sabat was the rider, a
black-maned warrior glistening with sweat, urging his mount to even greater
efforts, a headlong gallop into ecstasy. A sense of timelessness pervaded so
that they cared not for anything outside this room which was their own private
world.
Finally mount and rider slowed to a canter, then a trot. Until at last they
pulled apart and Sabat glanced over his shoulder at the window.
'It's already dark,' he grunted. 'We'd best dry ourselves and get dressed. The
sooner we find Kent the easier I'll rest.'
A towelling-down that was a continuation of the union between them except that
now there was haste in their movements, an eagerness to don their clothes. It
was ten-fifteen by the time they left the house, travelling on foot because
the White Horse was only a few minutes' walk away.
Sheenah waited in the shadows until Sabat emerged from the entrance marked
'lounge bar'.
'Kent left about an hour ago,' Sabat's voice was grim, the tension in his tone
seeming to crackle like an electric current. 'The barman saw him with another
guy. They left together. I don't like it one little bit. Let's try the
churchyard!'
She wanted to ask 'why the churchyard', but in her heart she knew, because
right now the focal point of this whole village was St Monica's cemetery.
'Why do you think Kent's gone back to the churchyard?' Sheenah breathed as
they approached the lychgate. 'And who is the guy he's gone with?'
'I could hazard a dozen guesses,' Sabat whispered, 'but I don't believe in
wasting brainpower on wild possibilities. We'll find out soon enough.'
The full moon was high in a cloudless sky, the ethereal light illuminating the
jagged rows of untended graves with their moss-covered headstones. Silent and
eerie, fringed by a wall of shadow that could have hidden a thousand evils.
Then they saw Kent! There was something sinister about the fact that they
found him so easily, the way he sat almost nonchalantly on the edge of the big
grave.
There he is!' Sabat drew back, his warning systems beginning to vibrate, goose
pimpling the nape of his neck. 'But whoever he came with has gone ... or else
they're hiding somewhere!'
'I don't like it,' Sheenah sensed her companion's foreboding, clutched
at his arm. 'He's just sitting there like it was a warm sunny afternoon and he
needed a rest!' 'Kent,' Sabat called softly, saw the other turn and stare in
their direction. 'What the hell are you doing here? You'll catch pneumonia.'
'Hello,' the Fleet Street man remained seated. 'I was just reading the
inscription on this tomb. Come and see for yourself, Sabat. It could throw
some light on recent happenings.' [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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