Beyond Eden by Catherine Coulter Page B

just one of his, he had to force her hands upward with his so he could touch her breasts.
    She screamed at the feel of his fingers against her cold flesh.
    He released her hand and hit her again with his fist. He was smiling as he hit her.
    It didn’t register in her mind; she screamed again, gurgling because she was choking on her own saliva.
    He grunted in fury and quickly brought his mouth down over hers. It was brutal and it hurt and she tasted blood. She was biting her own tongue. She wished he’d stick his tongue in her mouth. She’d bite it off, but he didn’t.
    He struck her again, without warning.
    Her head flew back and for a few moments she was unconscious. When she opened her eyes, he was between her legs and he was looking at her,his hands on her, probing, hurting. He was ready, she knew it, and he was simply waiting for her to wake up. He saw her open eyes, saw the awareness in them, and he reared back and slammed into her.
    Lindsay rose up off the bed, yelling blindly with the pain. He pounded into her, harder and harder still, and she yelled and cried out, but he didn’t slow.
    Her tears began to choke her. But still she yelled and cried out.
    â€œShut up, damn you!”
    He slapped her hard, sending her head violently to the side. He was heaving now, hurting her more and more, and she realized vaguely that he was enjoying this. This was what he liked, what he was good at. This was what he’d always wanted from her. She screamed again, blood bright red on her lower lip, the coppery taste of it in her mouth. She managed to free her right hand. She slammed her fist into his mouth. He went at her in a frenzy then, striking her in rhythm with his punishing blows inside her. Then, suddenly, he tensed, his whole body freezing, his back arched. She bucked and yelled and pushed. She felt the semen burst deep inside her, and in that moment she wanted to die.
    â€œMy God! Oh, my God, no!”
    Lindsay stared at the unexpected voice and yelled again, disbelieving. It was Sydney and she was watching, mouth agape, frozen just inside the open bedroom doorway.
    â€œHelp me, Sydney! Please, help me!”
    The prince didn’t seem to hear his wife’s voice. He was heaving and jerking over Lindsay. And then he was groaning, and she felt his body’s contractions with the power of his orgasm.
    â€œHelp me, Sydney!”
    The prince laughed and struck her again, hard on her jaw. He raised his hand again for another blow, smiling, oh he was smiling grandly, his pleasure full to bursting, but his violence still lacking.
    There was a loud popping sound. The prince stiffened suddenly and then he was staring down at Lindsay, and he was frowning in confusion. Slowly he swiveled about, still inside her, to see his wife standing not ten feet away, a .32-caliber pistol held straight out toward him in her right hand.
    â€œSydney? Is that you? Whatever are you doing here? You should be at home. You should be tending my mother. Why did you shoot me? Why?”
    Sydney, pale, still now, screamed, “By God, my own sister!” She aimed the gun and pulled the trigger again.
    He shuddered when the bullet went into his flesh, then he fell sideways, sliding out of Lindsay, rocking sideways, slipping silently onto the floor.
    Lindsay couldn’t grasp it. She saw the gun, saw the blood, all over the bed. She leaned over and looked at him. There was blood all over his chest, and then she saw her own blood between her legs and his sperm leaking slowly out of her. She started shaking.
    She was cold, out of control, she realized vaguely, but couldn’t do anything about it. She hurt inside and out, and she couldn’t seem to think. There was Sydney standing there, dead white, eyes dilated, and holding that damned pistol straight out in front of her, and she said, her voice as dead frightening as hell because it was emotionless and singsong, “Are you all right,