He vanished from sight and answered the phone, leaving Maurice and Mila alone with the food and some random servers here and there. She ate another grape. She wasn’t terribly hungry, but the giant feast in front of her made her feel terrible to not eat anything and she was pretty sure that the servers were watching her.
Mila couldn’t hear Reuben talking anymore, but she could still picture him with his animated mannerisms and colourful personality. Talking to him was an experience. The only similar experience she could remember was once, when she was younger, she’d come across her mom’s coffee. Mila, being young and naïve, assumed it would be fine to drink it. As it turned out, it was an incredibly strong caffeinated beverage that amped her up to where she smelled new colours for days. Reuben was similar. Talking to him was drinking a big chug of energy.
Unfortunately, now that he was gone, the energy faded much faster than the coffee had all those years ago. Her body put its foot down: sleep. Rest. Now. Trying to think about any of what was happening resulted in nothing but her brain sending up flashing down for maintenance signs. She was not meant to stay awake for so long, and her mannerisms were starting to show it as the excitement fell. Blinking required physical work. She must’ve stubbed her toe a half dozen times because she wasn’t paying a lot of attention to where she was walking. Mila was a night owl in the truest sense, but mornings? No. Not at all. Making sense of the interaction that she’d just had was out of the question until she slept.
Maurice snacked on some things. “He’s a character, isn’t he?”
“You could say that…”
“Not what you expected?”
Mila snorted. “Not quite.” She set down her plate. There was no chance that she was expected to eat all of that food. “What happens to what isn’t finished?”
“It’ll be taken care of.”
Good enough for her. She’d been rolling along and doing decent but all at once, it came crashing down. Reuben’s energy left, she’d eaten, and the stimulant in the smoothie faded by the minute. She gave herself twenty minutes until curling up on the floor and catching some z’s on the carpet seemed acceptable. She stretched dramatically. “Can…can I get some rest?”
“Of course.” She could see it in him, too. He was holding on about as well as she was, and she’d gotten some rest in the car ride over. He’d been running the whole time.
Maurice put a hand on her lower back and guided her towards the exit. “I’ll take you back to your room.”
Mila didn’t get touchy with a lot of guys, so normally, someone putting their arm there unsolicited would not have worked out in their favour. With him, she made an exception. She glanced up at him and smiled. How old was he? As a werewolf, his body didn’t age like it was supposed to. If she’d seen just his body, she would guess him to be 25 or 26. His eyes had lifetimes more in them, endless memories of hurt and mirth.
She didn’t ask. If she was attracted to someone as old as her grandpa or older, she didn’t want to know. She liked where she was: in a perfect fantasy, without commitment but simply enjoying herself. Having killers after her sucked. At least she had a couple handsome men around to help, right?
* * *
Mila parted ways with Maurice at her door, where she made the seven-league journey to the bed. Precious, precious sleep.
Sir Pugsly, apparently bored with destroying her robe, barked and yipped happily at her presence. She made a mild attempt to say hi and poked him in the nose. He sneezed, and a faint smile came to Mila’s lips. All her attention was homed in on that mattress. It looked lovely, and once she settled onto it, she got the closest sensation to orgasm without having one.
Bliss. That was the only word she could think of as she melted into the soft fabric and let the bed envelop her. She needed it badly. A heaping pile of what she guessed were feather pillows stood at her disposal along with the fluffy comforter. The temperature was set just right, cool enough to where the bed stayed pleasant but not cold.
Rest came for her immediately.
Chapter 11
A lot had happened to Mila over a short period of time, from her getting kidnapped to learning what was happening, and so forth. She was in the militarized complex of someone she’d feared immensely a day ago, with no contact with the outside world.
She’d figured that would interrupt her sleep. Not so. Her body didn’t give a damn what else was happening, and she slept like a baby from the moment her head hit the pillow until she abruptly awoke, refreshed and awake.
Mila didn’t move. She stayed in the same position, cuddled with a pillow, hair a wreck, probably looking as if she’d emerged from hibernation. Songbirds chirped outside cheerfully. Sir Pugsly snored with the intensity of a train engine somewhere near Mila’s feet. Her skin felt clean and fresh, and her mind at high alert. What was the point in moving?
Reuben. Ah, yes. Reuben, the surprising figure that was nothing like what Mila had expected. He’d said something about a peace treaty and how over the past thirty years Fang had been screwing everything up. Was it possible that all the legends of werewolf killings were linked to that? She wasn’t old enough to know before Fang. She only knew what other people knew because werewolves kept a tight lock on their business. Currently, she ought to be in one of three camps: scared, angry, or confused. She landed firmly in all three—scared of having a hit out on her, angry that she’d had the bad luck to get involved, and confused about who the good guys here. She’d always though werewolves were the bad guys without fail. They had poor reputations and were known for being ruthless.
She needed answers before she could decide what to do, and the fact was she wasn’t going to get them in bed. That’s when she made her tragic mistake: trying to get up.
Mila didn’t get hurt a lot. Sports weren’t really her thing and she rarely got into fights, so whenever she got hit or ran into something or whatever, it was a new and painful experience. It was to be expected that her sore butt might be aggravating, but she had no idea that it would be as bad as it ended up being. When she moved, her backside declared that it was sore and nothing she could do was going to change that.
Her eyes flashed open and she grabbed the sheets. “Auuughh….” She let out a low whimper from the tightness of her muscles. She didn’t have a bruise, but that didn’t stop it from being death. Very delicately, she massaged her butt through the robe. It did some to help. Not enough. She managed to crawl out of the bed and limp her way around in the hopes that the soreness would go away.
Normally she would have gone right back to bed and let time fix it, but time was of the essence. Her parents were in trouble, and she needed to protect them as soon as possible by accepting the help of the Deadwoods. First, she had to decide if it was something she could trust. She got the impression they were to be trusted. Before she could commit, though, she needed some things cleared up and she needed to interact with them some more to see if she’d gotten a good reading the first time around.
She gingerly made her way over to the exit and opened the door, wedging the plant outside to keep the door from closing again. Sir Pugsly hopped up to get over, but alas, his stubby legs didn’t provide him with the necessary height to clear it.
“Maurice.” She knocked before remembering that he, too, might be sleeping and he might not have woken up yet.
She gave it a while before giving up. Sleeping, surely, or doing that strange thing with the candles again. Once more she massaged her ass. Once more, it felt like she was sticking herself with tiny needles. When she was giving up hope that Maurice would come, and she might as well return in defeat, the handle rustled, and Maurice opened it, wearing a loose, soft robe.
Maurice’s previously bleary eyes locked onto her like a hawk. A broad, genuine smile followed. “Mila!”
She gave it her best effort to return the smile but smiling required movement and her general lower region had already deemed movement a punishable offense. The result was a half grimace, half smirk.
“Sorr
y.” She didn’t move. “I’m sore.”
He cocked his eyebrow. “Apparently. I can make that go away for you.”
There were several ways Mila could have taken that, either as a sexual reference or a genuine, yeah, I know a good stretch sort of way. “Yeah?”
“There’s a balm and a healing spell that I know. It’ll clear it up in no time.”
Mila had come for answers, though she certainly wasn’t going to turn that down. “Can I have it?”
He opened the door more and went off to find the balm. “Sure, come in. It needs to be applied topically.”
Oh. Topically. By him. On her butt. The situation had changed dramatically. Did she like this idea? Hate it? Her ears flattened, and an indication of a blush formed on her cheeks as she followed him inside and waited for him to return. No signs of eerie candles this go around. It was a perfectly ordinary apartment. He kept it squeaky clean. Mila’s, by comparison, was a barn yard.
The werewolf returned with a mysterious, small container of something. “Where are you sore?”
“My calf,” she blurted out. Calf? Nothing was wrong with it. What she needed done was her posterior, but she got caught up in the moment and said the first thing that came to mind. At least she hadn’t said nose or something equally ridiculous.
He positioned her to sit on the couch and brushed the flowing garment out of the way to expose her lower leg. She had shaved right before getting kidnapped, something that popped into her head that shouldn’t have mattered. So what if she was getting a massage from a muscular, handsome guy? This was about protection and asking questions.
“Can I ask you some things?”
He unscrewed the lid of the balm from a kneeling position in front of her. From the way Mila was situated, if his robe moved forward, she’d see all the way down. It was possible that she peeked. He, unaware that she was checking him out, rolled up his sleeves. “Ask me anything you want.”
“How long do I have until I have to come up with an answer to the Khan?” She didn’t know if calling him Reuben was offensive, so she stuck with the predictable route and used the title.
He scooped two fingers’ worth of a partially translucent cream. “The sooner the better. I would say no more than a day or two.”
Mila extended her leg to him, making sure that her clothes were functioning properly. Stupid robe didn’t work the way pants did, and she hadn’t gotten around to asking for any undergarments yet, something she became painfully aware of while he applied the balm.
In Mila’s mind, she’d remain the image of elegance and mystique. He’d touch her bare skin and she’d let him as a very select group of people she’d allow close enough. Maybe a fire would grow in his eyes and she’d hold all the power for whatever she wanted. Instead, it went down something like this: the balm was a hell of a lot colder than expected. It touched her skin and she made a strangled little yelp and jumped.
Maurice pulled back. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly. Well played, Mila. Well. Played. “Go ahead. Thank you.”
This time around, Mila expected it, so the bone-chilling temperature of the material didn’t surprise her as much. Using strong, sensitive fingers, Maurice massaged her muscle with it. At first it felt bad, but after about twenty seconds, the slippery substance brought a tingling pleasure. She opened her mouth to joke about how good it felt when she saw his eyes were closed and he mumbled an unfamiliar language. It sounded like a spell. Mila didn’t know any, but she’d been around enough people to recognize the sound.
The balm reacted to the spell and sent quivers through her body. If her calf had anything wrong with it, she had no doubt that it would now be healed. It wasn’t a rare type of magic, but one that she had never been able to perfect. For a while, she’d attempted to train in the art of spellcasting but had gotten nowhere.
“Feel better?” Maurice asked.
Mila stared at his gorgeous eyes, his handsome jaw, the way when he leaned over she could see the hint of his muscles beneath the robe. How could it not be better? She blushed and hated herself for it. “Much better.”
He smirked. “So, are you going to tell me where you’re actually sore this time?”
Mila’s thought process hit a major logjam. He knew. He’d known the whole time that her calf felt fine. She finally gave up trying to stay concentrated on all the questions. She was in the rare situation where a handsome man was giving her a soothing, sensual massage. It hit all her fantasy points: seeing how sweet he was being, knowing he could physically dominate her if he wanted, being in an unfamiliar and exciting location…all of it. There was time for questions. For now, she was going to sit back and see where this went.
Her revelation didn’t keep the embarrassment away. He’d known and chosen not to say anything. He was fully aware of what she was getting out of it, maybe even more than Mila herself. “I, um…” This was going to be awkward. The mood had certainly drifted towards sensual, and the truth was that her butt was still quite sore. However, he might get the wrong impression, as if she pointed to her crotch and said, “yeah, I need some relief here.” If it went that way, it went that way. Mila wasn’t crossing anything off here.
So, it was not without some hesitation that she pointed to her backside. She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. She kept her gaze low and towards the ground. “I fell off my truck,” she explained helplessly.
He set the balm down and stood. “I had a feeling about that. Turn over for me and I can help you.”
Mila did as he asked, laying on her stomach lengthwise along the couch. Her heart pounded in her chest. A massage to get rid of soreness. That’s all it was, but still, it was awful close to her…nether regions. She looked back at him as he stood and lifted up the edge of the fabric to expose—
“Wait wait waiiiit.” She grabbed her robe and forced it back down. “Just, um…”
Maurice faltered with one hand covered in the balm. “What?”
Mila hated herself for stopping where that might have been going, but she just didn’t feel right about it yet. “I just want to clarify that this is for soreness only.”
“What else did you think was happening?” The hungry, amused expression on his face proved that he knew exactly what she was talking about. “Pervert.”
Mila hadn’t thought this one through until it all became painfully clear. To get to her, he would need to be up close and personal. She had no panties, so she’d be exposing it all to him. Was she ready for that? Was that what she wanted? All signs pointed to fuck yes, but logic kicked in and kept her from being sure. All the stress had to be having an effect on her. How did she know she wasn’t freaked out and making poor choices?
Logic lost the fight. Mila successfully fooled herself into thinking that it was purely for making her soreness go away. Everything else was purely accidental and a side effect.
She reached between her legs and hid her business with her hands. Maurice tried again to lift up the cloth. This time Mila said nothing and let it happen, heart pounding as she did. He rolled the cloth up to her lower back. Logic tried to make a comeback, saying that he could easily have let Mila apply it or done it without exposing her body. Mila beat the shit out of Logic until it faded away and enjoyed the moment. She didn’t turn and look at him. She preferred to imagine it. His fingers, coming closer to her, massaging her and treating her with animal need and tender passion.
The first touch was as jarring as the one of her calf. If she didn’t know better, she’d claim he had put shaven ice on her rump. In came something she hadn’t considered: the pain. Her calf had been nothing compared to what happened then. It took everything she had to not squirm away. To his credit, he took his time to make sure he didn’t hurt her.
“Where exactly are you sore?” The couch shifted, and she turned to see him kneeling behind her, legs spread over hers, resting about halfway down her thigh.
Mila gave a description as best as she could. “Please be ge
ntle,” she added.
He nodded understandingly. His hands glided around her hips, along her thighs, and her backside. Everywhere the balm touched tingled. Mila relaxed as the discomfort faded, cherishing his hands snaking all across her body and listening to the healing spell that he uttered so beautifully. Mila closed her eyes and stayed motionless, savouring each lingering touch.
Romance. It had been a while. Mila hadn’t had a boyfriend in a while and even then, it seemed like he was always wanting to jump past the seduction phase straight into the hot and dirty. Was there a time for that? Yes. Every time, though? No. It got old quickly. To have a man touch her like Maurice without drooling and jumping in was a lovely treat.
Moderately frustratingly, he respected her words and didn’t stray too much from where Mila had said. It was a tough spot to be in, because Mila wanted him to be naughty. At the same time, if he had acted out, she would’ve been freaked out by the whole affair. The soreness dissipated, leaving behind only pleasurable tingling each time his skin touched hers.
Mila pressed her hips into the couch as he got nearer to her most sensitive areas before returning the way he’d come in a tantalizing disappointment. Keeping herself covered, she presented herself to him as best as she could without tossing all dignity in the trash.
Fuck it.
Why lie to herself? Why tell herself that this wasn’t what both of them wanted?
She spoke before she could talk herself out of it. “My inner thighs could use some loving.”
Chapter 12
His focus moved inward immediately.
The strange gel acted as a sort of lubricant, making his motions smoother and more comfortable while he spread the chilled substance across her vulnerable body. Mila’s heart thumped in her chest as he grew ever closer to her slit. The wait became unbearable.
Mila pretended to force herself down, something that immediately turned her on. Just imagining Maurice taking control, pinning her then and there and having his way with her…it made her wet even thinking about it. She doubted he would be that kind of person, which made it better to conceptualize instead of having to seriously worry.
The Deadwolves' Prisoner Page 9
