A Mermaid's Ransom

by Joey W. Hill

  But none of that stopped the nimble movements of his fingers. He worked with the clay, then moved to drawing paper, becoming familiar with the pencils and charcoals. The weaving was pushed aside, unable to claim his interest after he figured out the way it worked.

  As time passed, the hum of relaxed, creative activity spun its tranquility such that some of his guarded wariness relaxed, though it didn't abate the intense interest he was creating among all of them, particularly the women. While the presence of an adult male like Dante making crafts might be curious, it didn't explain her own fascination. So she wouldn't stare at him like a besotted idiot, Lex had chosen a foam cutout kit and created a cat out of the brown and orange pieces, complete with a pipe cleaner tail, big silly eyes and whiskers made out of fishing wire. She'd give it to Clara, who loved T.

  When she was done with that, she perched on a stool behind him so she could lean back against the wall and indulge herself. Despite the flow of the poet's shirt, it stretched taut over his wide shoulders. He was used to dealing with his hair, for he'd used a black pipe cleaner to pull it back into a tail so the strands wouldn't slide forward into the paint or clay, or obscure what he was trying to do with the pencil. It let her see his profile better, the concentration of the glowing eyes behind the glasses, the hard press of his lips.

  Oh, hellfire. It was against her nature to restrain her impulse to touch what she wanted. She'd never felt any inhibitions about it before. It was natural to connect with other life. Keeping herself from it now was an impossible effort, because his scent, his appearance, the strength and grace of his body, the way his hands moved over his task, took it past pleasant indulgence into obsessive desire. Leaving the stool, she slid her arms over his shoulders and around his chest, pressing her cheek to his temple. He stilled beneath her touch. Where her breasts pressed into his back, she could feel his heart beating. When she stroked his chest, it accelerated.

  You told me to behave.

  This is just affection, not seduction. But she suppressed a smile at his mental snort and made herself straighten. Studying his hair, she eased the pipe cleaner free, separated the strands and began to braid, imagining muscular Indians in war paint and brief loincloths. "What are you working on?"

  Reaching back, he followed her fingers. When he glanced toward the young girl with braids, she was impressed, as always, with his quick connection. She was even more impressed when she looked over his shoulder and found the answer to her question.

  A woman's face stared up at her from the pencil drawing. He wasn't as accomplished with the pencil yet, having never held one before, but it was still a lovely face, though the mouth was drawn tight, the eyes stark and darkly lined to show pain. She wondered if he'd drawn in the ice or muck of the Dark One world. Shifting her glance to the clay, she found he'd flattened the clay down and was pinching and stroking it into the woman's face, so the pencil drawing was a rough study for the sculpture. As he resumed that project, she bent forward and realized his eyes were closed behind the glasses, letting his mind guide his hands.

  Her gaze drifted across the table. Earlier, he'd used tissue paper and created what appeared like the geraniums in front of her town house in vibrant fuchsia, blue and yellow, a scattered bouquet. Wire and his new knowledge of scissors had added stems and jagged leaves that looked natural due to their lack of uniformity. On another side of the table he'd formed a vase out of sugar cubes, using a razor blade available only to the adults to sculpt the edges and create a rounded surface on the outside. Studying Will's castle, he'd then employed glitter.

  Done with the braid, using the pipe cleaner to hold it, she reached around him and put the flowers in the vase carefully, so they didn't dislodge the cubes still drying. Not wanting to disrupt his concentration, she returned to the stool and leaned back, dropping her shoes to the ground to wiggle her feet under his buttock through the chair's open back. Her toes were cold, as were her hands. When she put her head against the wall, she thought about letting the room's rhythmic noise lull her into a very short nap. The frustrating fatigue had caught up with her again. Whenever she most needed her energy, it seemed to be deserting her.

  It is because you have not allowed yourself time to fully recuperate. Dante straightened, and turned in the chair, flexing his taut backside on her feet. When he rose and touched her face, he brought the soothing smells of clay, paint and sugar. Lie down right there, Alexis.

  She followed his direction and saw one of the mats that were scattered about the room for the children to play on, or in this case, nap. "I'm fine," she assured him.

  "It was not a question or a request." He pointed. "Down there. Now."

  She met his gaze, though it was obscured by the glasses. "I'm not yours to order around."

  "Are you not?" The question was soft, dangerous and sent a thrill running through her veins, even as she struggled to be offended.

  "No."

  "Hmm. Then come here." He tugged her off the stool and brought her to sit next to him at the table, only he didn't put her in one of the small chairs. Instead he had her sink to her knees on the floor next to him. She wondered if he was going to let her lay her head on his thigh and stroke her hair, but that was something she'd want, not something he would know how to do.

  "Until I saw it in your mind," he commented. "But I will do that later. Be still."

  He'd dipped his finger in one of the open paint pots. Tracing paint along her temple, he moved down to the middle of her cheek. She thought to pull her hair back and held it in a tail as he brought several other pots closer. It felt like he put a dot at one corner of her mouth, then turned his finger, dragging it in a jagged line. It was soothing and arousing at once, to be under the stroking touch of his fingertips and the total focus of his attention. She wanted to take his glasses off, yearned to see his eyes, but since she couldn't, she focused instead on his expressive mouth, even reaching out to touch him there. He nipped her finger, then caught her wrist and took her hand to her lap again, caressing her palm before going back to her face.

  He didn't stop there, though. He trailed paint down her throat, made her tilt her head back so he teased the firm line of her esophagus, then along her collarbone. Unbuttoning two buttons of her soft knit shirt, he widened the collar to slide it to the points of her shoulders.

  "Dante . . ." She warned, not daring to look around, even though he'd exposed nothing inappropriate.

  "Sshh." He kept on with his work. A few minutes later, she realized he'd drawn a different kind of attention. The girl with the pigtails and Will were on the other side of the table, staring at his handiwork. She could tell he was aware of them, but it didn't seem to bother him. When he wiped his hands with a damp towelette, a box of which were kept in the center of each table, the girl spoke. "Will you do me next?"

  Alexis looked toward the large mirror, placed on the back wall to help parents keep track of where their children were in the room. In her mermaid form, Anna had elaborate, silver markings on her flesh. When she was younger, Alexis had traced them with small fingers, following the Celtic-like curls over Anna's arms and wishing she had them. Her father often did something similar to her mother, with a far more sensual intent.

  Dante had decorated her with as much artistry as Nature had decorated her mother. He'd used a dark blue and brown with touches of pink to swirl a design down her right cheek, a slash of color on the opposite cheekbone, and then further twists down her throat. She looked like some mystical earth fairy, her face peering out from the vines and flowers of the plants she cherished. It was not too much or too little, a perfect design to attract his admiring fans.

  The little girl was taking a seat on the table at his direction so he could examine her face. When Alexis rose to return to her stool, he caught her wrist. Rising, he guided her toward the mat, putting a hand on her shoulder. She resisted, despite his height advantage and intimidating expression. I'm fine.

  Lie. Down.

  She set her jaw. She was really, really tir
ed all of a sudden, but that wasn't the point. You can't order me around. And you shouldn't force mothers out of your way with your weird alpha dominant male routine. It's . . . rude.

  He lifted a brow. Is there a "not rude" way to make you do my will?

  You're missing the point. But yes, you can ask me to lie down. Tell me you're worried and it would make you feel better if I lie down and take a rest.

  Dante's impassive expression didn't alter. "Please lie down. I'm worried because you look tired and it will make me feel better if you rest."

  Then he took another step, and damned if she didn't do just as the mother had, shifting back so she was standing on the mat in her bare feet. His hand rested on her hip, tightening with proprietary intent. As he stood there, she realized he was waiting to see if her way would work, or if he would have to resort to his own measures. From the pulse of lustful aggression she felt, he was hoping for the latter.

  "Fine. Thank you. I'll rest," she said ungraciously, plopping down on the mat at his feet.

  Nineteen

  DANTE considered her mutinous expression, but since she was doing what he'd told her to do, he returned to his chair.

  The little girl giggled. "What?" Dante asked, his fingers poised over the paint.

  "She made a face at you," Will informed him, and demonstrated, sticking out his tongue and putting his thumbs in his ears to flap the other fingers at him. He also crossed his eyes.

  Dante twisted around. Alexis was the picture of innocence, though her smile was quivering at the corners of her mouth, and he saw the imprint of her act fading from her mind. "Why would she do that?" he asked his new companions.

  "Probably because you did something to make her mad," the girl told him, adjusting the pink marbleized balls that held one of her pigtails. "I got mad at my mommy once, but she caught me making the face. She spanked me."

  "Really? What is spanking?"

  "Nothing you need to know about." Alexis sat up in alarm, but he'd already gotten the visual from her mind. Or rather, the visual the child's suggestion gave her, for as little as he knew about spanking, he somehow doubted the parent had administered discipline to her little girl in the manner Alexis's mind had just conjured. Herself naked and helpless across his thighs while his hand left a red print on her backside and she struggled against his lap, arousing her and him both.

  If she did not want him to do something publicly offensive, she was certainly pressing the limits, though from her embarrassed flush, he was certain her imagining was involuntary. The blush added an interesting color contrast to the face painting.

  The women at the scrapbooking table seemed to have gotten the gist of it, because they seemed discreetly amused at Alexis's discomfiture. In fact, with his enhanced hearing, Dante was fairly certain he heard one murmur, "It'd be worth it to be that bad," before she flicked him a quick once-over beneath her lashes.

  It was a confusing world. He made himself turn his attention to the children, even though his body was simmering, not just from the titillating picture Alexis had given him. Painting her skin as she submitted to his touch had conjured his own vision. Laying her on the mat, stripping off her excessive clothes and painting her whole body. Ticklish circles on the bottoms of her feet, so he could chase her around the room and let the circles dot the tile floor. Tiny leaves and flowers all the way down to the delicate crease between sex and thigh. When he caught her, he would smear the designs as he rubbed his body over hers, transferring the paint to his own flesh, making them both a canvas.

  Will's mother had joined them and was studying the clay sculpture. "You're very good," she offered with some hesitancy. "She's beautiful. Are you an artist?"

  "No," Dante said.

  "You should be. I've seen things in galleries that aren't as good as that." She cocked her head. "There's a loneliness to her. Desolation. But a savage beauty, too." Her gaze rose to his face, her brow creasing, then she looked away quickly at her son.

  "It is how I remember her," Dante said. Then he leaned toward Will with paint-coated fingers.

  HE gave face paintings to every child there. While Alexis noticed his touch was not gentle or sentimental, he was careful of his strength, so it was fascinating to see him hold a small chin to keep a child's face steady, or apply pressure to turn from one cheek to another. Unfortunately, she couldn't help but remember how he'd wielded a knife with similar precision against his sacrifice's throat. Two sides to a coin, though the sides kept changing into something altogether different with every flip, giving the coin far more than its apparent two sides.

  On a more sensual note, Alexis could tell only the tenuous bounds of propriety kept the mothers and the scrapbook group from asking for their own decorations. She couldn't blame them, since her body was still restless from when he'd been painting it. She dozed, drifting in half dreams of his hard flesh and muscles moving against her, the smell of his skin and hair as she buried her face in it. When she woke and scrubbed sleep out of her eyes, her eyes alighted on him with need.

  Whether it was her thoughts goading him, or a spiraling effect that kept them both in this churning ache, his grip on her hand as they left the community center was hard, his forefinger crooking inward to fondle her palm and accelerate her pulse further. "I want you now," he stated bluntly when they reached her car. "Take me somewhere that is possible, without breaking your world's rules. Your town house is too far," he added before she could say it. Gripping her shoulders, he pushed her against the car door, letting her feel his hardness against her belly as he nipped the tender flesh beneath her ear.

  "Now, Alexis. Or I fuck you right here, your rules be damned."

  It was the first time he'd used the term, but she was so stirred up, it only drove her higher. She fumbled open the door, unlocked both sides. When he got in on the passenger side, she turned the engine over and accelerated with a jerk.

  As she turned out of Fortram Park, his hand slid over her thigh and between them, tugging her open. "Dante, don't. I could wreck the car."

  "Then find us somewhere to be. Quickly." He was under her skirt, and his fingers flicked her clit beneath her panties so that she spasmed, her breath catching in her throat.

  Would it ever be easy and gentle between them? Did she care? Candlelight and rose petals, slow and easy lovemaking to soft music were a romantic vision, but he kept her blood on high simmer, such that whenever he demanded it, she could boil over. Earlier, she'd made it clear she didn't like being ordered about, but when it came to this, he could steamroll her without a murmur of protest. She was incapable of refusing him.

  Pulling into a diner parking lot she knew was likely deserted this time of day since they didn't serve dinner, she drove around the back. Clicking off her seat belt, she nodded toward the backseat. "There. Easier to . . . just easier."

  Instead, he caught her waist and lifted her over the console to his side of the car in a smooth movement that demonstrated how easily he could have crushed one of those tiny faces. Holding her in his lap, he stripped off her panties with the same firm efficiency, not tender nor rough, just intent on his goal. Guiding her legs to straddle him in the narrow space, he opened the jeans he wore. She barely had time to gasp before he'd driven her down on him, all the way to the hilt. She was soaking wet, eager to take him, so that her tissues rippled in response, wresting a cry from her throat. His hand caught the back of her neck and he bit, sinking his fangs in as deeply as his cock. She fumbled for the handle of the seat and reclined them, taking him even further inside her.

  It was pure, hot possession, underscoring what he'd barely held in check earlier. He'd called her his friend, but he'd also called her his. In a very non-twenty-first-century way, he considered her just that. He wouldn't be pushed too far away from that idea before he would retaliate in ways like this, which she feared proved his point. She welcomed this kind of assault on her will.

  But there was a power to it, too, for as she moved on him, the waves of his own need and desire crashed against he
r. She found his face with fumbling fingers, pulled off his sunglasses so she could be bathed in the hellfire of his gaze. The glasses clattered against the console as they fell, but she was already touching his face, the brow, the shape of his eyes. His thick lashes fanned his cheeks as her thumb passed over them, learning him while he took from her throat. When he drew back, on instinct she went for his mouth, using her tongue to delicately lick at his fangs, taste herself.

  He growled and increased his rhythm, bludgeoning her with the powerful thrusts, but it was also an unfathomable pleasure, out of control, frightening and exhilarating at once. As her clit smacked down against his pelvis each time, he dragged her to the precipice, leaving her no sense of direction at all.

  He opened the front of her shirt, his mouth on lace and flesh, teasing her nipple under the hold of the cup before he shoved that out of his way and suckled her. Impaled and quartered between all the different sensual weapons he had, she was a helpless doll, tossed upon the waves of lust, only able to grip his shoulders and mewl, plead.

  The climax grabbed her by the throat, tearing a scream from it as it rocked her forward on him, shuddering. His seed seared her channel, his face contorting, a grunt becoming a groan and then a snarl as he pulsed inside her, legs jerking and trembling beneath her buttocks, muscles flexing in his arms and shoulders.

  They careened to a stop like a derailed train. When she collapsed against him, his arms slid around her, holding her to him as she dropped her face into his shoulder. She shuddered. He hadn't been taught to do that, hold a woman to him after making love to her. It had to be what his heart told him he wanted to do. It was a nice thought, even if it wasn't true, since he could have read it from her mind as well. But his arms were firm and sheltering, protective and possessive.