The Fly House (The UtopYA Collection)

by Misty Provencher

  "Yes." Her short answer wavered.

  "You're still scared of looking down?"

  "I'm still...not scared," she insisted. She forced another swallow and took a deep breath.

  Yeah, right. Sure she wasn't.

  Then, her shaking voice shot at him, "Is that what gets you off? Wanting me to be scared? Do you like all your women like that?"

  It was his turn to go rigid, but it was no longer happening below the waist. There was nothing that disturbed him more than what she was suggesting—that he enjoyed the fear of a woman who was forced to mate. He wasn't one of those embarrassments that called themselves a man—the kind who liked a woman to cry or scream as they were taken. He wasn't a rutting heathen.

  He pushed his knees down on Forge's plates. The dragon's head dipped to the Earth. Although it was a gentle descent, the pressure still smacked Maeve up against him. She screamed. He cranked his thigh muscles down on her to keep her still. He could feel how the air was caught in her lungs, her chest swelled with it, her breasts against his arm.

  With another combo squeeze and whistle to Forge, the ground came up fast and the dragon hit it with a tiny thump and lumbering run. He could've set her down easier, but he was annoyed. After four jolting steps, the animal came to a halt and rested down on her belly, her neck against the ground.

  Maeve was paralyzed, glued to his chest.

  "You can get off now yourself," he said as he untied himself from the guide rein. He slid from Forge's neck and jumped down to the ground. He didn't even glance back at Maeve. He trilled a sharp note through his teeth before walking into the shack.

  ***

  He left her sitting on the dragon's neck.

  The hens, in the cave at the end of the open field, belched flames and screeched, but Forge remained still. Maeve didn't know how long it would last, but she couldn't get her hand free of the rope that bound her. She wanted to kill him for leaving her like that.

  Forge shifted and Maeve panicked that the dragon would take her on a solo flight after all. Maeve yanked at the guide rein in a panic, forgetting how she had tied herself to it to begin with. The rope answered by tightening around her hand and cutting off circulation. Maeve's knees squeezed the dragon's neck by accident and the dragon's plates shifted like noisy dinner dishes. Maeve gasped. She flung her knees out to the sides so the dragon wouldn't misinterpret the touch.

  Her lungs punched at her rib cage as she struggled to get free. The rope bit into her and a trickle of blood ran into her palm. She twisted on the dragon's back. One of the plates beneath her poked up and she didn't see it until she felt the plate sliced through her pants and cut her inner thigh.

  Maeve swore and then she did something she hadn't done in years.

  She crumpled down on top of the dragon and cried. Her back bucked with the tears as she curled over her bleeding hand and thigh, still bound to the guide rein. She tried to smother her sobs in her elbow.

  The strong hand on her back startled her. Then embarrassed her. Diem reached beneath her hunched torso and released her from the guide rein with a few flicks of his wrist. Her tears drizzled over the back of his hand as he did it.

  With one tug, he pulled her down into his arms. She struggled in his grasp, humiliated, but even when she threw her bloody hand over her face, he didn't put her down. With a soft whistle over his shoulder, Forge lumbered off to the cave. Diem carried Maeve through the door of the shack and kicked it closed behind them.

  Her sobs turned to hiccups that she tried to hide by holding her breath. It only made it worse. The sob turned to snorts as she shook in his arms. He set her down near the counter, dragged his chair over, and sat her down on it. Head bowed, she watched from beneath the curtain of her hair, as he worked the arm of the wall pump. It's open mouth gushed water into the bucket he placed beneath it.

  The water splashed over the sides. He replaced the bucket, with the one she'd tried to throw at him, to catch the overflow. Then, at his counter, he pushed the curtain aside to retrieve a fresh cloth. He dipped it in the water and came to her. Maeve switched her gaze to the floor. He reached across her line of vision and trapped her cut hand in his before she could pull it away.

  She tried to yank it back anyway.

  He tightened his grip and jerked it forward.

  "I know it hurts," he soothed in a soft tone. "I'll try to be gentle."

  Maeve yelped as he applied the wet cloth to the cuts. He dabbed at them, wrung out the cloth, and dabbed again, without letting go of her hand. When the blood was washed away, he prodded the edges of the cuts as she sucked in a breath and tried to pull her hand back again.

  "Stop," he chided. It caught Maeve completely off-guard. Even more so when he reached for her waist, lifting the edge of her shirt. She threw an elbow at him and followed with a kick.

  "What are you trying to do?"

  "Taking your pants off, so I can take care of the cut on your leg," he said. "You're bleeding all over my chair. We've got to take care of it."

  She stared down at herself. Her pants were ripped open, revealing the red and meaty gash on her inner thigh. It made her a little queasy. She looked away.

  "I'll wash it myself." She made a grab for the bucket, but Diem pulled it away.

  "You can't wash it through the rip. Don't be such a hen," he said. The line of his mouth told her it was an insult, but no way in hell was she taking her pants off. Especially since the Archive had been short on panties and she was going commando at the moment. He reached for her waist again and she slapped his hand away.

  "Fuck off," she said. He stood, throwing the rag down into the bucket, so the water splashed out on the floor. She thought he was giving in—that he'd bust out the front door, cursing her stubbornness over his shoulder as he gave in and let her have the privacy she wanted. But the next second, his hands were rooted on either side of her chair seat, his thumbs like slats of iron against her hips and his face in hers.

  "I told you about the curses!" he barked. "Shut your mouth before you're heard!"

  She pushed her face back into his and roared, "I'll shut my mouth when you fuck off!"

  The veins in his neck protruded and he reminded her of every drunken biker badass that had rolled into the tattoo shop, looking to give her a hard time. She knew how to handle assholes.

  It happened almost too fast to comprehend. He knocked her down and pulled off her boots. She battled him, scratching at his hand as he tore the button free on her pants. He yanked down the zipper. When she tried to bring her leg up between his, he snarled and grabbed hold of the rip in her pants. He tore it, shredding the fabric right off her until there was nothing left.

  She kicked up her leg and he dodged out of the way, her knee only jabbing his thigh. He grabbed her with one hand and the bucket with the other and dragged her to his bed. Maeve felt the air against her naked bottom, which fueled her hysterical struggle against him even more, but he held tight. The water sloshed up over the edge of the bucket, leaving small ponds all over the floor.

  He dumped her down on his nest of a mattress and pulled the rag from the water. She grunted as she kicked up at him, trying to get his face, but the angle was too awkward. The top of her foot only smacked his chest as he grabbed her ankles and forced her legs apart.

  "Just spread your legs, so I can see."

  As he glanced down, he saw everything she had. He stared, the surprise over her utter nakedness dragging open his lower lip for a split second.

  And holy shit, was that the start of a blush pooling in his cheeks?

  His eyes suddenly flicked to the gash in her thigh. Without another glance at her exposed sex, he lifted the wet rag to the wound. He went through the same careful process he had with the wounds on her hand, dabbing and rinsing the cloth and dabbing again, amidst her flailing kicks and screams and attempts to rise up and bash him in the mouth.

  He finally dropped the cloth into the bucket and left it. She was panting from the struggle. He remained kneeling there between her
knees, but he was gazing blandly at her face.

  "I'm sorry it hurts. I'm just trying to help," he said. She didn't care. Couldn't. She was too embarrassed, flat on her back, without the armor of her boots or her pants, to even accept the apology. "Let me just see how deep the cut is, okay?"

  She didn't fight him. She was too humiliated to even try to kick him again. She felt the tiny mouth of her sex open and close as her leg moved with his painful prodding. She bit down hard on her lip to keep from shouting at the pain. He apologized, but prodded some more. When he placed his hand on her kneecap, to steady her shaking leg, the bud at the peak of her cleft throbbed. He let go.

  "Stay here. I'm going to get the salve," he said. He stood and went to the counter, taking down a jar, mixing something in a dish. There were no covers, no clothes around her. Nothing to cover herself. If she got up to run, she knew he'd catch her before she got three steps away. She threw her arms over her eyes.

  His tread returned him to the bed. She felt the vibration in the floor as he kneeled down again. She didn't move her arm, but her spine jerked when the flat of his palm touched down on her still-quaking kneecap.

  "It's okay," he murmured. She peeked from beneath her forearm as he dipped his fingers into the dish beside him. When he turned back, he glanced down, lower than the wound, between her legs. She was mortified, and yet, the tender knot at the peak of her sex throbbed like a million-kilowatt light bulb. How the hell could she be getting off on him looking? She moved to close her legs on it, but his fingers firmed on her knee and held her still.

  He applied what felt like a cold paste to the open wound. She drew in a sharp breath.

  "It's going to burn a little," he said. She was about to tell him he was wrong, when it hit her. The heat jumped inside the cut and raced into her veins so she had to clench her teeth. She shrieked, dropping her hands onto the bed, fisting the fabric. She tried to kick him away, just for putting the stuff on her, but he locked his hands on both her knees, his brow hooding his eyes as he ordered her firmly, "Don't kick or I'll have to reapply it."

  She kicked and jerked anyway, and he swore, a word she didn't recognize, under his breath. One hand left her leg, but then she saw him lift another large bead of the salve on his fingertips. She struggled against him as he applied it, the flash of cold nearly a relief in the residual burn of the first application, but then the second application hit her in a wave, like a rolling boil over a red-hot coal. She screamed as he caught her hand and applied it to that wound too. Her second scream felt like her lungs would break out of her ribs.

  "I can help," his voice boomed over the top of her shrieking. "Do you want me to help?"

  "YES!" she shouted through clenched teeth. What the fuck was he thinking? That she'd say no? That she—

  Tears squeezed from the corners her eyes as he stuck his fingers in his mouth. She grit her teeth, trying to hold her legs still while willing herself to get her teeth open enough to scream at him. He popped his wet fingers from his mouth. They disappeared between her legs. She felt them stroke intimately against her.

  She sucked in a breath as he slid his first two fingers up against the tender bud. He stroked it, glancing up at her as he did. The burn was still like holding her eyeball over an open flame, but then, his thumb planted against her, rubbing in a slow circle that replaced the burn with an intense tingle—but still too intense to be comfortable, until he slipped his fingers inside her. Her sex sucked at his knuckles, the movement of his fingertips overwhelming the horrible burning sensation with each small, but consistent, stroke. The pain was replaced by his rhythm and Maeve found herself trying to press against the relief of his touch.

  Her mind skittered, trying to categorize the experience. A moan broke free from her lips and beneath lowered lashes, she watched him as the muscles in his shoulder flexed in the same rhythm with which he moved his fingers within her.

  This was a one night stand, a one-hour stand...sex at the bar...yes, she'd had sex at a bar once...the man was a stranger standing behind her at the crowded counter. She'd glimpsed him as she waited for a drink...and then he'd lifted her skirt and done this same thing...touched her. Maeve had been drunk enough to allow it, to enjoy it.

  In that moment, the music pounded a heartbeat into the entire building and Maeve pretended that every person in the bar was just a cell within the heart. She pretended that the stranger behind her was a handsome man and she let herself be taken away in the beat and the sensations. She'd panted her order to the bartender, as she pressed her ass back into the hand that penetrated her. It felt so good, deep inside her...moving in slow, easy circles...she'd orgasmed twice before the bartend dumped her drink in front of her. The fingers retreated, but as she'd turned to catch a glimpse of the stranger, the crowd surged and she was shoved down the bar. She studied the faces, trying to locate the stranger, but she couldn't identify who it had been.

  But with Diem between her legs, she couldn't pretend he was a faceless stranger and she wasn't drunk. Just in pain, although even the pain had given way to the pleasure he now brought her, impaled on his fingertips. She suddenly wanted him hovering over her. She wanted to grip the thick ropes of muscle in his shoulders. She wanted to kiss him as he slid himself into her. Not just fingers. Not just—

  "It's okay, it's almost over," he whispered and her eyes flew open. His eyes were so intense on hers, the thought of him slipping into her returned and lit the rockets on her orgasm. Her breasts heaved up, her back arching off the bed, her knees shaking in place, as a racking moan spilled from her mouth. She caught sight of his face, his eyes scanning her erect nipples with a small lick of his lip. He closed his own eyes then and she saw his Adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallowed hard. Her body slowed and finally stilled, his fingers slipping out of her.

  The shame of what just happened filled up every inch of the room. He cleared his throat and the sound was rough, a deep rumble.

  "It's done," he said. He was back to studying the wound on her leg. "Look."

  He held out both hands and she took them numbly. She could still feel her slick juices on them and it just added to her shame. He pulled her up to sitting and her eyes slid down to her thigh.

  The wound was closed, the skin puckered together with a white seam running down the center. It was still red around the edges, probably from being burned, but as she watched, at the very top tip of the wound, the redness began to fade. She had to stare hard, the same way she remembered seeing the hour hand move on an analog clock if she really concentrated on it, she could see the wound heal, leaving nothing but the consistent color of her skin.

  "What the..." she began, but he stopped her from using the curse, which was obviously on the tip of her tongue, by placing his fingers on her lips. She grinned a little beneath them, to show that she wouldn't finish the curse this time. When he removed his fingertips, she licked her lip and swore she could taste herself.

  "Sorry," she blushed. "How, uh...why did that...you know...work?"

  "Replacement of sensations," he said.

  "I meant the salve," she said. At least the blush burned less.

  "It's a Plutian medicine. If a cut is very deep, it cleans, seals, and heals it. Great stuff, but it stings like...well, you know how much."

  She supposed he'd won again. She should thank him, but reasoned herself out of it. She wouldn't have gotten cut if he hadn't left her out on the dragon in the first place. Without knowing what to do or say next, she pulled her legs into the circle of her arms.

  ***

  Her heels blocked her sex from his gaze. As if he would even look there now. He didn't want to embarrass her anymore than he already had. They both needed something else to replace the awkwardness since she was still naked from the waist down and he had just had his fingers buried in her. She had been so warm, so silky—

  "Could you, uh...hand me my pants?" she asked.

  "No," his tone was a little too direct, too intense. She immediately set her jaw for a fight. He began a
gain, but calmer this time. "You can't cover the wound or it won't heal correctly. Besides, your pants are ruined."

  One of her eyebrows lifted as the edge of her mouth dropped in disbelief.

  "Well, that's convenient," she said.

  "Look, it's not a play. I didn't rip them, did I?" he said.

  "What am I supposed to do without pants?"

  "I'll get you something," he said. "But it's late and...aren't you tired?"

  "Yeah, I am," she said, but he could already tell that there was no way in hell she was going to just agree to sleep with him in the shack while she was naked. He moved around the room, snuffing the fire seed lights. Maybe if it was dark, she'd rest.

  He dropped his body down beside hers on the bed, puffing the fabric up against her. The shack was blacker than the night outside. He sprawled there, lying on his side, his broad shoulders facing her. From behind him, her voice cut through the dark, "You can't sleep here..."

  "There's not two beds," he murmured, bunching up the loose part of the bed to cushion his head.

  "Then be a gentleman and sleep on the floor...over there." He felt the wiggle in the bed and imagined her hand flicking over his head in the dark, probably aiming in the direction of the farthest corner.

  "This is my bed and I'm sleeping here. And so are you. There isn't any place comfortable and you're safest beside me."

  "Fat chance," was her curt reply, but the moment she tried to stand, he caught her wrist and pulled her down.

  "Go to sleep," he said gruffly. He hoped it was enough to set her at ease that all he was preparing to do was sleep beside her. He waited for her body to loosen in his grip, before letting go. "You go out there, the dragons will get you. Or worse. Just trust me and go to sleep."

  "It'd be easier if you said you weren't planning to hump me in the middle of the night."

  "It is already past the middle of the night," he said. His flex stirred, but she didn't have to know it. "Is hump the same as mating? Are you worried that I'll want to mate with you?"