by Beth Yarnall
“Are you listening?” he shouted, leaning closer to her face, shaking her. “I stood over my grandfather’s casket, laughing, and wished him to hell.” He released her, pushing her away from him.
She resisted the urge to rub her arms where his fingers had been. Not because he’d hurt her, but because his touch was like fire, burning down all of her defenses. He’d split himself wide for her, opened wounds long since crusted over. She feared she’d never be able to walk away from him.
“That doesn’t make you a monster like him. It makes you honest.”
“He’d use his belt. The sound of it sliding through his belt loops…” He paused, swallowed. “I can still hear it. The whoosh of it slicing the air above me. And the crack… the crack of it… striking flesh.”
He stood in front of her, his body taut as a bowstring. She hurt for him, every part of her ached. His pain was so raw, so real she could almost reach out and touch it, like a live wire, dancing and sparking in the air between them.
“I have his name,” he spat like a curse. “His size. For fuck’s sake, Mi, I look exactly like him.”
“But you’re not him.” She took a risk, laying a hand on his chest, hoping to impress upon him this point if no other. “You aren’t anything like him. Not at all.”
“I should never have brought you to that house. In that house he’s considered a saint. A god. They want him back. They want me to be him. I didn’t know that. I didn’t know they’d expect that. I’m so sorry.”
He stared at her with haunted eyes and she could see the boy he had been deep within their depths. She wanted to weep for him, to hold him to her, and rock him and tell him it would all be okay. But she sensed what he needed was to talk, to get it all out. So she stood there and let him, her heart breaking with every word. He turned away from her to look out at the skyline. Her hand fell away, back down to her side. She stayed where she was, her eyes burning with unshed tears.
“I finally got big enough to fight back, but I couldn’t.” He lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “It just wasn’t in me. That only pissed him off more. He hit harder, trying to goad me into taking a swing at him. Said I wasn’t a man if I didn’t fight back.”
He turned then and everything about him cried defeat. Mi fisted her hands at her sides to keep from going to him and touching him again. Misery flowed off him, vibrating into her in waves that threatened to rise up and swallow them both.
“The last time he beat me, he did it with his fists.” He looked away as though the memories played out in front of him, like a flickering old movie. “I was eighteen.” He flinched as if they’d delivered a blow. “The next day, bloody and bruised, I enlisted in the Navy. That pissed him off more than my not fighting back.”
“Because that’s not who you are. He couldn’t make you him. He tried and he failed. And then he died.” She went to him and wrapped her arms around him, finally able to give him the comfort they both needed. “You’re not him. You’re not anything like him. He failed.” The tears came then, hot and angry at a man she’d never known. She soaked his shirt with them.
“You don’t get it,” he said miserably.
Standing up on tiptoes, she reached up to put her hands on his face so he’d hear her, really hear her. “He failed, Lucas. He died knowing he failed. No punch you could have delivered wouldn’t have hurt him as much. Know that. Know that I admire you.” She brought him down to her for a kiss. “Know that he never had a hold over you.” She kissed him again. “Know that you are a better man than he could ever have hoped to be.”
Lucas met her this time, kissing her and holding her with a desperation born of hope. It burst through him like the sun through dark clouds, flooding places inside him so dark he’d forgotten they were there. He ran his hands over her, needing her more than he’d ever needed anything. And the wanting. Aw, fuck the wanting. He couldn’t trust himself not to be rough, couldn’t trust himself to go slow.
“Querida, no.” He set her away from him, shaking with the need and the want. “I can’t. I won’t be gentle. I have to be in you so bad.” His hands came up, fisting in his hair, his eyes wide and panicked. “I can’t control—”
“I promised you I’d tell you if you ever hurt me.”
She stepped back a few paces and pulled her blouse over her head. Aw, fuck— she wasn’t wearing a bra. He stilled, staring at her like an alcoholic in front of an open bottle. She slid out of her sandals, dropped her skirt to the floor, and kicked it away. With each item she removed, the want rose until he thought he’d drown in it.
“I’m right here,” she said, opening her arms. She stood before him in nothing but her panties and the want threatened to spill over.
“You won’t hurt me, Lucas,” she said, taking a step toward him. “I know you. You could never hurt me. Remember it’s not in you. He’s not in you.”
He stared at her, swaying.
“Take off your shirt,” she ordered. He complied with slow stilted movements. “Now your pants, shoes, all of it.”
Finally he was naked before her. A chill raced over his skin though he wasn’t cold. And then she bent forward, testing his limits, and slowly peeled her panties down her legs. She threw them, hitting him square in the face. He caught them and blinked at her, balling them in his hand. He almost laughed, the hysteria of the moment close to the limit of what he could bear. She took a step forward, then another. Their bodies brushed. He shuddered.
“I want your hands on me.” She twisted slightly, her hardened nipples sweeping across his stomach. “I want your mouth on me.” She did it again. “I want you buried deep inside me.” And yet again.
He let out a low groan and reached for her with an unsteady hand, unable to help himself. Her skin was petal soft, smelling of flowers. He bent over her inhaling her scent, pressing her carefully against him. As long as he lived he’d remember the feel of her skin against his. She pushed on his shoulders. He dropped to his knees, then she did too. She pushed down on him again and his mind finally wrapped around what she wanted. He laid down on the floor with her kneeling over him.
“Condom?”
He blinked up at her, the word drowned out by the pounding of his heart. Then it sank in. He fumbled with his pants and came up with a foil packet, handing it to her. She unwrapped it and slowly rolled it on. He watched her, thinking any moment he’d break apart. His control would snap and the monster would come out.
She sat back on her heels and studied him a moment. “You have to do it. You have to prove to yourself that you can. Make love to me, Lucas and don’t hold back.”
She kissed him lightly on the lips, then sat back again. Their gazes locked, she dipped a hand between her legs and stroked, her other hand going to her breast. He watched, mesmerized as she pleasured herself. Her head fell back and a soft sigh slipped from her lips. Before he knew what he meant to do, he was on her, pressing her back to the floor, wedging himself between her legs. He thrust into her all at once. She gasped, arching into him. He rocked into her again. She didn’t stop him.
Something basic and primal took over as he pounded into her, grunting with the effort. There was no finesse, no technique. Just the harsh sound of flesh slapping flesh and her cries of encouragement, driving him on. All thought fled. It was just him and her and the want overriding it all. He burst, pouring into her with a roar wrenched from deep inside. He collapsed in a heap on top of her, gasping for breath.
She murmured something that got drowned out by the blood rushing in his head. Somewhere in the back of his mind he snagged a piece of it, the intent behind the words, and then quickly hid it away, afraid to believe, afraid it was only the moment, the sex that had forced them out of her.
He rolled off her, coming to rest on the floor beside her. Lying on their backs, they stared up at the ceiling side by side. She took his hand.
It was a miracle. She was a miracle. That she would accept him, knowing all that she knew about him. He felt like he should say something. Words of
gratitude, of how she made him feel, or how much she meant to him.
But no words came.
*****
He lay with her in bed later that night, playing with the fringes of sleep. She snored, a little rasping sound, but he didn’t mind. The sound of her, the weight of her against his body, the smell of her warm and feminine, her hair tickling his chest, felt right. All of it. They’d finished not that long ago, but he wanted her again. He wondered when or if that constant craving would lessen. Wondered if she felt the same. He brushed his fingers over the curve where her ass met her legs. She stirred, shifting her leg over his, opening for him.
He thought for a moment she had woken up, but her snoring continued uninterrupted. And then it occurred to him how every time he reached for her she was there, ready and willing. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve her or even why she’d want him. But she did.
He rolled her gently to her back. She sighed, turning her head to the side, and settled more firmly into the pillows. The cat leapt onto the bed and snuggled into the curve of her neck. Still she didn’t move. Her skin glowed in the moonlight as though she’d been bathed in moon dust. The sheet over her had slipped, revealing one breast. He should resist, let her sleep. Intending to do just that, he bent down and kissed the slope of her breast as a goodnight.
“You keep that up, you’re going to have to finish what you started.”
Startled, he looked up at her and grinned. “You want me to start something?”
“Like you need encouragement.”
“I’ll take all the encouragement I can get.”
“Hmm. I bet.” Reaching up, she stretched, and the other breast popped free of the sheet. The cat complained loudly and jumped off the bed.
“You’re encouraging me, Querida.”
“Am I? I thought I was stretching.” She did it again, arching her back, all but waving her breasts in his face.
Growling, he slipped his arms under her, practically serving her up for his attentions. He circled her nipples with hot, opened mouthed kisses, first one breast then the other. Gripping the headboard, she let out a purr of approval, definitely encouraging him. Laying his tongue out flat, he slowly licked the underside of her breast, up and over her nipple. She gasped, grinding her pelvis against the leg he’d wedged between hers. He paid the other side the same attention, adding a swirl over the nipple.
“Oh, God you’re good at that,” she panted.
He kissed her, his mouth hot and hungry over hers, showing her with his lips and tongue how he’d love her. He broke the kiss, tracing the line of her shoulder to her neck with little nips of his teeth. She writhed against him, using her hands and mouth, devastating his intentions to pleasure only her.
“Querida,” he whispered, his lips trailing down her neck.
“Hmm?” She wrapped her clever little fingers around his cock, doing that thing she did with her other hand and he forgot his name, forgot to breathe as she stroked him.
He reached past her, fumbling in the nightstand drawer, and finally came up with his prize. Taking her nipple in his mouth, he rasped his tongue over the sensitive tip and her hands fell away from him to grip his head, fastening him to her. Slipping a finger into her, he tested her readiness. She pushed her pelvis up, driving his finger deeper, then flexed down and up once again. Tipping her head back, she moaned in pre-orgasmic bliss.
He broke free of her breast and stared down at her in amazement, his breath ragged. “I’m never going enough of you, you know that?”
“God, I hope not,” she said, bringing him down for a kiss.
Blindly he secured the condom and reached for her again. She twisted out from under him and turned, presenting him with her backside. He gripped her hips, kneading the flesh there. She looked over her shoulder at him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes heavy with desire and wiggled her ass against his dick. He groaned and positioned himself at her entrance. He slid in slowly with her backing up to meet him.
She fisted the sheet and let out a low moan. He slid almost all the way out then back in again, holding her hips so he had control. She tried to set the speed, but he held her firmly, communicating that he was in charge and she’d just have to take it as he gave it. Then he continued his slow torture, never quite giving her the pace she wanted. Smoothing his hands up her sides and around to the front, he held her breasts in his hands. Playing with her nipples in time with his strokes, he drove her higher until she was begging for release.
Sweat beaded his brow from the effort of withholding and he thought for a moment he’d die from it. And then she clamped a hand on the headboard, setting something off inside him. He clasped her hips and drove into her over and over, faster and faster. She convulsed around him. He thrust once, twice, and leaned over her, twining his fingers with hers on the headboard as he too found his pleasure, driving deep.
He reluctantly withdrew from her, giving her a playful swat on the bottom, then kissed the sting. She moaned and flopped flat on her stomach. He left to dispose of the condom and came back to discover her snoring softly, still face down. Chuckling, he climbed into bed and drew the covers over her, tucking them around her.
The words he couldn’t find earlier came to him then, filling his head in big neon letters. Rolling to look at her, they blazed brighter. He reached out and touched her cheek, needing the contact. He kissed her shoulder, whispering the words against her skin first in Spanish, then in English.
“Te amo. I love you, Querida.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Thank you, detective.” Mi clicked her phone closed and gnawed on her lip. She’d woken up early the next morning to call Detective Rolls for news on Tracey. There was still no sign of her. According to Rolls, her disappearance combined with something the police had found in her phone records made her a ‘person of interest’ in the studio bombing.
Lucas came into the living room fresh from the shower, wearing nothing but a pair of faded, low-slung jeans, his hair damp and curling around his neck and ears. Her girl parts took notice, her nipples hardening against her t-shirt, her panties suddenly damp. Realizing her jaw hung open, she shut it with a snap. It was like he’d flipped some kind of switch inside her, tuning her to Lucas mode, causing her body to automatically react every time he came near.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
She flashed him her phone. “Detective Rolls called. There’s no sign of Tracey. It’s like she just vanished.”
“And?”
“He’s getting a warrant to search her apartment.”
“They think she had something to do with the bombing.”
He dropped the statement like a water balloon, splashing her with anger. It was one thing to hear it from Detective Rolls and quite another to know that Lucas would jump straight to that conclusion without at least trying to give her friend the benefit of doubt.
“Do you?” she snapped back.
He put his hands up like two big, meaty stop signs. “That’s for the police to decide. Not me.”
She stood up, propping her hands on her hips. “Really? Because it sounded like you believe she could have done it. Davy died! You really think someone who I considered a friend would commit murder? What does that say about your opinion of me and my judgment?”
“Querida, you’re tired. Overstressed.”
She knew he was right, but damn it. Why couldn’t he just placate her and stamp out the rampant doubts that had been playing at the back of her mind about Tracey instead of encouraging them? She was tired and overstressed, but hearing him call her that tipped her over to flat out pissed off.
“So my judgment’s impaired then, is that what you’re saying?” She folded her arms across her chest and flung herself head-long down a road she knew she shouldn’t go with him. “Because if that’s the case, then maybe I’m off about a whole bunch of other things as well.”
He eyed her carefully. She supposed a man with three sisters knew a female minefield when he saw one. “That’s not wha
t I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“I really hope your friend isn’t involved.”
She threw up her hands. “Why didn’t you just say that?”
He looked like he’d answer, then shook his head.
Her cell phone rang. She looked down at the caller ID, then stomped off down the hall to the bedroom half expecting him to follow her. She turned to close the bedroom door and caught sight of him shaking his head, mumbling something to himself.
She flipped her phone open. “Hi, Mom.”
“Miyuki?”
She sat down on the couch at the end of the bed. “Yes, it’s me.”
“Oh. I was trying to call your Aunt Betty. She was supposed to come over and watch Ethan so I could go to the grocery store.”
Mi popped off the couch. “Mom, Aunt Betty passed away four years ago, remember?”
“No, that was Uncle Eric.”
Closing her eyes, she squeezed her forehead between her thumb and fingers. Jason’s dad was named Eric and as far as anyone knew he wasn’t dead. “What do you need from the store?”
“Store?”
“You said you needed to go to the store.”
“I don’t know…” There was a long pause, then, “I had to put him in the fire. The fire purges. The fire cleanses. He wasn’t clean. I made him clean.”
Mi paced to the far side of the room, her insides cramping. “Mom. What fire?”
“Why are you yelling?”
“I’m not.” She tried to keep her voice calm, but it wobbled. “Where is the fire, Mom?”
There was a loud commotion in the background, a splitting sound followed by shouting.
“Get out of my house!” her mother shrieked.
“Mom!”
More yelling, then her mom’s voice somewhere in the distance, tinny and frightened. “Miyuki. Miyu…” The line went dead.
Mi pulled her phone away from her ear and shouted into it. “Mom! Mom!” Over and over she cried until Lucas burst into the room.
