Xavier's Desire

by Meg Ripley

  The way he’d spoken her name, it was clear in his tone that he cared for her deeply. Had she been his wife? Lover?

  She’d taken the woman’s medallion—and then accused him of murdering her!

  She opened her clenched fists as a sign of surrender and let her body relax beneath his. Instead of releasing her, he groaned just a split second before his lips descended on hers, as if he was ravenous, starved for her mouth. She met him there, her own lips moving against his, and she parted for him easily when his tongue pressed against the seam of her lips.

  “God damn it, Freya,” he whispered raggedly when he pulled away and released her wrists, “We’re supposed to be finding answers…but every time I see you, every time I breathe you in…all I want is to have you.”

  She nodded, finding no better words to express the same sentiment, and she grazed her hands down his arms, flexed taut as he held himself over her. But he shifted all his weight to one side and grabbed for her wrists. They were back over her head in a flash, secured in his strong grip, but she didn’t want to lie there passively. She wanted to touch him, she wanted to explore every inch of his body.

  She tugged hard against his grasp, frustrated that she knew there was more power, more strength to tap into somewhere inside her; she just had no idea how to locate it. But it was enough, or else he relented without a fight. She reached for him at the same time she surged up for his mouth. Digging her heels into the floor, she pushed with all her might and flipped them over so that she was on top of him.

  He growled low in his throat as she left his lips and started downward, yanking his shirt up to give her lips access to the hard planes of his chest and the rippling muscles of his abdomen. His hands were clenched in fists at his sides, so tight his knuckles had turned white, but the moment she reached his waist, his jeans hampering her descent further, he grabbed for her, digging hard into her arms to still her movements.

  “You can’t do that, Freya,” he whispered, “This is dangerous…” he continued as he yanked her up until she straddled his chest. He breathed in deep, like he couldn’t get enough of her scent, and a surge of female power shot through her. She pressed her advantage and slid forward until only two inches and the thin fabric of her thong was all that separated his mouth from her.

  But she’d pressed her advantage too far; he grabbed her hips and flipped her over, and she landed with a thud on the carpeted floor. He winced, seeing her land hard, but he didn’t stop. In one smooth motion, he yanked off her skirt and thong. He spread her legs roughly and grabbed her ass in his hands to lift her to him as he leaned in and buried his head between her thighs.

  His tongue lapped at her clit and she writhed against him as wave after wave of arousal crashed over her. All of a sudden, he sucked the sensitive bundle of nerves into his mouth, and the waves grew to tidal heights.

  She reached down, needing to touch him, to feel some part of his flesh beneath her fingers. And when he tried to pull away from her grasp, she dug her fingers into his shoulders until he ceased his effort.

  She thought he was punishing her when he released her clit, but his tongue delved into her well a second later, pushing deep, frantically, like he couldn’t get enough. She slid her hands lower, feeling the flex of the muscles in his back. She wanted to feel more of him, but at the same time, she didn’t want him to ever stop. It was an impossible decision.

  She reached as far as she could down his back, grazing up to his shoulders when she could go no further. Over and over again, she covered every inch of his hard body she could reach as his tongue drove her higher, and when he sent her over the brink, her back arched off the ground and her fingers dug deep into his flesh as she screamed in ecstasy and her body splintered into a thousand rapturous pieces.

  But she didn’t take her time coming back down to Earth. He’d lowered her legs and was sliding up her body; she heaved in one forceful movement, knocking him over and landing on top of him. She wasted no time, lunging for the fly of his jeans and tugging them off his legs. Before she could reach her objective, though, he was on his feet, taking her with him and dropping her down on the bed in front of him.

  He pushed her back and she was about to lunge for him when she caught the look on his face, and it made her pause. Desire blazed scorching hot in his eyes, but his teeth were clenched tight, his jaw spasming with the pressure.

  My god, she thought, if this is what he’s like while holding back, what would he be like if his restraint fell away? She desperately wanted to know, to see him lose control, but something in the back of her mind warned her to tread carefully. She tried to listen to it, to progress with caution, but when he hovered over top of her and grabbed her hips to pull her to the edge of the bed, she couldn’t help herself.

  She wrapped her legs around him and drew him toward her at the same time he surged forward, plunging in to the hilt in one, forceful thrust. She stilled, knowing her body would adjust like it had the last time he’d filled her, but knowing, too, that it wasn’t instantaneous. He shook with his restraint, but he withdrew slowly and plunged in with less fervor than the first thrust, though it looked like it was almost painful for him to exhibit so much control.

  “Fuck me, Grant,” she whispered and wrapped her legs more tightly around him.

  Another low groan escaped his lips, and he surged forward, driving his cock deep inside her. He withdrew, and thrust in again without pausing this time, and she reached up to draw his mouth down to hers.

  He held her hips tightly, and she clung to his shoulders; both of them would have a hard time trying to break the other’s grasp, but neither of them had any intention of it. She broke the kiss to lean back far enough to look at him, and it amazed her to see that his jaw was still clenched tight. He was fucking her hard, his pace growing more frantic by the moment, but she could tell he was still holding on tight, that the tension in his body bespoke not only his mounting pleasure, but a tenuous grip on whatever it was he was holding in check.

  She watched him, fascinated and deeply curious what would happen if he let go of whatever reins he was holding onto. But seconds later, she abandoned the thought when he shifted his weight and slid a hand between them. He found her clit and rubbed frantically. Her hips bucked clear off the bed and she dug her fingers into his shoulders, quite certain she drew blood, but she couldn’t stop.

  She cried out as he drove her higher than she’d ever been. Shockwaves of pleasure jolted through every inch of her body and she surged upward, sinking her teeth into the taut flesh of his shoulder to keep from screaming loud enough to bring the entire town’s police department crashing down the door.

  He thrust once, twice, and then his body jerked forward, ramming himself so deep inside her, she wondered if they could ever be separated again. His fingers dug into her hips and it was a wonder they didn’t crush beneath the pressure as he found his own release.

  A moment passed, and his hands released their hold on her, but as he withdrew from her, she felt empty, so much that she had to fight against the urge to wrap her legs around him tighter and draw him back in.

  He stood there looking down at her, and she didn’t have to wonder what he was thinking this time. His expression was the same as it had been the last time, half-enraptured and half deeply regretful. His eyes grazed over her body, and no doubt she wore the proof of their feverish coupling in bruises on her skin, but she barely felt them, and knew this time that they would heal quickly.

  “I think I’ve done far more damage than you did,” she said wryly, tracing her fingers over the bite mark that had drawn blood on his shoulder and the bruises and scratches on his back.

  He nodded, but he didn’t move. He continued to stand there, his eyes intent on her injuries that were minor in comparison to the vast pleasure he’d just given her. She realized what he was doing—he was waiting; waiting to see the bruises on her body disappear, to see that she’d at least not suffered any long-lasting injuries from what they’d done.

  She
could feel the throbbing in her arms begin to ebb, and her hips no longer felt like they’d been held in a vice. They’d already begun to disappear, and two minutes later, he laid down next to her, drawing her into his embrace as he pulled the blanket over them. She listened to the beat of his heart beneath her cheek and held onto the blissful sensations still tremoring through her body.

  Questions hovered at the back of her mind, and the chaos of the past several days threatened to insinuate its way into her serene state, but she pushed them back. Not yet. There would be plenty of time later for chaos and confusion.

  She closed her eyes, reveling in the feel of him against her, and as she drifted off, she couldn’t remember ever feeling more at home than she did right then in Grant’s arms.

  Chapter 11

  She awoke to the click of a door handle and the sound of Grant’s footsteps. How she’d come to know his footsteps from anyone else’s, she wasn’t sure, but they were most definitely his.

  She rolled over and found him striding toward her, a paper bag in one hand and a tray of cups in the other.

  “You look like a tea-drinker,” he said, grinning down at her and holding out the tray of cups, but his eyes grazed over her as he spoke. Desire flared in his gaze as if he’d been able to see right through the blanket that covered her.

  “And do tea-drinkers have a particular look to them?”

  “Actually, I saw a tin of it in your kitchen, but no coffeemaker.”

  She smiled. “I could drink the instant stuff,” she teased.

  “I took a chance,” he said, balancing the tray on the bed while he leaned in to kiss her—which made her forget all about tea…breakfast…and anything else that didn’t involve getting him naked.

  All of a sudden, he pulled away and stood up straight. His breathing had deepened and when he spoke, it came out as a strangled whisper, “You need to get dressed, Freya, or we’re never going to make it out of this room.”

  He turned around then and took several steps away, and she realized when she’d sat up to kiss him back, the blanket had fallen away, leaving her bare to the waist. She loved that his attraction to her seemed so potent that he had to put distance between them to keep his hands off her—not that she wanted him to keep his hands to himself.

  Nevertheless, he was right; she’d pushed her problems to the back of her mind long enough. If he knew someone who might be able to help make sense of what was going on, she needed to get her mind off what her body wanted and onto finding answers.

  “Where are we going, Grant?” she asked as he slid into the driver’s seat of his car an hour later. He shifted the gear and drove out of the parking lot, but it wasn’t until they pulled out into traffic that he answered her.

  “To see a woman who might have answers, Freya.”

  “About me?”

  “Yes,” he replied, but he didn’t elaborate.

  The rest of the drive passed in near silence, each of them painfully aware of the other and both of them knowing they couldn’t afford to make another detour.

  Trying to keep her mind off the virile man next to her and all the things he was capable of doing to her body, she tried to settle her attention somewhere else. “Was Sonya your wife?” she asked hesitantly.

  “No,” he said quietly, but once again didn’t elaborate.

  “But you cared for her?”

  “Yes,” he replied succinctly.

  Realizing she wasn’t getting very far, she tried for something else, “The medallion, its carvings are very old; prehistoric, it seems.”

  He didn’t comment, and her mind turned back to the previous line of questioning. “Was she…like you?” she asked, not entirely sure what Grant was, but an ordinary human, he was not. Her mind should be protesting such a ridiculous thought—what did she think he was, an alien?—but it didn’t.

  “Yes,” again another short answer.

  It wasn’t long after that she abandoned the relatively fruitless questions and they reached a lone house. It wasn’t the image of a rundown shack like one might expect in the middle of nowhere. In fact, it was beautiful; it was white-washed, it had beautifully tended gardens and a white picket fence. Beyond it were several cottages, all smaller versions of the main house.

  Without a word, he slid out, but he told her to wait there for just a minute.

  She didn’t listen, hopping out of the car, stretching her legs and then following close behind him.

  “I said to wait in the car, Freya,” he said as he knocked on the door, though his voice didn’t sound particularly irritated.

  “I know,” she said simply.

  A woman opened the door almost right away and Grant turned his smile to her. “Hello, Genevieve,” he greeted her, and his tone was warm. She got the immediate impression this was not a casual acquaintance, but a woman he cared for deeply.

  “Mo charaid!” the woman exclaimed, opening her arms and pulling Grant into a motherly embrace. “What has it been; thirty years? Forty?”

  Forty years? Grant didn’t look more than thirty years old—maybe thirty-five, at most. But before Freya could contemplate this anomaly further, the woman stepped back and settled her gaze on her, peering at her intently with eyes that were kind but seemed to see right through her. Eyes that were surprised by what they found.

  “Grant,” Genevieve breathed without looking away, “what have you gotten yourself into?” she asked, motioning for them to come in, albeit reluctantly.

  “By the look on your face, my friend, I imagine I’ve gotten myself into some trouble.”

  “What on Earth are you doing here, Freya?” she asked, switching her attention once again.

  How did the woman know her name? Had they met before? Could this woman tell Freya who she was? A tremor of excitement raced through her.

  “You know who I am? We’ve met before?” she asked hopefully.

  “No. No, we’ve never met, my Lady.”

  My lady? Freya’s brow furrowed as she pondered her new title. What the…?

  “Genevieve? Do you know what Freya is?” Grant asked, touching her arm in concern.

  “Yes, of course,” she replied, seemingly snapping out of whatever had fazed her. “But do you mean to tell me you don’t know?”

  “I haven’t the vaguest idea, actually. I’ve never met anyone like her. We were hoping you might be able to shed some light on that subject.”

  “Of course, you haven’t met anyone like her. Grant, she’s Freya,” Genevieve said, as if that somehow explained everything.

  Freya sighed, trying to hide her disappointment. Her name was about the only thing she already knew about herself so the woman’s insight was less than helpful.

  “Yes, that much we’ve managed to establish, mo charaid—” Grant started, but Genevieve cut him off.

  “No, Grant, you don’t understand. Surely, you’ve discovered for yourself she isn’t human; that she’s unlike any creature you’ve seen. Your senses have always been spot on, impressive for a dragon, but I suppose you couldn’t possibly understand what you’ve been sensing, could you?”

  Hold on. Did she just say a dragon? As in a scaly, fire-breathing lizard? Freya’s eyes began to shift between Genevieve’s and Grant’s, hoping for an explanation—fast.

  “Freya and I have not been acquainted long…” Grant ground out between gritted teeth, while his eyes conveyed more to the message. Apparently, he was none too pleased with what the woman had revealed, but Genevieve couldn’t possibly be serious; the woman had to be off her rocker.

  “Grant,” Genevieve said, seeming to grasp his meaning and having a thing or two to add, “You can’t keep what you are hidden from her; you can’t keep anything hidden from her. She’s Freya,” the woman reiterated.

  “Yes, I know that much…” he cut in, a hint of agitation in his tone despite the patient expression on his face.

  “She is Freya, daughter of Njord…and the wife of Odin.”

  Suddenly, Grant sat down hard on the sofa behind
him. He looked stunned, but at the same time, a bubble of laughter rose up in Freya’s throat. The woman was obviously joking. There was no way in hell she was the most powerful goddess of Norse mythology—hence the term ‘mythology.’ It was folklore. A legend. A fanciful story passed down from generation to generation.

  “That’s not possible,” Grant said in a voice that was little more than a whisper. She agreed whole-heartedly, but why did it seem there was a noticeable lack of commitment in his tone?

  Now she was certain the woman was batshit crazy, and how sane could Grant possibly be if he was putting any stock in what Genevieve was saying? “You can’t be serious,” Freya said, meaning no disrespect, but someone had to bring this conversation back into the realm of reality.

  They both looked up at her, and she got the impression they were serious. Dead serious, she’d wager, by the grave expressions on their faces.

  Grant sprung to his feet, pacing back and forth in front of the sofa, deep in thought. “Alright,” he said, stopping in front of Genevieve, “assuming you’re not mistaken, how could she forget that? No potion, no curse I’ve ever heard of could affect an Aesir god.”

  “You believe she has truly forgotten?”

  He resumed his pacing, silent for the moment. “Yes, I do,” he replied.

  “I fear I do as well,” Genevieve said, sighing heavily. “If she were Loki, perhaps I would doubt it, but Freya has no reason to lie. What need would there be for it?”

  Loki—the shapeshifting trickster? She cringed at the mention of the name, though it evoked no particular memory.

  “But then how is it she can’t remember anything if nothing on this Earth could affect her so greatly?”

  Genevieve sighed. “Only the spell of a god could have befuddled her mind. It is possible to remove the shroud, but we must consider that she may have done it to herself; that perhaps she doesn’t wish to remember. And perhaps it might also be in our best interest if she didn’t remember,” she added quietly, as if she were ashamed of the suggestion.