But the way he was looking at me made it hard to feel anything but raw desire.
He lowered his face, kissing me between my breasts. "You're beautiful," he said into my skin.
"No," I murmured, "you are."
"Nah," he said, claiming the spot on the quilt next to me. "Not compared to you."
Lying on his side, he ran a long, leisurely finger from the center of my chest, down my ribs, and past my belly button, stopping over my panties.
I heard myself sigh as his finger trailed lightly back and forth over my clit. Even through the thin fabric, his touch was electric, teasing and tantalizing with every stroke. I pushed my hips upward, wanting more of him. But still, he teased me, giving me only enough to whet my appetite.
Desperately, I reached for the waistband of his jeans.
Gently, he moved my hands aside. "Not yet."
I gave a dramatic groan. "But you're torturing me."
"I think you'll survive."
I flopped my head back. "You think I'll survive? What if I don't?"
Just then, I felt a finger drift from the crease of my thigh and into my panties. When I felt his bare fingertip brush directly against my clit, a soft moan escaped my lips.
"You like that?" he said.
I nodded. I'd been touched there before, but never like this. Compared to the fumbling attempts of my last boyfriend, this was a new kind of bliss. His finger dipped lower, finding my opening, and I felt his finger grow slick with my own desire.
He slipped a finger inside me, not all the way, and not nearly enough. I raised my hips, an invitation, a plea. I wanted – needed – so much more. Again, I reached for his jeans. Again, he gently pushed my hands aside.
I was just about to protest, when something – his knuckles maybe – began to rub on either side of my clit, creating the most delicious friction I'd ever known.
Slowly, with his other hand, he pulled down my panties, leaving me utterly bare and exposed to him. "You're mine," he said. "For always."
Half crazed with desire, I felt myself nod.
Again, he slipped a finger inside me, maybe just an inch or two, still not enough.
"Say it," he said.
"I'm yours," I sighed.
With something – his thumb, maybe? – he started rubbing my clit again.
"For always," he said.
I nodded.
"Say it," he said.
"Always."
His voice was soft. "That's right." He picked up the tempo. "And don't you forget it."
Through half-lidded eyes, I looked up at him. His lips were parted, and his eyes hungry. A second finger joined the first, and he began those delicious motions again, inside and out.
Just when I thought I'd explode, he pulled out his fingers, and added a third. I felt myself tense as the stretching felt just this side of uncomfortable. He lowered his face, whispering in my ear. "Baby, it'll be okay. This'll help. I promise."
And I believed him. At that point, I'd have believed anything – that he'd never leave me, that I'd never leave him, that if we spent the whole of our lives in this one little room, that life would be perfection.
Still, my body was tense. But he was patient. As if he had all the time in the world, his fingers worked, enticing me one minute, and then pushing my limits the next.
After who-knows-how-long, the stretching sensation was replaced by need. With what he was doing, I felt so full, and yet so empty at the same time. I wanted him, but I didn't want him to stop those delicious motions that were driving me wonderfully insane.
My stomach clenched, and my breathing grew rapid. Vaguely, I was aware of him tugging down his jeans, and then his briefs, with barely a pause in the rhythm of his motions. He positioned himself at my opening, and I raised my hips, wanting him so bad I almost might have begged.
Still, his fingers moved against my clit, and I couldn't wait. When I fell over the edge into pure bliss, he slowly surged his hips forward, stretching me beyond what I'd have thought possible. I cried out, half in pain and half in ecstasy. He stopped moving.
I wrapped my arms around him and tried to pull him close. "No," I murmured. "Don't stop."
"Baby, if I'm hurting you–"
"No. You're not," I said, in a half-lie, half-truth. It did hurt, but between the fading euphoria and dawning realization, I'd have rather died at that point than have him stop. I wanted him. I wanted this. And soon, I knew, I'd want it again.
"I love you," I said. "Please. Don't stop now."
He slowly surged forward. "I love you too. I love you so fucking much." The moment seemed to go on forever, as his hips moved toward mine. And just when I thought I couldn’t take anymore of him, our hips finally met.
The fullness was nearly unbearable, but I didn't want him to stop. Somehow, I managed to say, "I love you too."
He wrapped his arms tight around me and whispered in my ear, "You okay?"
I nodded against him. I was trembling now, whether from the orgasm's aftermath, or from raw nerves, I had no idea.
He slowly pulled back, and then slowly moved forward again. This time, the unbearable fullness gave way to something like pleasure. When he did it again, the partial pleasure was replaced by the real thing.
Soon, the initial discomfort was long forgotten as my hips found a rhythm of their own. As his length moved in and out of me, I felt his hand in my hair, and long, lingering caresses on the back of my neck.
We rocked together for a blissful eternity, our bodies joined and my inhibitions fading, until with a shudder, he moaned, "I love you," and buried his face against my shoulder. His body trembled, then his hips grew motionless.
He clutched me tight, and I lost myself in his embrace.
Later that night, as I lay curled in his arms, I knew only one thing for certain. I could never leave him – not for warmer weather, not for my scholarship, not for anything on this Earth.
Because Bishop was right. I was his. Always
Chapter 44
Bishop was the farthest thing from my mind when I walked into The Crystal Moon the next morning. Crystal met me at the door. "You've got a Tarot reading in a half-hour."
I rubbed my eyes. "With who?"
"Someone named Harriet. She said it's an emergency."
"I've got an emergency too," I said. "A nap emergency."
"Can't you nap after the reading?"
I closed my eyes. "I'm napping now."
"Please?"
I sighed. "Did she say what kind of emergency?"
"Something about her love life," Crystal said.
I thought of Bishop. "I can relate," I said.
I recognized Harriet the minute she walked in. "Let me guess," I said to Lucy Larimar, the TV reporter from hell. "You're my eleven o'clock."
"You got it." She was dressed in tailored brown slacks and black cashmere sweater accessorized with a big gold broach.
"Why didn't you give your real name?" I asked.
"Harriet is my real name."
"More likely," I said, "you didn't want me to know who you were."
Smiling, she put a hand to her heart. "Stop. You're hurting my feelings."
"I'd like to hurt more than your feelings," I said, "after the hack job you did on our store."
"You're barking up the wrong tree," Lucy said. "I don't care if you are an amateur wrestler." She smirked. "I'm not afraid of you."
"Actually," I said, "I'm a bouncer at Chains."
She stared at me. "The biker bar?"
I didn't answer. I looked around. "Where's your camera man?"
"Oh, I'm not here on business," she said with a breezy wave of her hand. "It's my day off. I figured what the heck, why not get my fortune told? See what the fuss is about."
My gaze slid to the ornate piece of jewelry on her sweater. "Nice broach," I said.
"This?" Lucy said, looking down. "Oh yeah, I almost forgot I wore it today. Thanks."
I held out my hand, palm up. "Mind if I take a closer look?"
I thrust my hand closer. "I'll be careful," I said, "it being a family heirloom and all."
"I'd better not."
"I insist."
"I don’t want to snag my sweater."
"Uh-huh. Fork it over."
Lucy made a sound of disgust. "Fine," she muttered. "You got me? Okay?" She tugged at the broach and handed it over.
I gave it a close look. "I knew it," I said. I looked up, giving her a hard look. "Any other cameras?"
"That's it."
"Audio?" I asked.
"Of course not."
"Then you won't mind if I search you?"
"Oh alright," Lucy muttered, slamming her purse onto the counter. She pulled out a small electronic recorder. "Here," she said, slapping the device into my hand. "Go ahead, take it. What's the big deal?"
"It’s not a big deal," I said, "until it turns up on the news."
While I turned off the recorder, Lucy pulled out her cell phone. "Yeah, you heard right," she said into the phone. "It's off." She tapped her foot while the other person spoke. "Alright, see you in an hour." She disconnected the call.
"So," she said, "you gonna tell my fortune or what?"
"You can't be serious."
"You ruined my story, but I'm not going away empty-handed." She smiled. "Unless you’re ready for a nice expose on how you refused my business."
I let out a sigh. "You'd need to buy a magical mocha. Payment up front. And you have to leave your cell phone outside. I'm not taking any chances."
Ten minutes later, Lucy and I were settled in a reading room. "You really want to know about your love life?" I asked.
"You're the fortune teller," she said. "You tell me."
"Gee, I haven't heard that one before." I picked up the deck and began to shuffle.
"Wait," Lucy said.
I stopped shuffling. "What?"
"There's a Death Card, isn't there?"
"Every Tarot deck has a Death Card."
"Take it out," Lucy said.
I gave her a look. "The Death Card doesn't mean death."
"It doesn't?"
"Only in the movies," I said. "In real life, it means the end of a cycle. Sometimes it's good, like when you get engaged, or–" I smiled "–move out of your parent's basement."
"Do I look like I live in my parent's basement?" she said.
"You don't?"
"No," she snapped. "Do you?"
"Live in your parent's basement?" I said. "That'd be kind of weird."
"You know what I mean."
"Look," I said, "you're not the first person to ask me to take that card out, but it's silly."
"Oh, so now I'm silly?"
"I'm just saying, even if the Death Card comes up, it doesn't mean the Grim Reaper will be knocking on your door tonight."
Her mouth tightened. "I don't care. Take it out."
"Fine." I sorted through the deck until I found the Death Card. I pulled it out, showed it to Lucy, and set it aside. "Happy now?" I said.
"Me?" She gave a hollow laugh. "Do I look happy?"
"You know what?" I said. "I don't think this is a good idea."
"You're just mad you can't use the Death Card to freak me out."
"I wouldn’t do that." It was true. As much as I'd like to give Lucy a taste of her own medicine, I'd never use the cards that way.
She crossed her arms. "Sure you wouldn't."
I stood. "Give me your credit card. I'll process a refund."
Lucy stood, but then sank back into her chair. She started to cry, silently at first and then in big gulpy sobs. With a sigh, I sat down. When she kept crying, I patted her hand awkwardly, wishing for a margarita.
"I'm. Really. Sorry," she sobbed.
I continued the patting. She continued to cry. I gave up on the margarita and wished for just the tequila. The whole bottle. We sat together for several minutes until her sobbing subsided. Finally, with a loud sniff, she was done.
The room felt way too small, and I'd been driving all night. I was desperate to leave. Still, I made myself ask, "Is there something you want to talk about?"
She shook her head.
"You sure?" I said. "Guy problems? Job problems…"
"I already said no!"
"Alrighty then." I stood. "Wait here. I'll get your refund."
"No," she said. "I want to see what the cards say."
I gave her a dubious look. Her once-perfect face was a mess, with long streaks of mascara running down her cheeks.
"Trust me," I said. "You're not in the right frame of mind for this."
"Why would I trust you? You're nothing but a charlatan." Her voice rose. "But I don't care. I paid for my reading, and I'm not leaving 'til I get it!"
My head was pounding, but unless I was willing to drag her out personally, giving in seemed the quickest way to get rid of her. With a sigh, I picked up the deck, minus the Death Card. I shuffled and cut the cards and spread them out, face-down before Lucy.
"Pick ten cards," I said.
Slowly, Lucy made her selections. I gathered the remainder of the deck and set it aside. I picked up Lucy's ten cards and reshuffled.
Silently, I laid out her cards, face up, in a Celtic Cross formation.
With a sniff, she asked, "Well?"
"You're in a relationship?" I asked.
Lucy leaned back in her chair. "You're the fortune teller," she reminded me again. "You have a fifty-fifty chance. How hard can it be?"
"Fine," I muttered. "We’ll do it your way."
"About time."
I pointed at the center card, the Two of Cups, with its soothing image of man and woman exchanging chalices. "You are in a relationship," I said. "But it's troubled."
"What makes you say that?"
"The card's reversed."
"Reversed?"
"Upside-down," I explained. "It changes the card's meaning, sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse."
Her tone grew snotty. "I suppose you'll say this is worse."
"Not always worse," I said. "But it does suggest your relationship’s going through a rough patch."
She said nothing.
The card representing Lucy's immediate past was the Ace of Cups. "It's a relatively new relationship," I added.
Lucy remained silent.
"But you wonder if you can trust him." I pointed to the card in the upper-most position, where a knight on white steed held a chalice. "See this card?"
She read its name. "Knight of Cups. Looks like good card to me." Her gaze narrowed. "Is this where you tell me it's not?"
"True, it's a nice card for romance," I said. "But this one's upside-down too."
"So?"
"Reversed, some people call it the tricky-dick card."
"Tricky dick?"
"A false lover," I said. "Maybe his words and actions don't quite mesh."
"He's a man," she snapped. "Of course they don't mesh."
"You're afraid of him?" I asked.
Lucy grew very still. "Of course not. What makes you say that?"
"Nothing. Just a feeling." It was true. I couldn't point to a single card as the reason for my statement. Still, the thought lingered.
Lucy stood. "I've had just about enough."
"You're the one who insisted on the reading," I said.
She pulled out her credit card and thrust it at me. "I want my money back. All of it."
"Well, that's a shocker." I stood. I took her card and processed the refund. After she left, I returned to the reading room where Lucy's cards remained on the table.
My eyes fell to the outcome card. Three long swords pierced a blood-red heart. The Three of Swords. The Death Card was cheery in comparison. I sat down at the table, just for a minute, to think.
Something was knocking. I lifted my head from the table to see Crystal staring down at me.
"Why didn't you go upstairs if you wanted to n
ap?" she said.
"Huh?" I rubbed my eyes. "Guess I drifted off."
"That TV reporter's been calling."
"Lucy Larimer? But she just left."
"That was two hours ago," Crystal said. "She's called three times since."
I'd been asleep two hours? I stood on shaky legs. "What’d Lucy want?"
"She wouldn’t say. But she said it's urgent."
"Urgent, my ass. It's probably time for her next feeding."
"Yeah, that's one scary hoochie," Crystal said. "You gonna call her back?"
"No way." I said. "I've had enough drama for one day."
"What if she calls again?"
I stood to head upstairs. "Tell her the psycho ward's closed."
I woke eight hours later to a dark and freezing apartment. I made my way to the small kitchenette where I found expired cereal, a can of peas, and microwave popcorn.
I tossed the popcorn into the microwave and turned to Channel Thirteen for the eleven o'clock news.
Their top story was the continuing festivities related to the pub crawl. At the commercial break, I rose and retrieved the popcorn. I returned to see a breaking news graphic flash across the screen.
A second later, I saw a familiar face, a still image of Lucy Larimar. I cringed, bracing for another hack-job. But this time, the segment wasn't about fortune telling. That was the good news. But the bad news was really bad.
Lucy was dead.
Chapter 45
I stared at the television. The somber-faced newscaster wrapped up the segment by saying police were investigating her robbery and murder.
I considered our ill-fated fortune-telling session, just hours earlier. She'd been afraid of someone. But who? And why had Lucy called me afterwards? She’d said it was urgent. Now she was dead.
I threw the popcorn into the trash and turned off the TV. I leaned into the sofa and closed my eyes, desperate to think of anything else. When was the last time I'd bathed? Or eaten regular food? I did a quick calculation. It was two days earlier in Alabama.
I had a major attack of the blues. Lucy's death wasn't all of it. I was grubby, hungry, and Edgar still hadn't returned my calls.
I sulked until midnight, and then took a hot bath. In search of food, I dressed and threw on my ski jacket. I dashed outside to the Mustang, hit the keyless, and pulled on the door. It didn’t budge. "Crap!" I said and gave the front tire a kick.
Illegal Fortunes Page 17
