“This is not a movie, my love.” Moselle turned her back and began to walk off. Her list of concerns was greater than what horrible movies Jackson liked to watch and reminisce about. She didn’t want to be trapped for even a moment longer; it would make her scream.
“You’ve never seen the movie Earthquake, with Charlton Heston?”
“No,” Moselle snapped.
“Wait. You don’t like Charlton Heston?”
“I do not.”
Jackson laughed. “Girls don’t seem to like his movies.”
“The Ten Commandments was a dreadful film filled with inaccuracies,” Moselle grumbled as she walked down the hall. “The mere thought of it makes my skin crawl.”
“Well then, so let it be written—”
“Jackson, stop your fooling around. There are serious matters to attend to.”
“I’m sorry.”
She could hear Jackson tapping the scepter against his palm. The slapping sound reminded her of the past, but of what and when, she could not easily recall.
“You know, this is some seriously strong wood.”
“It’s African Blackwood.” She remembered that much. “Very strong.”
“Barely scratched it,” Jackson noted. “Whose was this? Yours? Your fathers?”
As Moselle turned the corner of the hallway and entered the kitchen, she stopped dead in her tracks. The floor was littered with broken plates and glassware, but it wasn’t the destruction that made her pause. It was his question.
“I wish I could remember.”
“Well, I’m sure it’s important. Looks like it belongs to a pharaoh or—”
“A vizier.” Suddenly, it all came back to her.
“Holy shit!” Jackson said as he entered the kitchen a few steps behind her.
The kitchen was a spacious room, with many cabinets and a large walk-in pantry. It had two islands and a small table that could seat four. It had been decorated with many framed photographs of Moselle’s family, all of which had fallen from the walls and were broken on the floor along with what seemed like the contents of every cabinet.
Moselle tried to make sense of the sight; some things were broken in ways that made them unidentifiable. And then, to her surprise, a salt lamp sat on the table, the candle inside it still burning. Of all things in the room, it seemed that candle had not moved an inch.
One of her guards crossed the room, glass crunching under his boots. “Mistress, your water.”
When he handed Moselle the bottle of water, she bowed and thanked him.
“How may we serve you?”
“Clear a path!” The senior guard pointed to the floor.
After a long drink, Moselle answered, “I need to know if the house remains stable. Go to the basement and subbasement. Check the pillars and foundation. Will the house stand or fall?”
“Yes, mistress.” The guard rushed off.
“Find my cats,” she ordered another guard who stood near. “All of them. Gather them up. Get them to someplace safe.”
“Yes, mistress.”
“Lady Moselle, you should not be about in such a state of indecency.” The senior guard’s face twisted with anger as he said, “I will prepare your bath and clothes.”
“I can handle that,” Jackson interrupted as he laid the scepter across the table.
“You handle nothing!” The guard spit in Jackson’s face as he shouted.
Jackson stepped up to him and bumped the man with his puffed-out chest. “I’ve been handling your mistress for the past few days. I’m gonna keep handling her all day today too.”
The senior guard rattled off several sentences in his native language. Moselle understood what he said but knew Jackson did not. It was for the best, she concluded; the guard’s vulgar threats would not have gone over well with her lover.
CRASH.
“What was that?” Moselle asked, but neither man looked ready to stop their staring contest. “Stand down. Both of you.”
“Yes, Lady Moselle.”
“Mistress,” another one of her guards called out as he ran into the room. “The elevator just collapsed. It’s broken apart.”
“Was anyone hurt?” Moselle asked as Jackson’s eyes went wide.
“I am unsure,” the guard replied. “Doubtful.”
“I knew it!” Jackson blurted out. “See, Moss, that thing broke after we got off it.”
“This is not the time,” she said sternly. “Not the time for any of this!”
Moselle, Jackson, and her senior guard stood in silence a moment. Moselle was disappointed with herself; she had not meant to yell.
“Maybe we should turn on the news,” Jackson suggested. “Before we lose power.”
Moselle faced the senior guard. “Would you please go to the living room and turn on the television? Find a broadcast that will reveal what happened here. I need confirmation that this was just an earthquake.”
The guard shot one last angry glance at Jackson before he left. Moselle shook her head, surprised that Jackson did not react—lash out or at the very least make a snide comment. She stepped in front of him and took his wrists in her hands. “Jackson, look at me.”
“Yeah?”
“Look at me.”
“I’m looking.” His scowl changed to a smile. “I’ve never seen you in one of my tank tops before and I have to say, with half your wrappings off, you look—”
“Like a mess, I know.” She frowned.
“No, I was going to say sexy. You look hot, Moss.”
As worried as she was about her home and the cats, Moselle could not stop thinking about how odd Jackson had acted before the earthquake—especially the way he’d said her name. It sounded so familiar.
“Say my name.”
Jackson smirked. “Moselle.”
“Say my whole name.”
“Moselle Ghurair.”
“No!” she snipped. “The whole thing. Say the whole thing.”
Jackson looked crossed. “Jesus, Moselle.”
“Just do it.”
“You’ve heard me say it before. You know it’s hard for me to pronounce it all correctly.”
She tightened her grip on his wrists and said. “Say my name. Say it all. Say it now.”
Jackson yanked his hands free. “Moselle Abdul Aziz Al Ghurair.” After he said it, he took a step back. “There. Happy?”
She was not happy at all. The way he said it did not sound anything like before. He’s right. He can barely pronounce it. She shivered. If not him, who was with me down there?
“What?” Jackson recoiled when she set her hands on his tight chest.
“My apologies,” she said, slowly placing a chaste kiss on his lips.
“You went crazy a little there, Moss.”
Moselle rose an eyebrow. “And you?”
Jackson sighed. “Downstairs? Yeah, being trapped in your subbasement so long, I was starting to lose my mind.” His face scrunched. “Why? Did I say or do something weird? This morning has been a blur…honestly.”
“Your words and actions did not match you, Jackson.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Do not be. I rather enjoyed your physical assertiveness.” Moselle reached down to his groin to give it a light pat. “Perhaps I was losing my mind down there too.”
The sound of approaching footsteps drew their attention. Moselle’s senior guard had returned with some news.
“Reports say the earthquake measured four point one and lasted nearly two minutes.”
“Two minutes,” Jackson repeated. “No wonder my legs are burning. That’s longer than most shifts on the ice.”
“Where was its origin?” she asked, shaking her head at Jackson’s comment. “Where was its center?”
“Beverly Hills.”
Moselle looked at Jackson as he gasped; in his expression of shock, she could read what he thought because she was thinking the same thing.
“Sabrina…”
Falling
“Take a
good long look!” Sabrina shouted over her balcony railing when she tossed her Calvin Klein mini dress over the edge and cast her arms open wide. “Take a fucking look! Every last one of you!”
The fresh breeze felt nice for a change. It had been a long evening out, dancing and drinking. It seemed like forever since she felt such excitement.
“Woo!” she hollered even louder. The night had shaped up to be a fine catharsis. “Take a good look at me, world! I fucking win!”
Sabrina felt like her body had stored enough sun and heat to last a lifetime. It gave her a sense of being alive—alive at her fullest. Her hands and feet tingled and there was a lightness in her step.
I never want this sensation to end.
When she traced her index finger up through her cleavage, she caught a droplet of sweat. Damn it, I’m on fire. “And it feels fucking great!” she screamed.
“Sabrina,” Weston interrupted.
“Hand me that bottle, Weston.” She pointed to the wine that sat atop the old bistro table on her balcony.
“I think you’ve had enough,” he said.
Sabrina looked to the east; the sky turned a colorful mix of purple and pink. It was not often she saw the sun rise, but she truly loved when she did.
“Hand it to me.”
“I thought you were trying to get sober.”
“Tonight, I’m celebrating.”
“And what were you doing the day I got here?”
Weston sounded like Moselle. “I…” Sabrina thought a moment. “I—I was mourning.” She looked out toward the hospital and sighed. This night would’ve been perfect if my friends were here—Mira, Moselle—even Jackson.
The wind blew over the opening of the wine bottle, making a whistling sound. Weston may not have agreed with her, but he was doing as she said, handing her the bottle. That’s his job, Sabrina thought. He’s my bodyguard. He must guard my body. And my body has needs.
She grabbed the wine bottle and took a long chug. The red wine was cool on her tongue and flowed easily down her throat. How much she had drank, she had no idea, but it seemed to get easier and easier as the morning grew closer.
She stepped up a rung on the railing and shouted. “Come on, people, who wants to see future pop superstar, Sabrina London naked?”
“Seriously, Sabrina, you should—”
“What?”
“You should get down, put on your pajamas, and go to bed. It’s been a long night. You should rest up.”
Sabrina jumped down and turned around. Weston was nothing more than a glimmer, but the rising sun caught him in such a way that he almost sparkled.
“You gonna tell me what to do?” Sabrina reached her hand down between her legs. “Or are you gonna do what I tell you to do?”
“Let’s go inside.”
“No.” She took another drink and then threw the bottle, which Weston caught. “You gonna whine”—she chuckled—“or you gonna bend me over this railing and fuck me?”
Weston did not instantly reply, as she expected him too. His silence began to unnerve her, but when she brushed a palm over the jewels set in the bangle on her wrist, she steeled herself. I’m in control here. No one else.
“Well?”
Weston finally moved closer; she could tell since the wine bottle was still in his grasp.
“What are you waiting for?”
When she felt the wind caress her hips, she assumed it was him—gentle at first, but she felt it. Hands pressed tightly into the crests of her hipbones, he turned her away from him.
“That’s it,” Sabrina slurred. “Now bend me over.”
When she placed her hands on the chilly balcony railing, her mind flashed back to the bathroom in the gun shop—Sabrina had bent over then too. She had bent over and placed her hands on the cold cistern of a toilet, but that time she did it to entice another woman’s man, a human man.
Suddenly, she imagined what it would have felt like to fuck Jackson. His big hands wrapped around me, squeezing my waist like a vice. Her heart fluttered, and her breathing became ragged. He would hold me in a way that said he didn’t want to let go. Not ever.
Sabrina imagined the force with which Weston applied to bend her over belonged to Jackson’s hand, and it made her wet.
“Slow at first,” she whispered. “Okay?”
Weston listened, and when he entered her, it was inch by inch. Would Jackson do the same? No, she guessed. He would tease me as I’ve teased him.
“Tease me.”
“What?”
“Tease me,” Sabrina grumbled. “Take it out and rub it—”
“Got it.” He withdrew as slowly as he’d entered, and once out, he slid only the tip back in. Sabrina let her head hang down over the railing. Her body and mind were synching. Weston’s touch had become Jackson’s; this was exactly what she needed.
“You’re making me so wet.”
“You know it.”
“Put it back in.”
Sabrina reached behind her, and when she found him, she directed him back inside her and then titled her hips back, so he would reach her depths. The spike of pleasure was so intense it flirted with nausea. Sabrina held her breath.
Yes, I feel it all. Everything. All at once. The rising sun on my skin…it welcomes the future I have always wanted.
Sabrina looked down at the city below her as Weston’s thrusts increased in tempo. Suddenly, her eyes lost focus, and she blinked, her eyes rolling into her head briefly. She assumed it was the drinking, but when she looked down again, she felt a slight sense of vertigo, and she gripped the railing harder.
She wasn’t sure if it was the overload of adrenaline that coursed through her, the alcohol that inebriated her, or the fantasy of Jackson filling her, but something had brought her quickly to the edge.
“Faster.”
“Already?” Weston sounded shocked. “Damn, girl.”
“Faster.”
Weston quickly enveloped her; his touch was everywhere: her breasts, her stomach, her butt, her legs, even that space behind her ears, where her hairline was. It felt incredible.
“Grr!” She clenched her teeth in delight.
“What do you want, princess?”
“Shut up!” Sabrina hated being called that, even by him. “Tell me how badly you want me to come.”
“I want to feel your body shivering with pleasure from head to—”
“Gah-fuck!”
Sabrina imagined Jackson saying something similar but more loving-less scripted. Jackson would have reached around and pinched her nipples lightly while he breathed his hot breath over the back of her neck. He would have said, “Can you come for me, Sabrina?” She imagined herself nodding, suddenly shy. “I want you to. I want you to come again and again,” he would have told her, and she would have done her best to comply.
“Damn it!” Sabrina groaned. She was close, but she needed more. She wanted to feel the warmth of a man inside her, but that was not possible—never seemingly possible. “Harder!”
Weston slammed himself deeper insider her, increased his size, and filled her to her fullest. Sabrina held her breath and then shouted when she released.
Legs weak, she leaned heavily against the railing. Jackson, she thought, wishing he were there to look into her eyes, to kiss her as her body amped up for another go. But with the thought of looking at his handsome face came the realization that he was more than likely dead. Both he and Moselle.
What am I doing? What am I thinking? Sabrina looked out into the sky, focusing on the fluffy pink clouds on the horizon. Am I so self-involved now that I’ll fantasize about my dead friend’s lover so that I can orgasm? Am I so driven by my desires that I’ll use the spirit promised to guard me as my fuck buddy? What would you think of me now, Father? Has your whoring daughter reached new heights? Princess? No, I’m the queen. The god-damned queen of filth.
“Fuck!” she growled, yet this time it was not out of pleasure.
“Hot damn!” Weston cheered. “I’m rea
lly gonna do it this time. I’m gonna fuck you till you faint. Another two or three orgasms like that one, and you’re gonna pass out on my—”
The rest of Weston’s boast was lost when a rumble unlike anything she had ever heard before exploded beneath her, and shook the building.
“What’s happening?” Sabrina yelled over what sounded like a bomb going off on the street.
“Something’s here. Something—”
The building suddenly lurched, and Sabrina toppled over the railing. Her body turned end over end, and she was suddenly facing the sky and her balcony from below.
This is it. This is what I wanted that night long ago. I wanted to jump. I wanted to fall. I’m falling now. She was so caught up in her feelings, she didn’t unleash her wings. I wanted to die before. I wanted to die.
Sabrina swung her arms until her body turned over, and now she faced the rapidly approaching ground.
Release your wings, Sabs. Stop this, she told herself. Float away. But there was another thought in the darkest recesses of her mind. Do you really deserve to live when all your friends have died?
Sabrina didn’t have to decide. Weston decided for her. She felt an updraft, and her fall slowed. She was gliding now, the air beneath her felt like she had released her wings. She was unsure exactly how far she had fallen, but she could tell now that she had swiftly risen fifteen or more stories.
Eyes up, she found the penthouse balcony above her. She wished she could see Weston, but she couldn’t see anything. She steadily rose until, nearly fifty feet from the top, she heard him.
“Release your wings, Sabrina.”
“I was falling,” was all she could think to say.
“And I caught you.”
She floated two-dozen feet from her balcony’s railing. Except for the wind in her ears and the pound of her heart in her chest, the world had grown quiet. The rumbling had ceased. Must’ve been an earthquake. Sabrina remembered the last one and how it had shaken her apartment in a similar way. She also recalled Mira’s fright. Acts of nature affect these elemental spirits so differently than the rest of us otherworldlies.
Weston had not pulled her in, so she let herself go limp, tilted her head back to the sun, and closed her eyes.
“What are you doing?”
Two Polluted Black-Heart Romances Page 11
