by Meg Jackson
“It was my father’s,” he said when she finally asked, and understanding bloomed in her like a lotus. “Kennick inherited the title of rom baro. I inherited the car.”
“What did Cristov get?” she asked.
“His ring,” Damon answered. Tricia looked out the window and thought about Ricky, who was, arguably, the least likely to get married. But Cristov had clearly done some major work on Ricky’s cynicism. Just like Kennick had done work on Kim’s battered self-image. And Damon…
She wouldn’t let her mind wander there. Not yet. It was too new to start dreaming of a future beyond the next campsite. Though it seemed that they’d known each other for ages, they’d only been on the trip for two days. And she didn’t want Damon “fixing” her, anyway. She would fix herself. Sometimes, though, when she looked at him, seeing a deep and hardened strangeness – something wrong – inside his face, she wondered if he was the one who needed fixing.
That night, they dined on fresh fish from a local market, dressed with lemon and sage and parsley, fried up over the fire with spinach and arugula. Crusty French bread sopped up salty, herbaceous runoff, melting in their mouths at first bite. Damon turned a packet of instant mashed potatoes into a delicacy, mixing in well-aged parmesan, fresh garlic, green onions and more herbs.
Without thinking, Tricia sucked her fingertips into her mouth after the meal to clean them of oil and herbs – when she opened her eyes and saw Damon watching, she blushed.
“Shit,” he said, smiling through the veneer of lust. “Nothing like watching a girl enjoy her meal. Makes you feel like you done real good.”
“Well, you did,” she crooned. “That was the best fish I ever had.”
“That’s because of how fresh it was,” he said.
“So humble,” Tricia said, closing her eyes and shifting herself down to the sandy soil to lay out beside the fire and digest, her head propped up on the log they’d been sitting on. For a moment, looking at her laid out like that with her eyes closed and her hands folded over her stomach, Damon felt a dread sensation. She looked dead. Just like she almost was. Would have been, if…
He pushed the thoughts from his head and focused on the soft rise and fall of her chest, the way her nose scrunched when a breeze lifted a strand of hair and tickled it against her face. She wasn’t dead, she hadn’t died, she was here now, with him. That thought kicked up another sensation, one far more pleasant but harder to push away.
Her body, gentle and curvaceous and tanned to the shade of the sand, was enough to make his mouth water. She would be more delicious than any gourmet camp side meal. He was going to wait for her to be ready, for her to trust him, for her to ask for what she wanted from his body. But the waiting was hard. The waiting was damn near impossible.
If he could have, he would have gone over to her right then, in the light of the sunset, and run his hands up her legs to where they met at her delta, pressed his body against hers and spread her wide, licked the flesh of her neck and readied her for him, watched her eyes expand and deepen as he showed her everything a man could do to please a woman worth pleasing…
Instead, he rose and walked a short distance towards the sea. He was hard as stone, painfully hard, his erection throbbing against the zipper of his jeans. The waves against the shore were like the blood pumping up his neck, down his arms, through his manhood. There were always stories about gypsy witches. Tricia had more power over him in one finger than any sorceress of legend. He didn’t question why, or how. It wasn’t worth questioning. He trusted the tides of his heart and body.
How long was it supposed to take to fall in love? He’d fallen in love with her the night they met. And in the time since, that love had grown patient, tempered, and true. He would wait. He knew not everyone was like him, that most people needed to be sure of someone before they loved them. So he would wait for Tricia to come to that by herself, if she ever did. Maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she wouldn’t love him back. That wouldn’t make what he felt any less precious, any less worth having.
Back at the campsite, Tricia felt rather than saw Damon’s absence. She blinked her eyes open, turned to see where he’d gone, and saw his silhouette against the setting sun. It was so beautiful she felt her heart cracking in two. Off in the distance, she could see one of the island’s lighthouses, and thought that it was a fitting addition to the living mural before her. Something sturdy and larger than life.
It’s too soon, she told herself. You still barely know him…you’ve never even kissed…it’s too soon…
But beneath that warning, her heart beat steadily, and the tune to which it beat was a salve to every wounded doubt.
My man, my man, my man, my man…
16
The dreams didn't always come, but when they did, it was with the sort of violence that shook her whole body, spasms and screams that wrecked the silence of any evening. Usually, she suffered them alone. She preferred it that way. She didn't want anyone to know. She didn't want anyone to step in, act like she was broken. She was, but she was healing herself – as best she could, in her own way.
That night, after the fire crackled down to its embers and they kicked sandy dirt over it, when the crickets and cicadas and night birds were performing their nocturne, the dreams came. There was no rhyme or reason to it. The day had been good. Lovely. Beautiful. Nearly perfect. But the dreams came anyway.
Horrible claws tugged at her flesh, around her neck, raking open wounds all down to her chest. They were cold, like they were dipped in liquid nitrogen, and it flooded her veins with an ice so frigid that it should have killed her. Death would have been a mercy. But it didn't come, it never did.
All she could do was struggle and scream and try to escape, but the harder she tried, the more the claws tugged, the deeper they went. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't move. Soon, she'd be unable to scream. Eyes in the darkness were an audience of evil men, all watching and glorying in her torture. When she cried out, they didn't come to help, but clapped. They approved of it.
Damon woke to the sound of her screaming. It woke him like a shot in the dark, his heart racing as he shot straight up in the bed. Images flooded his mind in a flash, wild animals and evil men coming to take what little Tricia had left. And it fueled his anger, sense taking a backseat to a crazed need to protect her, to keep her safe. He flipped himself out of the bag and across the tent to her form, shaking and convulsing in the confines of her sleeping bag.
She was asleep. There was no one else. She was dreaming.
It didn't calm him, knowing this. As he brought her into his arms, trying to wake her without scaring her further, he felt as angry as ever. Angry at a past that had left her like this, sweating cold bullets against his chest, her screams quieting as she woke up. She had thrashed her way out of her sleeping bag and was wearing only an over-sized t-shirt that reached to her thighs, and a pair of panties. He tried not to notice how soft and luscious her skin felt, how her legs were strong and shapely against him.
“It's okay,” he growled, one arm around her back, his hand on her chin pulling her face towards his. He would fix this. Her movements slowed, her eyes blinked open, her mouth still hanging agape in a wordless cry. It was dark in the tent, but he could see the glossy sheen of her eyes as they stared back at him. Her body was damp with sweat but warm, her pulse quick, a small mewling sound escaping her throat.
And then she was closer. She was right there.
Her mouth was closing over his, clumsy in the dark but finally finding it, and their tongues clashed together, pushing against each other. She moaned into his mouth, her body alive and buzzing in his arms, turning towards him so that her breasts pressed against his chest. Immediately, Damon’s cock stiffened, the taste of her flooding every synapse in his brain, potent as espresso. He growled against her lips and lowered his hands, not thinking about his actions; he slipped his hands around her bottom and clutched her closer, squeezing the flesh there tenderly. She broke away, voice breathless, eyes glistening
in the dark.
“Fuck me,” she said, panting. “Fuck me, Damon, please…”
It was those words, ironically, that finally forced Damon back to his right mind. He released her gently, slowly. He didn’t want to “fuck her”. Not like this, not after whatever dream she’d been having. She was begging him from a dark place, a primitive need rather than a primal want. Sensing his reluctance, she whimpered and tried to crawl closer to him.
“Please,” she whispered, finding his ear, her words hot and misty against his flesh, forcing a battle of wills between his cock and his heart. His hands were on her sides; he was almost afraid to touch her, afraid of what she did to him, the person she incited in him. She made him want to be careless and wild and feral. He fought that urge, lifted his hands to her shoulders, still bunched tight and knotty with fear.
“Calm down,” he whispered back, gently beginning to knead the taut flesh. “Calm down, yes'tacha, calm down…”
Ves'tacha, beloved, slipping from his mouth so easily he barely knew he’d said it.
She responded to his ministrations, slowly but surely. Her breath slowed, heart returning to normal. She was still curled close to him, all the better for his hands to move around her shoulders and upper back, rubbing away the built-up tension. He breathed a sigh of relief as his cock finally showed signs of giving up the ghost.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked, still rubbing her flesh through her t-shirt. He felt her nod against his chest.
“A little,” she said. “I got…I got a little carried away. I’m sorry, ugh, that’s so embarrassing…I just felt crazy and…”
“It’s alright,” he said, biting back a sardonic smile. She had no idea how close he’d come to doing just what she’d asked. “It’s not a one-way street, trust me…”
“Ugh,” Tricia said, trying to pull away slightly now. “That was a gnarly one. I’ll never get back to sleep.”
Damon didn’t release her as she tried to pull away. He wasn’t going to fuck her. He’d already decided that – it was too soon, and the circumstances weren’t ideal. But he didn’t have to deny her a good night’s sleep. And he didn’t have to deny himself a taste of what he wanted.
“I can help you with that,” he said, lowering his lips to meet the soft flesh of her shoulder, his hand pulling at the neck of her shirt. She shivered, her head rolled to the side, a slight coo escaping her mouth.
“I thought…I thought…”
“I don’t want to fuck you,” he said, and gently began to push her down, back onto her sleeping bag and mat. When she was lying flat, his body poised above hers, he met her lips with his own once more. When he pulled away, her lips trailed along behind his, wanting more. “But I want to taste you.”
“Damon…” Tricia started to say, but she was silenced by the flash of his eyes in the darkness as he lowered himself along her body. She tried to push up to her elbows, blushing, glad he couldn’t see her cheeks getting red. “You don’t have to…”
“I know I don’t,” he said when he finally settled himself between her legs, his fingers gently pushing at her closed thighs. “I want to.”
“I just don’t think…oh…” Tricia’s protest was interrupted by her cry as Damon shoved the bottom of her shirt up and kissed the tender flesh right above her panty line. Her head fell backwards. Her heart picked up speed, slow at first, like a freight train gaining traction.
He kissed along her tummy, then down her hips to her inner thighs. Finally, she let her muscles go slack, and he pulled her legs open tenderly. His hands moved around her waist to her buttocks, forcing her hips to rise, his grip firm on each globe. He worked his fingers up until he had a grip on her panties and then pulled downwards until she was bared before him; he felt the heat of her desire and growled into it. Tricia’s spine stiffened, and then shivered.
He kissed along the inside of her right thigh, his full, bushy beard tickling her from the knee all the way up to her mound. Passing over her sex, he blew a single, strong gust across her pulsing clit, felt her hands shoot down to his hair – he knew she wanted him closer, needed more, but he wasn’t going to give in just yet. Instead, he moved to her left knee and traced the same path upward, feeling her tremble and her breath speed up with each passing inch.
Finally, he was before her womanhood once more, one hand on each thigh, spreading her legs to the limits of their comfort and not a centimeter further. And then he leaned forward, and slid his tongue from the base of her to the top, slowly savoring every drip and texture in between. And now her hands did clench in his hair, her body tensing up as he reached her clit and slowed, his tongue lingering over the tender button while his beard tickled everything around it.
Finally, he dragged the tip upward, flicking it sharply, and was rewarded with a cry of pleasure and a shudder – both so violent that he thought she might have climaxed already.
“Oh, my God, Damon,” Tricia said, feeling her body respond to him in a way she’d never known before. She’d never been shy about sex, always enjoyed giving and receiving oral…but no one had ever made her feel like this. As he began to lick her, long and steady and slow, moving consistently from the bottom to the top, his tongue flat and broad until it flicked over her clit, she lost herself entirely in the sensation. It felt like he was worshipping her, wanted to take his time, wanted to savor her taste forever. No man had ever been so patient…and that tickling beard was fun, too. She melted into the ground.
Her clit was swollen, poking from its hood, begging for attention more and more with each luxurious lap. Damon knew that one hard, sharp lick at it would drive her over the edge, but he didn’t want that yet. He was enjoying her taste far too much, the way her body rolled and her hips undulated in response to him. She didn’t even know she was doing it, she was so wrapped up in the pleasure. Her fingers raked through his hair, tickling his scalp. He was in heaven. So was she.
Finally, her movements began to lose their rhythm. Her breathing was growing ragged. Her hands in his hair were tugging instead of stroking. He’d teased her long enough. He moved forward slightly. He stopped the long, slow pace. He focused on that little bud at the top. He wiggled the tip of his tongue against it, feeling her hips jerk with it. He let his tongue roll across it in a broad stroke, then wiggled the tip again, feeling her reaction like a reward. Her hands were tight against his hair now. She was moaning, her thighs tightening around him. Closing his lips around her clit, he suckled gently.
“Oh, fuck!” he heard her voice rattle through the night air, thick with lust. “Oh, holy shit…!”
He couldn’t help but growl his approval of her pleasure, and the vibration from his lips passed through her like darts of pleasure. Tricia felt like a great light was forming in her clit, a ball of nervous energy that would grow and grow until it exploded. And as Damon began to lick her faster and faster, his tongue whipping up and over and around and all over, she couldn’t stop her hips from gyrating against him, couldn’t help but pull his head in tighter, her thighs shaking with tension, so tight it almost hurt.
“Damon,” she moaned, her head thrashing to the side. “Damon, please, please, I’m so…I’m so fuck….oh, god, I’m so close, I’m…I’m…OH…”
He closed his teeth over her clit, just barely enough for her to feel to sudden change in sensation. And it drove her over the edge, detonated that ball of energy so that it flooded her body, making her muscles snap straight and then release, her body feeling like it could levitate off the ground. Her toes dug into the bottom of her feet, her hands grabbed at Damon’s hair, her hips bucked and jerked against the ground. Pleasure like she’d never known before, endless, bottomless, infinite.
For Damon, it was almost as good, feeling her body radiate its heat against him, feeling her lose control as she came, and knowing it was all his doing. He held on to her thighs, keeping her clit on his tongue, until her jerking shudders subsided. Pulling away, he licked the last of her pleasure from his lips. His cock was hard again, but he
could deal with that. Even when he felt Tricia’s hands on his biceps, trying to pull him up and over her, he could resist the demands his dick was making. Instead, he rolled over to her side and hoisted himself along until he was lying beside her.
“Aren’t you going to…do you want me to…” she could still barely talk between breaths, and he smiled as he kissed her temple, putting one arm across her chest.
“No,” he said simply. “I just want you to have a good night’s sleep.”
“Oh,” she said, and he thought she giggled a little after. Tricia’s sleeping bag was the kind that could be unzipped to form a blanket, and it was a warm enough night; he pulled it out from under her and spread it across them, then turned to enfold her soft body in his hard arms. She sighed, already half-asleep once more. He spoke into her ear, rhythmic lines paced to her rising chest, to help her sleep. She made him want to recite every love poem he knew, starting with his favorite, by Jack Gilbert.
“Not for the impersonal belly nor the heart’s drunkenness
Have I come this far, stubborn, disastrous way.
But for relish of those archipelagos of person.
To hold her in hand, close as any sparrow…”
He made sure to wait until she was fully asleep before he joined her in slumber. And she didn’t have any more bad dreams that night.
17
“You shouldn’t be in here, Ricky,” Kim hissed from the doorway, looking into the darkened room. It was sparse, with nothing but a few old movie posters on the walls, a bookshelf, and a side-table beside the bed. Ricky looked up at her sister and shrugged, but the gesture was more desperate than nonchalant.
“I’m sure Kennick isn’t taking this any better than Cristov,” Ricky said, whispering back. They were alone in the trailer, but the very act of spying seemed to require hushed tones. Kim shifted uncomfortably as Ricky crouched down and examined the books on the shelf.
