by Donya Lynne
Cordray had to admire a chick like that. Hell, after what she’d been through in her own past, maybe she could learn a thing or two from Sam, because she certainly hadn’t taken change half as well as Samantha had. It was enough to make her question who the stronger female in the room really was.
“I wasn’t blessed with busty genes.” Sam dabbed the knuckle of her index finger under one eye then the other to clear away tears of laughter.
“Then maybe you should give me one of Micah’s shirts.” Cordray groped herself one last time then shook her head as she disengaged her hands from her breasts and picked up her cup.
“Hey,” Sam said, giggling and pretending to be offended. “Are you saying my man has big tits?”
It was Cordray’s turn to laugh. “You tell me, girl. He’s your mate.”
The two chuckled, and Sam joined Cordray at the counter. “I’d give you one of his shirts, but—no offense—he would probably make me burn the thing after you left.”
“No offense taken. I know how he feels about me.” Everyone else felt the same way about her as Micah did. She eyed Sam over the rim of her cup. Well, not everyone. She and Sam seemed to have found an accord. “But I guess that answers that question.”
“What question is that?”
“Whether or not Micah has told you about me.”
Sam smiled at her. “Yes, I’ve heard all about you.”
“All good, I’m sure,” she said sarcastically.
With a roll of her eyes, Sam laughed. “Micah is ultra-competitive . . . and ultra-protective. And he’s a man.” She rolled her eyes again then caught herself. “I mean, I love him and all, but you know how thick men can be.”
Cordray swirled her tea and nodded. “I do.” All too well. Males were ruled by their biology. The primal urges in their balls tended to overrule their hearts and brains.
Her past threatened to strike her with sadness again, but she shook it off, took a deep breath, and saluted Sam with her teacup. “Sam, of all the times I’ve seen you in Micah’s thoughts, I’d never have taken you for a cynic.”
Sam tilted her head in acknowledgement. “Well, from all the bitching Micah has done about you, I’d never have taken you for someone with such a great sense of humor.”
Cordray set down her cup and held her fist toward Sam. “Hell yeah, girl. Give me some.” She nodded toward her fist.
Sam grinned and fist-bumped her. “Here’s to cynics and bitches with senses of humor.”
“Amen.” Cordray killed her tea and settled the empty cup in the saucer.
“More?” Sam got up.
“Sure. I’ll have one more cup.” In the right company, she enjoyed a good cup of tea as much as a shot of Jack. And Sam was swiftly becoming the right kind of company for both.
As Sam fetched the teapot from the stove, Cordray’s gaze swept the room. “So, how bad a shape was Trace in when Micah brought him home?” She tried to sound disinterested. No sense making Sam think she was more concerned than she was, even if she couldn’t quite convince herself of that.
Sam poured water in her cup. “I figured you would have poked inside my head by now to see for yourself. Micah says you’re as bad as he is about seeing inside people’s thoughts.”
“I’m being nice,” she said with an air of false modesty.
One of Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “Ooohh? How did I warrant such special treatment?” She returned the pot to the stove.
Cordray stirred the water around her used tea bag. “It’s true, I do have talents in unlocking mental barriers, but I can restrain myself.”
“Micah told me you can see inside Trace’s thoughts. Is that true?” She lifted her cup to her lips and blew over the hot liquid.
Cordray cleared her throat and shifted on the bar stool. “Yes, I can unlock Trace’s mind.”
“Really?” Sam swept around the counter and sat down beside her. “What’s going on with him? Is he okay? Is—”
Cordray held up her hand. “I can’t answer that.”
Sam sighed and sat back, appearing ashamed for even asking. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s just that Micah and I care about him so much, and it would really be helpful if Micah could get inside his thoughts.”
Something in her chest fluttered at hearing Sam talk about Trace. Kind of like she had heartburn, but good heartburn. As if she wanted it to feel like it was a bad thing when it really wasn’t.
Still, she felt she owed Sam a morsel for being so nice to her. “I’ll tell you this much. Trace thinks the world of you and Micah. You’re always first and foremost in his thoughts. I’m almost jeal—” She cut herself off, frowning as she caught her Freudian slip and attempted to cover it. “I mean . . . as much as I can’t stand the guy, Trace is lucky to have friends like you.”
When she met Sam’s gaze again, it was clear her slip hadn’t gone unnoticed. Sam’s acutely aware green eyes were laser-locked on hers, studying her. “We all need friends like that, don’t we?” she said as if probing for information.
Cordray pursed her lips and looked away with a shrug. “I wouldn’t know.”
She liked Sam, but she wasn’t going to reveal her history after one good booby joke. One shared laugh did not a bonded friendship make, and she wanted to get herself out of the spotlight before this conversation went any further and shed light on her personal feelings.
“So how was he? Trace, I mean? How bad was he when Micah got him here?” Getting them back to the original question was a good plan, even if she had to work to keep the personal inflection from her tone.
“He was pretty bad.” Sam’s voice held a suspicious undercurrent, and a shrewd twinkle lit in her eyes as a subtle, knowing grin turned up the corners of her mouth. “I’m taking it as a good sign they’ve been downstairs for so long. Hopefully, that means Trace is better now.”
Cordray checked the gold-faced clock on the wall. It was well past sunrise, but she never would have known with the blinds and drapes blocking out the daylight.
“Yeah, hopefully.” She spun her cup in its saucer, suddenly uneasy under Sam’s scrutiny. All edgy and shit.
Trace was in the basement with Micah. The two of them were doing God knew what to each other. And, well . . . it kind of pissed her off. Part of her felt she should be the one giving Trace what he needed while the other part of her protested that belief.
But by giving Trace what he needed, maybe she would get what she needed, as well. It had been so very long since she’d felt that kind of pleasure. The breathtaking, quivering release of her muscles. The feel of a warm, moist mouth as it consumed her tender flesh. The delicious brutality of rough hands kneading her breasts.
All she had left of such sensations were gossamer memories so old and ethereal she almost couldn’t remember how being made love to felt. She knew it felt good. She remembered crying out as her body let go, remembered enjoying Gideon’s mouth and hands on her skin, but she couldn’t remember exactly how it felt.
She wanted to know that feeling again. With Trace, she could. If only she could get past her own fears and his utter disdain of her.
“So, what are you going to do with Trace for the next three months?”
“Do with him?” She turned toward Sam, her heart skipping a beat. What she wanted to do with him was a wholly different answer than what she would do with him.
Sam’s eyes narrowed as she angled her head to the side, almost as if she’d seen the incriminating thoughts Cordray had just entertained. “Yes, while he’s on parole, or whatever you call it in the vampire legal system. Micah said he’s to be in your custody. What are your plans for him?”
Working harder at keeping her game face on so Sam wouldn’t become any more suspicious than she already was, Cordray sipped her tea. “I run a shelter of sorts. It’s more of an orphanage, but we have a school there, too.” She swept her hand in a half circle as if to encompass the whole gamut of possibilities. “It’s a place for pre-transitional and newly transitioned vampires, most
ly mixed-bloods. It’s easier for mixed-bloods to get lost in the human system than full-bloods. I find them, take them in, give them a home. Asylum is a place that gives such kids an anchor in a world that would otherwise overwhelm or even consume them.” Talking about Asylum and her kids gave her a welcome reprieve from thinking about Trace.
Sam’s eyebrows shot up like this was the last thing she’d expected to hear. “You take care of them?”
Cordray tucked her still-damp hair behind her ear and glanced into her half-empty cup. “You sound surprised.”
“Oh, I . . . it’s just that . . . from what Micah’s told me . . .” Her cheeks flushed and she fidgeted with her teacup.
“In other words, what’s a bristly witch like me doing caring about anybody other than myself, right?”
Sam’s shoulders fell as she looked down, abashed. “No, that’s not—”
“Don’t worry about it.” Cordray set her cup in its saucer a little more heavily than necessary, her back stiffening. “I know what people think of me. I know what Micah and Trace say about me and that I’m not the most popular bitch in Chicago. But I do have a heart. I do care. Maybe I don’t always show it, but I do.” In fact, she cared a great deal. Probably more than most. When you’ve suffered great pain, you tend to feel equally great compassion, even if you don’t wear that compassion on your sleeve.
She faced the counter again as she recalled taking the razor to Trace in Bain’s dungeon. She’d known Trace was struggling to keep his power under control, and it had pained her to see him suffer. She wanted to believe that the only reason she’d provided him a means to keep his inner demons under control was because, being in the dungeon, he was close to Bain’s royal residence. But the truth was, she hated seeing him in so much agony.
Maybe she and Trace didn’t get along. Maybe they even detested one another—or at least pretended to detest one another in her case. But even an injured wasp deserved mercy. After all, it was still a living, breathing creature that toiled and struggled to survive just like the rest of God’s creations.
“A shelter is a noble endeavor,” Sam said, recovering from her social hiccup. “Definitely not for the faint of heart. Are you planning to have Trace help you there?”
“Yes.”
“That’ll be interesting.” Sam lifted her cup to her lips.
“Why? Do you think I need to worry about how he’ll behave around the kids?”
Sam’s eyes met hers. “Your guess is as good as mine. I’ve never seen him with kids. But he’s a gentle soul. I think he’ll be okay.”
“Gentle? Did you say he’s a gentle soul?”
Sam issued a short laugh. “Okay, let me qualify that by saying that he’s gentle around here. I know he can be a terror to others with that hand of his, and I know you and he have a few bumps to work through before you’ll agree with me—”
“Just a few.” As in, she didn’t think she would ever be able to call Trace gentle. At least not from what she’d seen of him.
Sam shrugged. “Yeah well, he’s a good male. He won’t hurt your kids.” An awkward, somewhat chagrined smile twisted her mouth. Then she sighed and brightened as if she’d forced away a sad thought. “So, what kind of things are you going to have him do at the shelter?”
“Manual labor. Heavy work. I’ve got a lot of land, and now that it’s spring, there’s a lot of mowing, tilling, and landscaping that needs to be done, as well as a lot of cleanup.”
“At least you’ll be keeping him busy. I have a feeling he’s going to need that.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Gut feeling. AKM was sort of his life before he was arrested. Now he’s got to find a way to fill all that time.” She looked away and chuckled quietly. “Do you realize that I don’t even know where he lives? I’ve known him since January and have never seen his home.”
Cordray dropped her gaze into her teacup. “Look around, Sam.”
Sam frowned then said, “What do you mean?”
An empty ache dove into her stomach as she faced Sam again. “Look around.” She gestured toward the house. “This is Trace’s home.”
Those four words bothered her more than anything she’d said, heard, or done all morning. And she knew why, even if she refused to admit it.
Deep down, in a place she struggled more and more to suppress, she wanted Trace’s home to be with her.
Chapter 6
Trace luxuriated in both the bath Micah had drawn, as well as Micah’s presence, which enveloped him like a warm blanket. Just being near Micah soothed him. Feeling his hands scoop warm water over his chest, arms, neck, and head was enough to bliss him out even more than he already was.
Micah took his time bathing him, but as the water grew tepid and Trace’s fingertips shriveled into clam-like nodules, Micah opened the drain and helped Trace from the tub.
Trace couldn’t even speak. He was too relaxed. Too lost in the tranquility that only came after a scene. Only this time it was much deeper. Micah had taken him further than anyone ever had, and he didn’t want to talk, move, or even breathe for fear of losing this treasured, euphoric feeling.
Micah seemed to sense his mental state, because he remained quiet, and he moved with unobtrusive restraint. As if he knew how precious and fragile the moment was.
Micah guided him to the marble bench near the shower, retrieved a towel from the precisely stacked linens organized by color and thickness, then knelt in front of Trace as he wrapped the plush softness around his shoulders. He gently scrubbed the towel up and down his arms, over his head, across his back, down his torso and legs, slowly lifting each foot to dry his soles.
All Trace could do was watch. And feel. And indulge his placid senses.
“How do you feel?” Micah asked, his voice low and sedate.
“Good.” Trace’s voice sounded deeper than usual. Not having to guard against his inner beast made even his vocal chords relax. “I’m calm.”
Micah smiled. “We live to breathe another day then.”
Trace’s lips curved into a lazy grin. “Thanks to you.”
Micah wrapped his forearm behind Trace’s head and pulled him forward until their foreheads touched. “I’m here for you. I’ll always be here for you. I won’t ever let anything happen to you, Trace.”
Trace closed his eyes and breathed in the warmth pouring out of Micah’s body. This was his friend, his master, his confidante. His savior. Without the hope becoming Micah’s friend had given him, Trace wasn’t sure he would still be alive today. It was that hope—that Micah would agree to be his master—that had kept Trace going.
The wait had been worth every second. He’d just experienced the most incredible scene in his memory.
The hot wax, the tightening of his skin, the controlled care and dominance Micah had exercised, the way he’d been bound at the wrists so he couldn’t move and had to relinquish trust in himself and pass it to Micah . . . all of it had led to the most astonishing and glorious trip through subspace he’d ever taken, culminated by the most intense orgasm any of his masters or mistresses had ever given him.
The release itself had been something beyond reality. He’d been floating, sailing along inside his head, and then Micah’s fingers had grazed his balls. The electric pulse of arousal had awakened every nerve ending in his body, tossing him into a furious spiral. He’d felt like a new star being born, drawing every fragment of cosmic dust into his body as Micah’s palm wrapped around his erection and began pumping. Within seconds, dark matter exploded, sending heat into the universe, expelling light in all directions.
When he drifted back into consciousness and found himself still on Micah’s table, his whole body had hummed with electricity. He’d known then that he had another orgasm inside him, on the verge of erupting. One that a simple, subtle caress would release. A caress Micah had given him as he began his aftercare.
Trace had never come twice like that. So hard, so completely.
He wanted for nothing.
/> Nothing, that was, except a mate of his own who could do to him all that Micah had just done without requiring his submission to achieve it.
Don’t get him wrong, he relished this. He enjoyed flying through subspace at Micah’s hands. The pleasure experienced as Micah’s submissive was beyond compare, but he didn’t always want to rely on being taken to another place mentally to experience pleasure. He didn’t want to always be subjected to pain, degradation, and being bound to find arousal. He dreamed of being the master. Of being an active participant rather than the object of someone else’s stimulation.
A true mate—one he bonded to and experienced a calling with—would allow him that. At least, he assumed she would. And in his mind, his true mate was a female. A dynamic, spunky, spitfire of a female who could take as well as give. That’s what he wanted. That’s what he dreamed of. Where could he find such a female?
Cordray.
His eyes flashed open as Cordray’s name whipped unbidden through his thoughts, as if she were the answer to his question. Hell no. Cordray was the last female he needed. The last who could give him all that he desired.
Wasn’t she?
His brow tightened as he recalled how his body responded every time she was around. Not one time had he walked away from her without an erection. She heated him inside and out with her smart mouth and verbal jabs. Even now, just thinking about their aggressive exchanges made him want to find her just so they could argue and toss insults at each other. The only time he felt as alive as Cordray made him feel was when he was with Micah. But with Cordray, he didn’t have to go submissive. He could get in her face, verbally spar with her, and still feel his power bow out and recede into the shadows.
Maybe that wasn’t the same as being dominant, but it sure as hell wasn’t falling into submission, either.
Was it possible that Cordray could be . . .?
He couldn’t even think that question to its conclusion. Cordray couldn’t be his mate. She simply couldn’t be.
