by Devon Monk
“I got your attention, didn’t I?”
“Is that what you wanted? My attention? Because you already had that.”
Her heartbeat was steady, but strong. She licked her lips and the blush that bloomed against her pale skin gave her away. That wasn’t fear she was feeling.
She wanted me. Wanted us.
Why had I not slept with her? Sure, there was the whole drugging and kidnapping and bondage, but I liked a girl who knew what she wanted and went after it.
“I want more than your attention,” she said softly.
“Tell me you’re not going to follow that up by pulling a gun on me.” I took a step toward her. Unzipped my hoodie, tossed it on the floor.
She stood. “I said this wasn’t about business.”
“True.” I didn’t walk any closer. Waited to see what she’d do.
“Why haven’t you asked me where I thought Eli was?” she asked.
“Is that your sexy talk? Because it doesn’t sound like sexy talk. It sounds like business talk. I thought you didn’t want to mix those.”
“I could.” A slight smile curved her mouth.
“Go on, then.”
“Why”—her finger slipped to the first button on her blouse and she slowly pushed it through the hole. Her shirt opened a bit, revealing skin—“haven’t you”—fingers pinched the second button, flicked it through the hole to show just the edge of breast and bra—“asked me about”—she ran her fingertip around the third button, the one that strained to hold the fabric together between her breasts. She didn’t unbutton it—“Eli?”
“I don’t care about him,” I said, advancing on her. “Not right now. Not here.”
My heart was pounding hard, heat firing across my body, drawing me awake, alert. She wasn’t backing away, wasn’t backing down. Just stood there, her hands resting on her hips, watching me. Wanting me.
“What do you want?” she whispered.
I reached out and for the first time, touched her hair—silken fire through my fingers—drawing it gently away from her face.
I stroked my thumb along the corner of her lip, up her cheek, then down to pause at the pulse point on her neck, pressing there just hard enough that I could feel the thump of her heart.
She closed her eyes at my touch, her lips parting as she inhaled.
“I want you.”
“You don’t even know me,” she said with a hitch in her breath.
“I could.” I slipped my hand to her waist, fingers angled down to her ass. “If you want me to.”
She opened her eyes, looked up at me. And the hope there, the doubt there, made me hold very still. Waiting.
“I want you to.”
I exhaled and my heart began beating again. “Look at that,” I said softly as I leaned over her. “We agreed on something. It’s a miracle.”
“You should stop talking and kiss—”
She didn’t have a chance to finish that. I drew her against me, all the soft heat and curves of her body. Pushed my fingers up into her hair, my rings muffled by the weight of her curls.
I lowered my head and caught her lips with mine, gentle, slow, teasing. I wanted to savor every sweet texture, every pulse beat that made her. Then I wanted to find out what would unmake her.
She kissed me back, her lips soft, her tongue asking for entrance I willingly gave, then stroking deliciously against mine. She matched my lead, taking it slow, until the hesitancy finally melted out of her muscles and she softened, her arms wrapping around my neck. She stepped into me, her hips against mine.
A pulse of need burned through my bones and made every muscle in my body hard.
I slid my hand down her back, spreading my fingers wide so I could press her closer. Her hands were busy too.
She tugged at my sweater, her hand sliding beneath it only to find my T-shirt. She made a soft moan of disappointment, and I couldn’t help smiling a little.
I drew away from the wonder of her lips. “Problem, love?” I dipped my head again, kissed instead the side of her neck, the heat of my lips against her pulse causing her to gasp, the scent of her filling me with an aching hunger.
“I want . . . ,” she began.
I bit her tender skin, gently, and she gasped again. Her hands clenched in my sweater, tugging, or maybe to steady herself.
“Shame. Now. I want you.”
“Patience,” I said. “We have time.”
I pulled away, rested my hand on her hip until her eyes focused again. I leaned back, far enough so that I could pull the damn sweater off without hitting her in the face. Dropped it to the floor then muscled out of the T-shirt.
She wasn’t standing idle. Her hands pressed against my stomach, and every fiber in my body clenched as she dragged warm fingers downward over my bare skin.
Good God.
Okay, maybe we didn’t have as much time as I thought. Maybe I was the one who didn’t want to be patient.
The T-shirt joined the sweater.
For a moment, standing there, in the low light of the room, she tensed again. Looked up at me. “What’s wrong with your arm?”
I glanced at the bandage. I’d forgotten about it. “Hurt it. Not badly.”
“And this?” she asked. “Is this a glyph?”
She traced the old scar on my chest—well, one of them. The scar from when Terric shoved a crystal containing magic into my mortal wound to make me live again. The crystal was gone now—blown apart when I’d died a second time, sacrificing my body and soul at the altar of Death magic so I could kill that son of a bitch Jingo Jingo.
I didn’t think about the scar much anymore. Told most women it was from a knife fight, or whatever I thought they’d want to hear. Something that would make me sound strong. Heroic.
But that wasn’t what I was going to tell Dessa. I was going to tell her the truth.
“It’s not a glyph, but it was put there by magic. Terric, he did something with magic to save my life. This is the scar from that.”
She nodded. “He’s . . . more than a friend, isn’t he? The look on his face when he opened his door and saw you there the other night, Shame. He loves you, doesn’t he?”
“I think so,” I heard myself saying. Apparently, one truth tonight wasn’t going to be enough.
“But you don’t love him?”
I took a deep breath. The churning mix of feelings I had for Terric came rushing to the surface as if Dessa had opened a part of me that had been long buried. I cared for him—hell, I’d die for him. That was a kind of love, wasn’t it? But the love he wanted wasn’t something I could give.
“I just . . .” I shook my head. “I care. He’s a brother. But I’ll ruin him. One day I’ll be his death. Or he’ll be mine. And that will ruin him too.” I couldn’t say any more because there were tears in my eyes.
Well, that was new. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d cried. No wonder why I never told the truth.
“Lord.” I choked on a laugh. “The things you make me feel, woman.” I lifted my hand to wipe my eyes, feeling like a damn idiot.
But her hands stopped me, one on each wrist, pulling my hands away from my face. So she could see me.
She stood there, her gaze shifting, studying my face, studying my very vulnerable pain I knew she could see there, this weakness I had never showed anyone before.
Then she stood on tiptoe and kissed me. No more hesitation, no more slow.
I kissed her back, until her warmth replaced the sorrow inside me. Then I picked her up, laid her down upon my bed, and slowly took every stitch of clothing off her, kissing each part of her as I did so. Slid her panties gently down the silk of her skin, and ran my palms up her thighs, as I kissed the curve of her hipbone.
She unhooked her bra and drew it away, offering all of her body to me. I looked down at her, and she smiled softly.
I lowered my mouth to her breast and gently ran my tongue there, savoring the taste of her skin and the shiver of pleasure that ran through her as her nipple
hardened.
Her fingers stroked through my hair; the other hand slid up to my right arm braced beside her. She slipped her fingers between mine and pulled my hand toward her.
I reluctantly shifted away and looked down at her again.
“I want all of you,” she whispered. And without breaking eye contact, she removed my rings, one by one, and kissed my bare flesh there.
She was my air, my sensation, my world.
And, for the first time in a very long time, I wondered if this was what love felt like.
* * *
“Dog or cat?” she asked.
We were lying together under the covers, me on my back, her beside me. Our bodies were pressed together, her head tucked against my chest, her fingers tracing the old scars there.
“Both,” I said. “Ice cream or sorbet?”
“Sorbet all the way. Have you ever wanted kids?”
“That’s the kind of question that makes strong men run, you know.”
She stopped tracing my scars and looked up at me. “Want me to get your boots?”
“No, no. I got this one. Kids.” I took a deep breath. “I’d never thought I’d live long enough to be a father. So. No.”
“You didn’t say you didn’t want them.”
“True.”
“I think men who want kids are very, very sexy.” She dipped her head. Kissed my nipple. A ripple of pleasure slid through me.
“Well, then, of course I want kids. Loads of them.” It came out, strangely, not flippant. For a second or two I lay there trying to imagine myself holding a little chubby-cheeked Flynn baby with her blue eyes.
“Your turn,” she said.
“Mmm. Star Wars or Star Trek?”
She giggled. “Really?”
“Civilizations have crumbled under this question. I expect you to answer me truthfully.”
“Trek.”
“What?” I said with mock horror. “You’re a Trekkie? No. This will never do. We should just say our good-byes now.”
“Hold on. I get to ask you another one,” she said.
“All right. Make it good.”
“Do you want me to tie you to the headboard and do wicked things to you, or do you want to ask me another question?” Her hand moved down my chest, my stomach, my hip.
Mercy.
“I think that’s enough interrogation for one night,” I said.
“Well, then,” she said, “headboard it is.”
Chapter 24
I was freezing. I was also lying in my bed. Naked.
Huh.
I opened my eyes. It was dark out now. My room was lit by the moonlight pushing through the blinds.
Moonlight that showed me I was not alone in my bed.
I grinned. Dessa had every damn one of my covers wrapped around her, tucked tight up to her chin. She was curled on her side, facing me.
She was asleep, and if I weren’t shivering so hard my teeth were beginning to rattle, I’d probably do the gallant and manly thing and lie there watching her sleep while I compared her to flowers and sunrises in haiku. Instead I pulled on the covers.
“Wake up, woman. I’m freezing out here.”
She smiled, but didn’t open her eyes. “Does that mean you’ll stop snoring?”
“What? Lies.”
She opened those innocent blue eyes and gave me a wicked grin. “Admit it. I wrecked you.”
Caught by that look, I couldn’t help doing the comparing thing, while my heart tapped up a warm beat. I decided she was a sly little fox, and that her smile was sweeter and hotter than any whiskey I’d ever tried to lose myself in.
I suddenly realized I’d been looking for her for a long, long time.
“Well,” I said, swallowing back the emotions that I wasn’t sure how to deal with. I glanced up at the silk stockings tied to the headboard and rubbed the faint mark they’d left around my wrist. “If I concede that there was mutual wreckage going on, do I get the password for your blanket fort?”
She rolled her eyes as if considering it, then locked her gaze on me again. “Kiss me nice enough, and I’ll think about it.”
“That sounds like a fair enough deal.” I scooted closer and leaned down like I was going to give it my all.
Instead I reached out, grabbed a handful of blanket, and pushed up onto my knees, pulling the blanket with me.
“Aha!”
She clung to the cover and squealed, pulling back. “We had a bargain!”
“No more bargains, woman,” I said as she laughed. “I claim these blankets in the name of Flynn!” I threw the first blanket over my shoulder, which just made her laugh harder.
“I shall de-fleece you. Then I shall have all the blankets, and all the warmth, and you will be at my mercy!”
“Fine.” She used her feet and hands to push all the blankets off her, then pulled up onto her knees. “You can have the blankets. I didn’t want them anyway.” She wadded them up and threw them at my face.
I didn’t do much to catch them as they fell in a mess to one side. Because suddenly she was in front of me, on her knees, naked, her hair falling in tousled waves around the curve of her shoulders, the graceful arc of her neck, unafraid as she gave me a challenging smirk. Her hand was to one side, clutching the pillow in preparation of braining me.
I blinked slowly and gave her a predatory grin. “Oh, I like this much better.” I reached out, brushed my fingers down the outside of her hip, then down the back of her leg to that particularly sensitive spot behind her knee I’d discovered.
She closed her eyes and goose bumps washed over her skin. She bit her lip and made a needful sound.
I lifted my finger and placed my palm on her hip.
She jerked back, her eyes wide.
I tipped my head. Wondered what had spooked her. If I had hurt her.
“Your hands are ice!” she accused.
“Really? You think? Maybe if someone hadn’t stolen every damn blanket.”
She gave me a glare that was wholly ruined by her small smile. “Hands off until you shower. Hot shower. No touching until those hands regain human temperatures.”
“I am so not showering alone,” I said.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She slid out of bed, just inches away from me, careful not to brush against me as she passed by. She stood, stretched her arms up over her head, and arched her back.
I lost track of breathing for a moment or two.
Then that gorgeous woman sauntered off to the bathroom, swinging her hips. She paused, and gave me the come-hither over her shoulder.
Oh, baby. I hithered.
The inn is an old structure and the showers had been put in somewhere around the nineteen twenties. And while they were the height of modern convenience then, a Realtor might categorize them as “quaint” now.
Small for one person, downright cozy for two.
Not that I was complaining. And after my skin had gone up a few degrees so that I could once again use my hands along with my boyish charms, Dessa wasn’t complaining either.
* * *
We finally untangled from each other, toweled off, and got back into our clothes. I made her help me find my rings, which were in the bed, under the bed, and one, strangely, in my half-open sock drawer.
Something darted out from under the bed and burrowed under the towel I’d thrown on the floor.
“Uh, Dessa?” I said. “Your hat got loose.”
“What?”
I pointed at the towel just as a tiny furred triangular head with a black mask peeked out and made an equally tiny grunt/squeak.
“Your hat,” I repeated.
She took a few steps toward the towel. The ferret must have spotted her because it took off at a ridiculous Slinky-like hop-run, darting under the chair, then suddenly reappearing under the pillow on the bed.
“Jinkies! How did you get out of your cage?” She crawled across the bed and snatched the thing up midescape route, which apparently involved trying to wiggle its way into
the nightstand drawer.
“Jinkies?”
“That’s his name.”
“You’re a fan of Scooby Doo?”
“No. My brother was. He named him Jinkies. He was his.” She crawled back off the bed one-handed, the little furry monster in her other hand, then blew her hair out of her face and walked over to me. “Shame, this is Jinkies, the ferret.”
The ferret was pretty cute up close. It wriggled around in Dessa’s grip, clever black eyes glittering.
“You sure it’s not a weasel?”
“Ferret.”
“Whatever. You have to admit it’s a terrible hat.”
Dessa rolled her eyes. “Give me a minute. I’ll get him settled.”
She padded out of the room, holding the feasel up to her face so she could coo at it.
Yes, I thought it was adorable of her.
Once she was out of the room, I realized I was ravenous. I glanced at the bedside clock. It was an hour and several minutes off, but with some quick math, I figured it was about three in the morning.
As soon as Dessa returned without Jinkies, I caught her hand and walked toward the door.
“Hungry?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Good thing I know how to break into the kitchen.” We snuck hand in hand through the darkened hallway and down the stairs.
Eleanor followed along behind us, and I was grateful that she had given us as much privacy as the ties between she and me allowed.
The dining area was empty; the cleaning crew had gone home. And I knew the morning shift wouldn’t be in to start the breads and pastries for at least an hour.
I stepped up to the kitchen door, took hold of the handle, lifted, and gave the door a shove with my shoulder. The old lock gave, and the kitchen was ours.
Eleanor stayed on the other side of the door.
“What is your pleasure, lass?” I asked, walking over to the refrigerator. “Anything you want, sky’s the limit. Let’s see, we have beef stew, hand-tossed pizza, rosemary chicken. Ah, spanakopita. I know what I’m having.”
I pulled out the Greek dish, turned.
Dessa was leaning against the counter with a brownie in one hand and a half-eaten piece of cheesecake in the other.
“What?” she mumbled around the cheesecake. “You said anything, right?”
