Destiny's Chance

by Cara Bristol

  “What are you making?” he asked.

  She jumped. “Chance!” She turned around. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said.

  “It’s okay. I’m making a quickie coq au vin.”

  “Coke uh vahn? What’s that?”

  She smiled. “French for chicken with wine. Basically chicken stew.”

  “I’m sure it will be wonderful. Everything you’ve made this week has been.”

  “Thank you. I enjoy cooking.”

  He folded his arms. “Since when?”

  She shrugged.

  “No, really. How long have you cooked?”

  She wet her lips and directed her gaze at his face, but it fell short of his eyes. “I’ve cooked for you before.”

  “No.” He shook his head. Zoe couldn’t make toast without burning it—not that she’d touch a carb. Except for this week. One night they’d had mashed potatoes and gravy, another time lasagna.

  “Oh. Well, I’m sorry for that.” Her smile quivered, and she turned her back and sliced mushrooms.

  He watched her work for a moment. “Can I help?”

  She passed over a cutting board, a knife, and several sprigs of parsley. “You can chop this. And open the wine.” She gestured to a bottle of cabernet sauvignon. “Thank you.” She paused. “Destiny’s memorial service is Saturday. Did you want to attend with me?”

  “Yes, I’d planned on it.” A lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed. “I’m going to miss her.” More than he ever would have thought. “She was a good friend.” He blinked back wetness as he washed his hands at the sink.

  “Yes, everybody’s friend.” Her tone hinted at bitterness.

  He switched off the water and turned to stare at her. “Why do you say it like that?” He dug in the drawer for the corkscrew and nodded toward the wine. “Is this for the chicken?”

  “Yes, and to have with dinner, if you want.” She slapped two bacon strips into a Dutch oven and turned on the heat. “I think Destiny wanted more.” She poked at the bacon with a fork. “Crap, I should have cut that up before I put it in the pan.”

  They worked in silence for several minutes as the bacon sizzled. He chopped parsley and then sliced a carrot she handed him.

  “More what?” he had to ask.

  “What more what?” She glanced at him.

  “You said Destiny wanted more.”

  She shrugged. “More who than what actually.”

  “Who’s on first?” he joked because the conversation sounded like an Abbott and Costello routine.

  But Zoe didn’t crack a smile. Her chest lifted and fell with her breath. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Fine with me, because I’ve lost track of the question now.”

  She extracted the bacon with a fork and added the chicken to the grease. She chopped up the bacon strips, and after the chicken browned, she tossed in the crumbles with a plethora of other ingredients, including a cup of the wine he’d opened.

  Chance eyed her still-bruised face, the capable way she worked. He wanted to inquire about her plans for moving out, but obviously she couldn’t work yet. With her face splotchy yellow, no one would hire her to model anything. She had no family to fall back on and only recently had gotten out of the hospital. His conscience wouldn’t permit him to abandon her now.

  And the changes in her intrigued him. What would he find if he deciphered the puzzle she’d become?

  She reached for a wooden spoon and brushed against him. Her scent wafted to his nose, vanilla and honey, sweetness and warmth. He surreptitiously inhaled. Her scent had changed like everything else into something different yet familiar. Perhaps more disturbing, it triggered a flutter of desire he’d thought had languished. How long had it been since they’d had sex, played together? A while, he acknowledged, and only at her instigation. He’d found his heart and his body hadn’t been into it. He’d moved on.

  But since the accident, she’d begun to arouse old feelings mixed with new excitement. A recipe for a complicated mess if there ever was one. At night he’d lie beside her, his body hard, listening to her breathe, murmur in her sleep, and he’d clench his fists to keep from touching her.

  Don’t start something you have no inclination to finish. Or did he? Why had desire arisen now?

  He wished she’d pack up before he did something he regretted. And then felt guilty because she had no one else but him, and she’d been in a serious accident, for crying out loud. They’d existed in a state of platonic amity until recently. They could continue like that for a few weeks longer or months, if need be.

  But only if he kept his distance. No sex. No playtime.

  “If you don’t need anything else, I have stuff to do,” he said.

  “No, I don’t need anything else,” she said evenly. So why did her permission feel like criticism? He glanced at her face; it registered no censure, yet he felt it rolling off her.

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled and fled for the garage.

  IF HE HADN’T left when he did, she would have burst into tears. Destiny swallowed now to hold them at bay. She couldn’t live like this, stay with him, eat with him, sleep next to him. The closeness that wasn’t tore her up inside.

  Because she had fallen in love. Sharing his house had forced her to admit it to herself. Where infatuation and lust had focused on his tall, muscled body and handsome good looks, love saw gentleness, vulnerability that called out to her, evoked an answering yearning. But he believed she was Zoe. And to capitalize on their relationship would make her a poacher of the lowest order.

  Live through your heart.

  The thought, in Zoe’s voice, encouraged her to act on her feelings.

  She couldn’t do it. The face she saw in the mirror would always remind her of her selfishness, how she’d thought only of herself after her friend’s death.

  She needed to leave. But her purse, her keys, her identification were either at the bottom of the canyon or had been given to her parents. She couldn’t access her bank accounts because she had no way to prove her identity. Zoe, she’d discovered, had lived on the edge and had little in the way of assets, not that she would have taken them.

  Until she could establish a life for herself, she was stuck.

  * * * *

  Destiny called Chance in for dinner, and they ate with a minimum of conversation, and what little chitchat existed seemed strained. He expressed his appreciation for the meal and helped her clean up, another mostly silent activity.

  “I’m going over to Roman’s,” he announced afterward. “Don’t wait up.”

  His departure came as a relief. Almost. Despite the awkwardness, she coveted every last moment of his company, because once she walked out the door, it would be the end. She would never see him again. Ever. That certainty settled like lead in her heart.

  She changed into night clothes and flopped on the sofa to watch TV but couldn’t concentrate on the program. She switched it off, deciding the best way to quiet her ruminations would be to keep busy by organizing the bedroom closet.

  She began by grouping clothing into like groups, putting long-sleeved tops together, then short-sleeved shirts, then tanks. Within the categories she arranged them by color, from light to dark. A silk kimono slithered off a hanger to land on a chest on the floor of the closet. She hung up the robe and eyed the trunk. Made of aged, saddlelike leather, it had thick rawhide handles and brass hardware.

  While the masculine design indicated it might be Chance’s, it did sit on Zoe’s side of the closet. She dropped to her haunches. “Probably locked anyway.”

  She pressed the button. The latch popped. She wavered, then surrendered to curiosity and lifted the lid.

  “Oh my God!” She clapped a hand over her mouth and fell on her ass. “That’s his kink.” She stared at the treasure trove of spanking implements. Paying attention to how she removed them so she could replace them exactly as she’d found them, she examined the items. Severa
l paddles of different shapes and sizes in both leather and wood. A pom-pom-like flogger with supple soft leather strands and a stiff wooden handle. Some common items: a hairbrush, a wooden spoon, a ruler. And a strop resembling a belt split into two parts. A tawse! She’d heard of them but never had seen one until now.

  She smacked her palm with it. Biting. How would it feel against a bare bottom? She pictured herself laid out like an offering over Chance’s lap as he spanked her bottom until it was supersensitive and then stung her cheeks with the tawse.

  Her pussy cheered with a twitch.

  She fantasized often about being spanked but had no idea if she’d like it if she experienced it. However, she loved leather—appreciated its hard and soft textures, its masculine scent, the snap it made. Such a versatile material. Sensual. Sexy. She stroked the soft strands of the flogger, then whacked her palm with the tawse again.

  Now you know. Zoe’s voice again.

  Chance and Zoe had met through a shared interest in spanking. She’d bet on it. Perhaps they’d connected on some Internet fetish site, discovered their mutual interest, and followed up with a meeting in person. For coffee.

  She sat cross-legged on the floor like a little girl playing with grown-up toys. All she required for some really wicked games was a playmate named Chance. The fantasy of spanking excited her, aroused her, mingled with whispered urgings in her head to chip at her willpower to keep her distance.

  What if he wanted to spank her? What would she do? On some level, spanking seemed more intimate than having sex. And more tempting. Her resolve trembled under the force of her secret desires. Stay strong, she ordered herself.

  Say yes. That voice. Destiny shook her head and rubbed her temple.

  She licked her lips and eyed the tawse, the flogger, and the paddles. Chance would not use them on her because she couldn’t allow it, but she could try them out on herself. She scrambled to her feet and locked the bedroom door.

  She tugged off her sleep shorts. Watching in the mirrored closet door, she tried a wooden paddle first and gave herself five smacks to her left butt cheek. Sharp pain spread over her skin already blushing a delicate pink. The sensation was interesting, the color fascinating.

  Be careful, she told herself. You don’t want to end up with a red ass! The odds of Chance seeing her naked were slim, but she couldn’t discount the possibility. Not to mention what her doctor’s reaction would be on her follow-up medical visit. How would she explain that? No, I wasn’t beaten. I spanked myself. Doesn’t everybody?

  Feeling like Goldilocks trying out implements to find the one that was just right, she grabbed the tawse. She whacked her pink cheek. “Ooh!” Again. The tails of the tawse separated to strike in two places, imparting a sensation halfway between a thud and a sting. Her clit took notice with a little pulse. She snapped it against the other cheek. Nice, but she preferred the sensation of the tawse on the cheek that had already been warmed by the paddle.

  She tried the flogger next, shivering at how it kissed her thigh. Sweet. A snap against her ass. Oh baby. The sensation caused her pussy to moisten, and she was considering flicking her sex with the flogger when she heard the low grinding noise of the garage door raising.

  Crap! She yanked on her bottoms, tossed the implements into the chest, slammed the lid, and shoved the box into the closet. She unlocked the door, switched off the light, and jumped into bed. Ass tingling, heart hammering, she feigned sleep.

  She thought she heard Zoe laugh.

  Chapter Seven

  Silence met him when Chance entered the kitchen where a single light burned. Talking with Roman had done little to alleviate his confusion, worsened it by highlighting the multitude of differences he’d noticed in Zoe. He opened the refrigerator and stared at the leftovers. She could cook like a dream, so why hadn’t she done it before? Why fake ignorance, incompetence?

  He shut the door and downed a glass of water, then switched off the light and strode to the bedroom. Drawn blinds covered the bedroom windows, but moonlight spilled in through the rounder above to spotlight the bed and cast the room in twilight rather than darkness. Her back to him, Zoe formed a slight speed bump on his side. He stripped to his boxers and slid between the sheets.

  Tree branches rustled against the house like whispering ghosts. Shape-shifting shadows skittered across the ceiling, assumed form as fire-breathing dragons while the woman beside him wafted an incongruous gentle melody of warmth and scent. Disturbingly pleasant. The hairs on his forearm next to her tingled. She surprised him at every turn, yet there was the oddest familiarity about the change in her—like running into someone you recognized at the last place you would expect to see him.

  He inhaled. “Are you awake?” he whispered.

  Only the sound of her breathing met his question. He exhaled with relief. Not disappointment. Relief.

  “Yes.”

  He jumped at the soft sound of her voice. On the ceiling, dragons leaped to full alert.

  She rolled to face him but said nothing more.

  He turned his head on the pillow to peer at her. In the dimness, bruises smudged her cheeks, but her lips looked soft and kissable. “So tell me again when you learned to cook?”

  She shrugged. “It just sort of came to me.”

  He appraised her, trying to glean truth. “People don’t decide one day they like to cook, and presto, they know how. It has to be learned.” Either she’d been hiding her ability all along, or something was seriously weird. “Can you play the violin?”

  “No.” She creased her forehead. “Why?”

  “I wonder what other dormant talents you have,” he said.

  She puckered her lips and whistled the theme from a movie about prisoners of war forced to build a bridge for the enemy. “What’s that?”

  “The Bridge over the River Kwai.”

  “I recognized the tune. I meant why are you whistling?”

  “I’m sharing a hidden talent you. Have you ever known me to whistle?”

  Despite his conflicted emotions, he smiled. “No, I haven’t.”

  Another tune, this one less jaunty, more flowing, haunting, filled the room. Familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

  “What’s that one?” He flipped onto his side toward her.

  “‘My Heart Will Go On.’ The theme from Titanic.”

  “Chick flick.” He dismissed it with a snort.

  “The most famous boat-disaster movie ever. Death and destruction. How can that be a chick flick?” Humor glinted in her eyes. Amusement teased the corner of her mouth into a sweet curve.

  “All that sappy stuff about love continuing after death? Pure romantic dribble drabble.”

  “You don’t think love continues after death?”

  “No.” He spoke emphatically to shore up his belief, because he wasn’t 100 percent sure anymore. She rose on an elbow, and the sheet slipped to her waist, revealing a thin top that displayed her breasts and rosy pink nipples. She had the cutest tits. And even cuter ass that blushed so beautifully. The paddle reddened her ass quicker, but he preferred the tawse, loved coloring her ass strip by strip. Desire he’d pronounced dead flared in his belly and lower. This woman had turned him on more in the past week than she had in two months. What had happened to his resolve? She licked her lips, drawing his gaze to her mouth.

  She lowered her lashes and drew a figure eight on the satin sheet with her finger. Round and round she traced the invisible shape, then blindsided him with a touch to his jaw, a slide against the ridgeline. Heat burned his skin, made his cock ache. What the hell are you doing? He silently swore at her and himself. He should slap her hand away, retreat to the sofa. What happened to his vow of resistance?

  She smiled as she explored his chin and cheek, and despite the war raging within, he became entranced by the pleasure revealed in the curve of her lips.

  “Your face is rough. Like sandpaper,” she mused.

  “I haven’t shaved since yesterday morning.”

  “A little bear
d suits you. It’s sexy.”

  She strayed dangerously close to his lips, and he grabbed her hand to halt her progress, but then pressed it against his face. Instantly he regressed to age fifteen, all nerves and hormones, desperately wanting to kiss a girl but fearing rejection.

  He found his voice. A thick, hoarse one. “This is a bad idea.” He tugged her toward him, and she slid across the sheets into his arms. Ignoring his bellowing common sense, he lowered his head and slanted his mouth over hers.

  She parted her lips and pressed her body against him. He lost himself in the unusual intoxicating sweetness of her mouth. Their tongues danced together, a slow, tentative exploration. Like kissing her for the first time.

  He grabbed her face in his hands, she flinched, and he realized he’d hurt her. He’d forgotten the crash. “Christ. Sorry.”

  She twined her legs between his and murmured against his mouth, “S’kay. Just be gentle. I’ve still got a few sore spots.”

  “Here?” He brushed his lips over her bruised cheek.

  She gave a breathy moan, one of pleasure this time, and nodded.

  “How about here?” Chance kissed her eyelids, then trailed his mouth to the uninjured temple and down to her jaw.

  “All of that. And here.” She smiled shyly, seductively, and pointed to her ear.

  He tugged on the lobe with his lips, and Zoe shivered. “Where else?” he whispered.

  “My neck.” She turned her head to the side.

  He nuzzled her skin, satin against his lips, softer and smoother than the sheet upon which they lay, and she emitted a noise of enjoyment. The half-muffled sound decimated his resistance. Passions better left cold flashed to boiling. He wanted to take her hard and fast, but, cognizant of her injuries, forced gentleness in his touch. Shaking, he traced her collarbone with his tongue, found the indentation at the base of her throat, and licked it.

  They shifted their bodies so she lay flat on her back and he loomed over her.

  Zoe curled her fingers into his hair and tugged at his head, guiding him to her breasts. He nuzzled a hard tip through the thinness of her top. She arched her back and pressed her palm against his head. He drew a nipple into his mouth and sucked on it, wetting the material, and then paused to examine the perfection of the hard bud jutting through the transparent cotton. Unable to resist temptation, he moved his head back and forth to rub his lower lip over her nipple while studying her face. He wobbled as his body and a compulsion screamed, Jump! while experience and wisdom grappled for a hold to forestall a boneheaded mistake. Sessions like this had contributed to her still living in his condo.