Lies That Blind

by Diana Rose Wilson

  “Have some of the waffles. Just to prove that I wasn’t boasting.” He tipped his head, curls as wild as she imagined her own must be.

  She leaned over, letting the blanket fall from her shoulder, and watched his eyes trail over the various marks on her skin, feeling the heat of his possessive gaze branding deep into her. “These are the famous waffles?” She took the fork and let him hold the plate while she cut a small bite. Whipped cream, syrup and the golden, fluffy waffle.

  He didn’t respond except to tip his chin slightly.

  It tasted amazing.

  She had every intention of scoffing at it and his arrogance, but the flavors overwhelmed her. There were pecans and something sweeter, a special spice to the syrup.

  The topping was fresh whipped cream. She had the impression that it did not come from a dairy cow.

  “Oh.”

  “Oh,” he echoed softly back at her and grinned the most adorable, sweet smile before leaning in to kiss her knee and rest his cheek there.

  “What the hell is in that?” She took another bite and this time, accepted the plate from him, putting down the coffee. “Come up here,” she said, patting the spot beside her.

  He chuckled. “A little of this…a little of that.” He climbed up onto the couch and curled around her as she leaned into the warm circle of his arms.

  She fed him a bite and smeared the whip cream over his lips. “You make me feel…alive,” she whispered, almost accusatory.

  He mostly tried to nibble at her fingers and allowed her to make a mess of him with the whip cream while trying to get his teeth on her. “Good. Because you have a full life here with us.”

  “I hope my new friends at the Pickled Salamander agree with that.”

  “They will come around. You need time to adjust.” He grinned with satisfaction and confidence.

  She wasn’t so sure but there was nothing she could do right now to fix it. Right now, she wanted to focus on this man and his wonderful breakfast. So, she ate and fed him and snuggled into his furry strength.

  “You’re so fuzzy,” she teased him and he blinked down at her.

  “What?” Pushing out his chest, sucking in his stomach, he peered down at himself. “Who you calling fuzzy?”

  She ran her hand through the pelt and nuzzled her cheek in. “At least I didn’t call you fluffy.”

  “Oh, you are asking for it,” he growled, petting along her side, patting her ass.

  “Yeah,” she agreed and looked up, surprised at the speculation and thoughtfulness in his expression rather than pure amusement she expected. “What? I like it. I’m not—”

  He smiled and drew back. “Yes, well—” He took the empty plate away before twisting out of her hold so he could stand. “Frankie, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  Her heart flipped a couple times at the seriousness of that tone and expression. “If you tell me you’re immortal and stab yourself with that fork, I am not cleaning up the blood, Highlander.”

  He blinked at her, eyes owlish and so fucking adorable as he processed what she’d said. “What? No. Frankie I—” His nose crinkled at her and he grinned wide. “You are a horrible person, Welton!”

  “You’re being very dramatic. And you’re naked. I’m having difficulty focusing.”

  He blinked as though he’d not even realized he was naked and covered his semi-hard cock with a big hand and rolled his eyes skyward and then back to her. “Frankie.” He drew in a breath. “I mentioned talent last night. Oh, boy, this is extremely unorthodox.”

  She waited as he paced back and forth restlessly, still covering his groin. Holding her breath, she expected to hear more about tickle-palms.

  “I’m trying to say that I’m not like other guys. As there shouldn’t be secrets between us and—this is epic, I figure I need to tell you. Ah. Show you.” His eyes rolled closed on a groan. “Just swear to God you can keep a secret.”

  “Secret?” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Christopher, I’m about the best secret-keeper you’ll ever find. Cross my heart.” She slid her finger over her breast as she smiled.

  “Okay. And just, stay there. Don’t go anywhere,” he said, holding up both his hands, showing his palms.

  “Sure.” She expected him to walk off but instead, he completely blew her mind.

  He held her gaze, standing distractedly naked, and between one breath and the next, a huge, dark jaguar replaced him. No bright light, no sound, only flesh turning fluid and reforming into something magnificently feline.

  The transformation was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. Like witnessing the perfect sunrise, it touched the long-buried core of her.

  Her mind struggled to accept what she saw—people did not transform into beasts.

  Cats in those gigantic proportions should not exist in real life.

  Yet her eyes did not lie to her.

  Something more primitive within her sang in delight at seeing it. Yes. This!

  The other life she led was the lie.

  “Oh.”

  Intuition sort of…chuckled, the sound low and quiet.

  To be fair, this was no garden-variety black jaguar. Not that Frankie was familiar with big cats, but she was pretty sure they should not be chest tall to her. The rosette spots were like stardust, whispering pale, silvery light across the vast black of the coat.

  The edges of him sort of blurred, playing tricks with the morning light, lovely and wispy. When the tail swished, it sent little flickers of sparkles and shadows out along with it. She wasn’t sure if she would actually be able to touch him.

  The eyes were the same jungle green, but even under the feline appearance, he was still Christopher. Even the way the muzzle curled up, she could imagine him crinkling his nose at her. The small ears angled down and slightly back, clearly waiting for her to scream, run or faint. Maybe all the above.

  “Fuck,” she whispered, staying very still. Training told her not to show fear, to look for a weapon she could use to defend herself in case it attacked.

  Intuition whispered, You are safe.

  “I just stepped into a Frank Frazetta painting,” she whispered, offering out her hand, palm up, showing the mark.

  The cat’s ears perked forward. He licked a tongue over the dark leather of his nose and pushed the huge muzzle into her hand with a deep, basso rumble. Solid, warm fur and flesh pushed into her hands and she felt the familiar sensation of the mark when she’d touched Christopher. The pelt was silky, sending hot tingles across her skin.

  When she closed her fingers around the thick jaw, the eyes slid closed and then the big cat tried to climb into her lap.

  He purred even louder and nuzzled into her face, down her neck. She could almost hear him rumbling, ‘Mine. Mine. Mine…this too, MINE,’ while pressing the soft, thick pelt against her.

  “You are fluffy.” She laughed as he playfully pinned her back, the diesel engine purrs rumbling through him. “Pussycat, stop. I’m allergic to cats.”

  He jerked up his head and peered down at her, ears flickered back, whiskers splayed. She laughed and grabbed his jaws, trying to wrestle him off her. He huffed, falling in the direction she pushed him, not fighting her. His weight was crushing. He was truly enormous.

  She wanted to join him. To change like him. Her heart squeezed painfully in her chest at being on the far side of this ethereal experience. Left behind from joining this great adventure.

  He sensed her distress when she stopped wrestling with him and his tail swished around her leg and one big paw patted at her, big and gentle as he growled in quiet reassurance. He would never leave her behind. She sensed the barely contained excitement vibrating through him. His pawing encouraged her to lean down to ruffle his neck fur.

  He rumbled at her, mouth falling open before he licked her face, tongue bubblegum pink, hot and rough.

  “Hey.” The sight of those huge ivory teeth so close to her face was sobering. God. Did he even know his own strength? It sent a spike
of adrenaline through her.

  Dangerous.

  Christopher went very still, ears flicked back and his shadowy tail tickling her side seeming to wait for her to relax again before nuzzling her stomach. Of course, he knew his strength. He would never hurt her. Yes, he was very dangerous. So was she.

  He drew back, graceful and agile for anything that big. He seemed to flow off the couch, featherlight, and dance-pranced across the room, leaving shadowy swirls and starlight before spinning to face her. He changed back just as he had slipped into the cat form. Beautiful and lovely. She could watch that transformation forever.

  He grinned sheepishly at her and raked his hands through his hair, chewing at his lower lip. She saw he was afraid. Afraid he’d shown too much. Her heart was hammering, but if she had to be honest with herself, it was from excitement. Pleasure.

  “I’m okay,” she told him, standing, pretending to pick fur out of her mouth, and his posture relaxed, his smile softening. “You’re a fucking were-cat?”

  “No.” He laughed and reached for her, picking her up, spinning her around before simply holding her in his arms. “No,” he whispered and nuzzled her jaw, eyes bright. “Please don’t be scared.”

  “I’m not scared of shit.” She bared her teeth at him and cupped his cheek.

  He sat on the couch and cuddled her against him when she didn’t resist. “I could get into really big trouble showing you. I mean, to be fair, I pledged myself to you. You’ve branded me…I am yours, Frankie Welton. As the old saying goes; ‘Point me at thy enemies. I am the weapon you command.’”

  “You guys are really fucking intense. Any enemies I have, I can handle. But the waffle making? You have the job.” She kissed his cheek. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  No. More than anything she wanted to learn how to do that, too.

  “Tradition.” He held her tighter, big hands following the lines of her muscular shoulder. “Well, tradition says that you should only be told and shown these talents and gifts by a blood relation. But, Amy was my second mother, and I’m bound to you, so round-about, bending things a tiny bit, I might not get into serious trouble talking with you about it.”

  “You are so busted,” she told him and curled into him, taking the hand he held out and threading her fingers through his. “Fucking Hooligan.”

  “Fucking Welton.” He looked at her hand. “Does your mark feel better today?”

  The question made her think of the dream and the bird plucking the barbs from her. “Yeah. It does.” She wiggled her fingers. “It feels really great when you’re touching it. We’ll see what happens when someone else tries to fuck with it.”

  “Oh, they better not,” he warned playfully, nibbling at her shoulder. After she squirmed, he relented, his voice soft. “Frankie. Take your time with all this. Okay? It’s not all rainbows and kittens. Promise you’ll talk with me before trying anything? People die dabbling with powers they don’t understand.”

  His seriousness chilled her and she nodded to him. “Yeah. I won’t do anything.”

  “Ok.” He sighed heavily, full of regret. “I think that it’s time for me to get cleaned up and go back to the real world.”

  Her heart lurched. The real world. Why couldn’t they just stay like this for a few days? Instead of protesting, or whining like she wanted to, she steeled herself and nodded, moving to push off his lap and away from his arms. “Yeah. I should take care of things too. New bar to start running and all that.”

  He watched her, brows drawing together, and grabbed her hand, standing to pull her close. “Don’t hide from me, Sunkist. I’m not pushing you away.” He drew her hand to his chest and tucked his chin down to squint at her. “Come by the bar tonight. I will feed you.”

  She wanted to refuse and throw up all the familiar walls, but she felt his heartbeat under her fingers and his hands warm and comfortable around hers. “All right. But you must agree to let me do the same for you. I’ve taken care of myself too long to fall completely in your thrall.”

  He smiled. “Deal,” he said, speaking fast and with that delighted twinkle in his eyes. “Come. Shower.” He grabbed the pile of clothes, muttering something about how she wrecked him. With a wider grin, he drew her with him up the stairs.

  In the hall at the top of the stairs, he hesitated and dropped his hand with the clothes over his groin. “Fuck,” he whispered, looking back and forth down the hall.

  “What is it?” She tried to see what caused his blushing concern and realized he was torn between a guest bathroom and what might be the master bedroom.

  Amy’s bedroom.

  “I don’t think I can go in there,” he whispered at her and looked too sweet with that boyish blush. “I mean—fuuuuck.”

  “Well, it’s my bedroom now. Right? So, you can shower with me there.” She took his arm and tugged him and then pulled more when his feet seemed to drag. That adorable blush grew more pronounced.

  “Frankie. Frankie! I don’t know…”

  She hauled him along, peering into the bedroom. All right, two of her apartments could fit into this room. The wallpaper and thick, white rugs over the hardwood floor was just the sort of delicate beauty Amy would appreciate. Clean. Tidy. Beautiful. Very Amy Welton.

  The bed was an enormous antique with four posts, strewn with white linen. A chaise lounge sat under the bay window and on one side of the room was a desk and bookcases. The dresser was covered in beautiful little jewelry boxes and other knickknacks.

  From the window, she could see the hill and mountains. “Oh. That’s the red tree?”

  She expected it would be a little fruit tree but this thing was monstrous. The blood-red bark of its trunk was twisted but smooth as it curled proudly toward the sky, crowned in silver-green leaves. It was larger than the oaks around it, or maybe it just looked so big because it sat alone on the hill.

  “Yeah. Frankie. I should probably just shower in the guest—”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “But I have never been in here.” He looked around curiously as she led him across the room. “Fuck.”

  “Okay. I understand this was Amy’s sanctuary but you have to…o-oh—” Her voice stuttered off in her throat when she entered the spa-like bathroom. It wasn’t only that the space was huge and elegant. It was the stained-glass windows.

  They covered three walls, gleaming brightly in the morning light. The mural featured a waterfall where a winged man bathed. This was no halo-twirling, harp-strumming do-gooder. It wasn’t a religious warrior throat-stomping demons either.

  His long hair, crafted in radiant gold glass, lit up with fire in the sunlight. His muscular body was naked as he arched free of the water, a majestic beast with tawny wings unfurled. Wild, primitive and sexual. The azure gaze held a depth of cocky amusement, smirking in the stained glass.

  Christopher cleared his throat quietly. “Well.”

  “Yeah, guest bathroom,” she said, feeling her cheeks heat, pulsing with a radiant glow as she pushed into Christopher’s chest, willing him to back out of the room with her. “Oh, Auntie. How am I going to bathe with Hot Wings?”

  “Hot Wings?” Christopher choked on laughter as he backed out and blinked down at her. “Oh, Frankie. You are going to need some cold fucking showers. I’m not sure I approve.” He lifted her into his arms with more laughter.

  “Jealous? Maybe I should design a new one with you. Naked. Riding your horse.”

  “Right. So jealous,” he teased, carrying her into the guest bathroom. He squeezed her ass until she squirmed and together they tumble-groped into the shower.

  Even this room eclipsed her old apartment. It had white marble floors with an enormous jetted tub and a shower with more nozzles and fixtures than she had angles.

  He crowded her into the corner of the shower, pressing his larger body into hers as he cupped her face and leaned down to kiss her. It started soft and sweet, like the water pattering around them.

  Warm steam curled around them as he teased her w
ith small licks, taunting her until she broke and thrust her tongue deep into him, taking what she wanted with a growl of hunger.

  His moan filled her mouth and he sucked on her tongue. She pushed him to the other side of the shower and wrapped her legs around him, practically climbing him as she pinned him into the slippery wall.

  He arched toward her, holding her, letting her take what she wanted. His cock was hard and curved and more brutal this morning as he both let her lead and also guided her onto him. She was more savage, wild with the image of him feline and shadowy, and the knowledge that he was hers.

  She couldn’t break him.

  “Harder,” she begged him and he gave it to her, pinned against the wall by her strength. His hips shifted and he dropped and lifted her off his length until the sounds of their union echoed through the room, over the screams of pleasure.

  Like he was trying to break her.

  As though she craved it. Because she needed it.

  Her climax rushed up her legs and down her spine like she was a fuse. The flurry of savage fire burned through her and the moment she cried out his name, he slammed deeper and deeper into her with fast, sharp jerks. His muscles tensed, bunching and flexing under her clawing fingers. His breath and mouth were hot on her, sucking and biting as he pushed her orgasm higher and hotter.

  He rammed deeper into her, pressing her into the wall at last, pinning her as he took her. And took her. Fucked her almost violently against the wall with a shuddering roar of pleasure as he came.

  His lips found hers as his pleasure wove through and around her own. The brutality of the union turning suddenly to sweet adoration, every jerk of his cock answered by a squeeze of her pussy around him. His tongue wrestled with hers, both victorious and surrendering to each other.

  It was not a quick screw. It wasn’t rushed or shamed either. It was beautiful.

  They played in the shower until the water went from hot to warm and when it finally turned cold, they had to admit defeat and finish the actual cleaning of bodies rather than their sport.