by Abbie Roads
A weird heat started in his chest the moment he walked away from her. He rubbed it as he headed away from the house toward the pathway to his office. The cool autumn air, the stark beauty of the world waiting for winter, didn’t even register.
She’d laughed at him.
Why wouldn’t she? He was a mutant. A genetic anomaly that shouldn’t have survived, or found a way to thrive. And yet he had. Reality was that no matter how hard he tried, he was never going to be normal or have anything related to normal in his life.
The burn inside his chest ratcheted up to an inferno. Fucking heartburn.
He stepped up to the retinal scanner, waited for light to flash from red to green, and opened the door. After he secured himself inside, he went to his desk and ripped open the bottom drawer. Only one thing could ease the desolation inside him. He grabbed his machine and took it into the small bathroom. In minutes, he was ready to go.
Shirtless in front of the full-length mirror he reached for the tattoo machine to begin, but his gaze snagged on his chest. On his tattoo.
He’d always referred to the piece as the Dark Seduction of Night.
From his left hip, an immense, gnarled tree ranged up and out over his chest, curling around his sides and toward his neck. Branches twisted and deformed. Trunk tumorous and knotted. Behind the bare limbs, a bloated harvest moon hung low in the sky. It was an eerily alluring picture, made more so by what he now noticed.
The trunk—how had he never seen it before?—wasn’t tumorous, knotted wood. It was knees and elbows and shoulders. Bodies. Two of them. Male. Female. Entwined in an eternal embrace so impassioned that he almost felt embarrassed looking at them. And they were on his damned body.
How had he done that—made the trunk from a pair of bodies—and not even been aware of doing it? He never planned his tattoos. He just did them and was always surprised at what he’d wrought when it was completed. That’s what tattooing was to him, a place beyond thought, a nirvana where only ink and blood and pain lived.
The lights began to flash to tell him someone was outside. Only two people knew about his office. Gill and Eric. Eric wouldn’t be making the trip from Quantico without at least calling first.
Opportunity was standing right outside his door—the opportunity to transform Gill’s preppy boy good looks into something only a zombie could love.
He yanked on his shirt in less than two seconds—no one had ever seen the ink on his chest—and was across the office and nearly ripping the door off its hinges to get it open. “I’m ready for round two, ass—” The rest of whatever he’d planned to say evaporated.
Honey stood there, holding a tray with a platter of peanut butter sandwiches and two glasses of water. “I wasn’t being malicious. That’s what you thought, isn’t it? You turned your back on me and walked away before I could explain. I didn’t want to chase you down and startle you.”
He neither confirmed nor denied her words.
“I was laughing because you’re such a big, muscly guy. You seem like the type to work construction or be a professional wrestler. Not a gardener and baker. I wasn’t being mean. I was enjoying how unexpected you are.”
He smelled her sincerity.
He stepped back.
She entered, scanning his environment—the walls of bookcases filled with vials of baseline scents he used to distinguish similar specimens from each other. What was he going to tell her if she asked about the vials? Was he going to lie? Didn’t want to lie. Didn’t want to tell the truth either.
He secured the door, then watched her settle the tray on his desk. Having her in this room was weird. Hell, it was a little weird that she was even in his life after all the years he’d spent alone. No one other than Gill and Eric had been inside these walls, and then only briefly to check the security or provide more baseline scents. With her here though, the room seemed less antiseptic and tons more cozy.
He sat in the chair behind his desk.
“Tell me why you don’t eat dairy and don’t buy from grocery stores and eat mostly what you grow.”
Heat crept up his neck. He didn’t want to have this conversation. “I’m extremely picky about where my food comes from. I can’t stand it when other people touch my food or its packaging.” Truth. Not the whole truth. So help me God.
Her eyes darted to the platter of peanut butter sandwiches.
“You’re okay though.” He grabbed one of the sandwiches, handed it to her, and then got one for himself. He took a bite. Honey exploded across his taste buds. He closed his eyes for a second to savor the flavor. It tasted like a kiss. “You can touch my food anytime.”
He thought maybe he heard her giggle before she started eating.
Surprise flared across her face. “Wow. This is good. I can actually taste it.”
“Why wouldn’t you be able to taste it?”
“I can’t taste food. Haven’t been able to for years.”
He almost asked why but knew it had to do with Junior. Didn’t need to know more. “How about your sense of smell?”
“I can smell some things, but not others.”
“If your nose doesn’t work right, food doesn’t taste right.” Did that explain why he never got SMs from her? No. She should have some SMs from before she lost the ability to smell. “My sense of smell is extremely sensitive. That’s part of why I eat this way.” He hadn’t told her how acute his nose was, but he’d taken the first step.
“So you wear gloves because you don’t like to touch things other people have touched?”
To him, wearing the gloves was akin to wearing clothes. Until she mentioned it, he hadn’t thought about an explanation. What she said sounded like a logical leap, so he nodded.
She gestured with her half-eaten sandwich. “What is this place?”
“My office.”
“Dr. Stone said you were distinguished in your field, and I felt stupid not knowing what your field was.”
“I’m a special skills consultant to the FBI.” Other than his parents, he’d never told anyone about his job.
“That sounds important. What’s it mean?”
Hmmm…how to explain without explaining. “My job is similar to a profiler, but different.”
“As in serial killer profiler?” She leaned forward in her seat.
“Exactly. But I mostly work cold cases. Until recently.”
“You got a promotion?”
“Not exactly. A number of my cold cases were all committed by the same killer. The Strategist. And we’ve”—he gestured between them—“just linked two very recent murders to him.”
“We?”
“Hold on to your seat. I’m about to blow your mind. The eye, the hair and tooth—I’ve confirmed they’re all from victims of the Strategist. Because of the lead you gave Gill about Guadalupe Mountains National Park—and after preliminary DNA confirmation—a team was sent there to search for the body of Juanita Valdez. She went missing from her home in Salt Flats, Texas, the night you dreamed about her.”
Evanee set her mostly finished sandwich on the platter. Her hand was shaking.
“For all his threats about Quantico, Gill knows you weren’t anywhere near Salt Flats, Texas. He was here all night and knows no one gave you the hair or tooth. He’s at least trying to understand what’s happening. Even if he is acting like the King of Anuses.”
Confusion nestled in the wrinkle between her brows. “The Strategist. A serial killer. My dreams were about his victims?”
“Yeah. I’ve found thirty-eight murders. You’ve given evidence of two more, and there probably are more out there we haven’t discovered yet. The things you’ve brought back from the dreams have given us leads.”
She slouched down in the chair. “Two weeks ago, all I had to worry about was earning enough money to get out of town. Now I’ve got Junior and the Strategist in my world.�
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Lathan smelled the faint garlic of anxiety. “You don’t have to worry about either of them. You’re here so I can keep you safe. Your safety is my priority.”
Her face crinkled up all wrong. “I’m here so you can protect me. It’s your priority.”
Was she asking a question or making a statement? He smelled lavender—sadness. Why was she suddenly feeling sad? “You’re providing us with priceless information on the Strategist. But that puts you too close to him. So of course I want you here, where I know I can keep you safe.” He thought his words would sooth her, but the scent of sadness only got stronger.
“I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.” She stood. “But I need to be alone for a while.” Without a backward glance, she left.
He stared after her. Lavender. Why was she sad? Because Junior and the Strategist were in her life? No, she’d been anxious while talking about them, but then she’d gotten sad when he talked about protecting her. He replayed their conversation in his mind, but couldn’t pinpoint an explanation for her sadness.
Something was wrong, and he wasn’t going to let her close off and not tell him. He couldn’t fix what he didn’t understand.
He followed her, but by the time he got the door secured behind him, she was nearly out of sight—running. “Wait!” He knew he yelled the word, but she continued.
He didn’t catch up to her until he found her upstairs, curled in on herself on the far side of the bed. Sadness heavy in the air. He sat next to her and stroked her hair.
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
Her lips moved, but from the angle of her head, he couldn’t read the words. “Can you look at me and say that again?”
She faced him, her bottom lip pushed out in an adorable pout. “Nothing.” Her eyes shimmered beautifully in the gray afternoon light.
“You’re lying.” The itchy pepper scent of it tickled his nose. “Try again.” He caressed her face. His bare fingers grazed over the skin of her cheek, then down her neck to the delicate skin just behind her ear. Her honeyed scent intensified, mingling with the lavender in one heady, sweet blend.
“I don’t know if I can do this.” She gestured back and forth between the two of them. “With everything else I’ve got going on with Junior, with the dreams, with work and money.”
Was she trying to tell him the bond growing between them was over? He had trouble breathing. His heart had trouble beating. “What do you mean?”
“Are you going to make me say it?”
“Yeah.” If she didn’t say it, he wasn’t sure twenty guesses would give him an accurate answer.
“I thought there was something special between us. But you were only protecting me.”
“You think the only reason you’re here is so I can protect you?”
She nodded, her lip pushed out in a deeper pout.
He cupped her face in his hands and then waited for her gaze to find his. “You’re here because I need to be near you. You’re here because I couldn’t leave the diner last night without you. You’re here because I need you in my life to feel normal.”
I need you.
Fuck. He sounded like a toddler with separation issues, but the words had flowed out of him on a wave of swear-on-a-holy-book truth.
“You need me?” Her gaze searched his face with all the thoroughness of a polygraph machine.
“I do.” He couldn’t have lied to her—about this. He’d already committed the sin of lie-by-omission too many times with her.
She reached up to him, placing her cool hand against the tattoo on his cheek. Reality shifted. Time got lazy and loitered along. He lost himself in her eyes—in the silver flecks swirling against the midnight-blue irises, like stars forming the mythical constellations aligning to tell their story—hers and his. A story of something eternal that had no name but was vast beyond time and place and reason.
A swell of silky heat effervesced through his veins.
Her hand slid from his tattoo into his hair. The vision, the trance, whatever it was, vanished and all he felt was the gentle tug of her hand on the back of his head, pulling him to her mouth.
The sweet pressure of their lips touching was a beautiful death—the ending of one thing, so another even more magnificent kiss could be birthed by their tongues thrusting wildly against each other.
The taste of her exploded in his mouth, permeated the air around them, surrounding him with the essential essence of her. Desire zinged along his nerve endings, converged, and swelled in his groin.
She wrenched his T-shirt from his jeans and slipped her hands inside, smoothing them up his chest, down his sides. His heart drop-kicked to his groin, back to his chest, down to his groin. He wanted more, more, more.
He tore his mouth from hers and ripped the shirt over his head. Anticipation heated his skin. Only her touch would soothe him.
But her attention wasn’t focused on him; it was zeroed in on his chest. The tattoo. He stood still, let her stare her fill. The artwork was complicated, not the kind a thing a person could take in on a glance.
“Who are they?” she asked.
“Us. The us that was before.” He didn’t know why he said that, but the truth of it resonated deeply within. Taking the words back would’ve been blasphemous.
She sat up, moved to the edge of the bed, and touched the tattooed outline of the male figure. Up the male’s calves, over his buttocks, his shoulders to his head. She caressed the male’s cheek as if he were in the image of a loved one. Damn, if he didn’t almost feel her stroking the skin of his actual cheek.
Goose bumps covered his skin. He was never cold. Never. But now he felt feverish and freezing at the same time. Skin chilled. Insides sweltered. Dick burning with a need for her cooling touch. As if she’d read his mind, she released the button of his jeans and wrangled down the zipper. His erection scraped against the metal—a perverse pleasure.
He stepped back, kicked off his boots, shucked his jeans. In nothing but the raw, he stood in front of her, not moving. He wanted this to be about more than just fucking. He wanted this to be about her. About showing her the depth and breadth of his feelings, so she would know she would never have to be alone again. “You’re in charge.”
She cocked her head ever so slightly, almost as if she were listening to the words he hadn’t spoken.
“Take my clothes off.” She stood in front of him. Waiting.
Maybe he should be nervous—he was a thirty-three-year-old virgin. But this felt destined. Written in the fucking stars in her eyes.
His hands were as steady as those of a seasoned brain surgeon. He reached for her leggings and pulled them down her seven-mile legs. Those legs… How would it feel to have them wrapped around him? Rapture. He pulled her sweater over her head. She wore a simple white bra and white panties. Nothing fancy. And yet they were sexier than any fantasy.
“What’s next?” He wasn’t certain he had a voice when he spoke.
“Bra and panties.”
To his ears, her words were disjointed, but his eyes saw her heart reflected in her face, and his nose smelled her honeyed musk. He drew the scent in and savored it.
He didn’t remember taking the last of her clothes off, but he must’ve because she stood in front of him. Naked. Beautiful.
Her breasts were capped with raspberry-colored nipples. Would they taste like raspberry or honey or some erotic flavor uniquely their own?
The sharp ripple of her ribs demarcated the plane of her stomach. The short-trimmed black hair between her legs… Fuck, the ability to think vanished.
With his mind’s camera he captured a picture of her and tucked it away, knowing it would be an image he would cherish until the last feeble beat of his heart. Before he’d met her, he’d resigned himself to being alone. To never sharing intimacy with a woman. But here she was—an eccentric combination of fragility, st
rength, and beauty. His miracle.
“It’s been awhile for me. You too?” She stepped closer. Only a foot separated them.
“Forever.” Nope. Hadn’t lied.
She knelt in front of him. His heart double-kicked in his chest. His throat pinched off his air supply. Instead of choking, she became his oxygen, his breath, his absolute.
Fuck, no. Fuck. She couldn’t be going to… Her breath fanned across his skin. Warm, then cool, warm, cool. Her gaze flicked up to him, and she lowered her mouth to him.
He watched her devour his dick. Lost the ability to think. Could only feel. Hot. Wet. Pressure. Sensory overload. Raw sensation licked him from the inside out. He felt flayed open, flaming, and she was the soothing breeze blowing across his burn.
She cupped his balls. The pleasure, yet the pain of trying to control himself—a masochistic mixture. The beginning of his finale surged. Too soon.
“Stop. You’ve got to stop or…” The words died when she slid her tongue down the base of his dick, then back up in one long, sleek stroke. Ecstasy and torture. She took the head into her mouth and sucked gently. Every ounce of energy in his body—the spark that kept his heart beating, that kept his breath pumping in and out—converged in his dick, then expanded and multiplied until he was energy. He was life. He was the orgasm that began to crash over him.
He pushed away from her. Couldn’t come in her mouth without her permission—couldn’t do that to her. He came in great, heavy spurts, cupping the mess in his hand.
When he finished, he hung his head and stared down at himself. At his fist still wrapped around his dick, at his hand covered in come.
Holy fucking Christ. He’d basically cranked one off in front of her. This was supposed to be about her. About giving to her, instead of taking. About being a better man than any of the assholes she’d ever been with.
She ran her hand over his arm, trying to get his attention, but he couldn’t look at her with shame in his eyes.
“I didn’t want it to be that way for you.” He went into the bathroom, shut the door. He washed the come from his hands and dick. After he dried himself, he stared in the mirror at a face he didn’t recognize—his own. It was his face of course, but something had changed, shifted, transformed inside him and he no longer felt like the man in the mirror.
