by Aliya DalRae
“Diet’s fine,” he smiled again, that gentle, easy smile, and when he took a bite of the sandwich he looked happy, at home. I grabbed my plate off the counter and joined him at the table, watching him.
His dreads were loose today, and they framed his face like the work of art it was, those emerald, shining eyes the centerpiece of perfection. I blinked, realized I was staring, and diverted my focus to my own sandwich.
“How’s work?” I said after swallowing my first bite.
His smile turned a little wry. “I’m pretty sure I got fired last night.”
“What? No. That’s impossible,” I said, indignant. “I’ll talk to Piper. Maybe she can talk to someone…”
“No,” he interrupted. “That won’t be necessary. I’m sure I’ll find something soon. I didn’t really like that kind of work anyway.”
“But what will you do?” I asked. A flicker of panic surged through me at the thought of him moving on, away from Fallen Cross. “You’re not leaving town are you?”
“I don’t know,” he smiled again, laying his sandwich on his plate and wiping his mouth with the napkin. “I’d like to think I had a reason to stick around.”
I didn’t know how to respond. What I wanted to do, for reasons I couldn’t fathom, was throw my arms around him and beg him not to leave—no, to forbid it. But what right did I have?
Mac was a nice, normal guy, and my life was so ridiculous, so dangerous. How could I possibly ask him to stay when I had nothing but conflict to offer him. Not to mention the fact that Raven would kill him, literally, if he even so much as suspected.
“I see a lot of emotion crossing that pretty face. How about we finish our sandwiches, and talk about something else.”
Insightful, too. Crap. I tried to distract myself with a few mundane topics of conversation, but couldn’t ignore the way my insides were twisting. How could I feel so comfortable with someone and so out of sorts at the same time?
We finished our sandwiches, and being the good hostess that my mother raised me to be, I offered him some coffee. What I should have done was offer him the door, but he said it sounded good, so I got up to start a fresh pot.
Mac collected our plates, rinsed them off and put them in the dishwasher, before depositing our empty pop cans in the recycling bin on the porch. He came back inside brushing his hands off, closed the door behind him, and joined me at the coffee pot.
“Sit,” he said, taking my hand in his as I reached for the cabinet door. “I’ll do this.”
“Really?” I asked, dubious.
“Yes, really,” he replied, his thumb stroking the back of my hand.
“Okay,” I said, amused, but the man knew his way around a kitchen. He glanced at me for direction once or twice, but seemed to know precisely which cabinets to go to for the coffee, sugar, cups. It was uncanny.
I watched him scoop the coffee into the filter, fill the machine with water, and give the on button a flamboyant flick and a grin to get the party going. I couldn’t help it, I grinned back, and that was all it took for my internal awkwardness to disappear. We were simply two people, hanging out in my kitchen, and everything was as it should be.
Conversation came swiftly then, and after we covered the weather, we moved on to the town, my house, my parents and how they died. We refilled our mugs and moved to the living room.
As we settled on the sofa, our legs curled under us so we could face each other, Mac told me about his wife. How she and their baby had died in childbirth, and I couldn’t help but shed a tear for him. For all three of them.
We touched briefly on Raven and the fact that I was conflicted in my feelings at the moment, but I was hesitant to elaborate, and Mac didn’t press me.
I put my empty mug on the coffee table, stretched and wondered what time it was. I glanced out the window and was surprised to find it was dark.
“Want a refill?” Mac asked me, tilting his empty coffee cup toward me.
“No, thanks,” I said, “but help yourself.”
“I think I will,” he smiled and, unfolding himself from the sofa, he disappeared into the kitchen, returning moments later, steam curling from the top of his cup.
He sat down beside me and sipped his coffee, relaxed, languid, and watched me with that easy way of his. I couldn’t help staring as his lips met the rim of the mug, the same lips that had pressed against mine a scant few hours ago, and my thoughts were doing a naughty dance.
I thought about Raven, and the craziness that our relationship had become. I thought about the changes that were affecting me, my life, who I was. What I was.
Suddenly the idea of a normal relationship with a regular guy was overwhelmingly tempting. I loved Raven. I did. But even for me, crazy Jessica of the bizarre all-knowing visions, my life had become off-kilter, and I couldn’t see myself living out the rest of my days like that. There would always be some creature or other out to kill me. Or I would spend my life wondering if I was going to change into some kind of bloodthirsty Vampire, all because of the man I happened to love.
Meanwhile, right here next to me, was a strong, handsome, funny man. A guy I enjoyed being with, talking to, hanging around with. A guy who made sparks fly when our skin touched, and who never once evoked one of my visions. A man who just was.
The silence stretched comfortably between us, and my thoughts meandered into dangerous territory. What would it be like to be with Mac? To be held in his arms. For him to touch me—everywhere. Kiss me. Everywhere. Without thinking I reached for him, at the exact moment he raised his hand for another sip of coffee.
Bam! My hand connected with the cup, jostling it and sending the steaming liquid all down the front of him.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I cried, jumping up seconds after Mac, who was standing with his hands up, looking at his clothes as though he couldn’t figure out what had happened.
“I’m sorry,” I said again. I took the cup from him, discarded it somewhere, and reached for the hem of his t-shirt. He had a strange smile on his face, but let me remove the stained shirt, which I used to pat the coffee from his chest, searching for signs of blistering.
His skin looked okay, though, perfect really, albeit a little wet. And solid, and smooth, and…I swallowed hard, my face warming. Lots of places on me were warming.
“Are you okay?” I asked, swallowing again. When he still didn’t answer, I tore my gaze away from all that muscular perfection and chanced a look at his face. We were nearly the same height, so meeting his gaze took little effort, but what I saw didn’t help my own little heat problem.
Mac was watching me now, his emerald eyes smoldering. It was a look that told me he was burning too, and that it had nothing to do with coffee. But underneath the fire there was hesitance, and a hint of insinuated guilt, although I had no idea why he would be feeling guilty. I lowered my eyes, unable to comprehend the depth of emotions in that one look.
My hands had stopped cleaning at some point, and were simply resting on the perfect smoothness of his pecs. His shirt was still in one hand, but the other one, seemingly all by itself, was stroking him, my thumb teasing his nipple.
Bad thumb, I thought, but instead of stopping, my other hand dropped the shirt, and set off on a search of its own, this one more adventurous than the other. I really needed to have a talk with my hands. But not now. They were busy now, and I hated to interrupt.
Still mesmerized by my hands’ traitorous activities, which were becoming bolder in their explorations, I was surprised to feel a warm touch under my chin, gently nudging my gaze upward. At this point, one of my hands had ventured dangerously low and was playing with the waistband of his jeans. Then I was leaning toward him, my audacious hands searching parts beyond my sight, using that waistband as a guide.
Our lips met, and electricity shot through me, low in my belly, and I pulled him to me. His arms were around me, his hands setting out on an exploration of their own, one on my back and the other decidedly lower. He pulled me toward him until
our bodies melded and I could tell precisely how much he wanted me. Someone groaned—it could have been me—and Mac deepened the kiss, our tongues tangling, searching. I couldn’t get close enough. I wanted to be inside him, for him to be inside me, and not solely in the way this was heading. When the kiss ended we were gasping for air, and Mac rested his forehead against mine as he tried to catch his breath.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, but he continued to hold me tightly.
“Don’t be,” I breathed. “I’m not.” He moved his head back a couple inches to look at me, but kept our bodies close. I arched my hips toward him and this time the groan was his. Definitely his.
“You’re not making this easy for me.”
“Where’s the difficulty?” I asked. “I think it’s pretty obvious where this is leading, and I’m not exactly fighting you off, here.” I smiled up at him, but he was shaking his head.
“Jess, I know you’re conflicted about Raven right now…”
“I don’t want to talk about him,” I said. I moved a wandering hand to the back of his neck, and tried to pull him in for another kiss, but he released me to take a step back. After a second, I let him go.
“What’s wrong?” I was puzzled. I wanted him. He obviously wanted me. What was the problem?
“There’s a lot about me you don’t know, and…I just don’t want you to do something with me tonight that you’ll regret.”
“I know everything I need to know for now—for tonight.” I was sounding a little desperate and I didn’t like that, but I needed this. I needed it badly. I needed one night of normal, and I wasn’t going to let some misplaced sense of chivalry get in the way. I moved back to him, resting my hands on his broad, bare shoulders.
“You have to promise me,” he said returning his arms around my waist. “Promise me that no matter what happens, no matter what you learn about me, you will never be sorry.”
I kissed his jaw, the corner of his mouth, and whispered against his lips, “Nothing could ever make me regret you.” I covered his mouth with mine, and he hesitated only a moment before our tongues were dancing again, his hands moving deftly across my back, my bottom. I reached between us and unbuttoned his jeans, slid my hand inside and was surprised to find there really was nothing between him and his Calvin Klein’s.
Taking care, I lowered his zipper, then pushed his jeans down, freeing him from their confines. He was absolutely beautiful, long and thick, and he jerked when I wrapped my fingers around him, squeezing gently, rubbing my thumb through the dewdrop at his head.
He moaned something against my mouth as he stepped out of his jeans, and I pulled away from him, wanting to see him. A sense of déjà vu enveloped me as I took in his beauty.
He was an Adonis, plain and simple. With broad shoulders, narrow hips, and those awesome little muscle things at the hip bones that make the girls in romance novels forfeit their virginity. His legs were lean, his thighs well-muscled, and when I managed to direct my eyes back to his gorgeous face, he was blushing nervously. I reached for his hand and walked him to the stairs.
He followed me without another word.
Chapter Seventy
J essica led Malcolm up the living room stairs and into a room on the left he’d never entered before. It was a smallish room, with 1970’s wallpaper and brown shag carpet. A full size bed occupied most of the room, with a small dresser and an even smaller secretary completing the décor. A window at the far end of the room let in a bit of moonlight, and there was a door on each wall, presumably closets or attic space.
Jessica pulled him into the room, shut the door, and pushed him onto the bed. Christ, she was sexy. Even in sweatpants, she was crazy gorgeous. The way she was looking at him, like a cat regarding a mouse she intended to play with for a very long time—that look alone was enough to have Malcolm panting.
He moved to stand, to reach for her, but she said, “Unh uh. Stay where you are.” Malcolm could only nod and licked his lips.
Slowly, she removed the sweatshirt, revealing a flat stomach and firm breasts, her nipples hard and shining in the soft glow of the moon.
Next came the pants, which she slowly, torturously slid down the curve of her hips, exposing her long, slender legs. Like him, she was bare beneath the bottoms, although for Malcolm it was practicality. If he had to shift quickly he tended to get tangled up in underwear. It was easier for him without them.
For Jessica it was a matter of comfort, a part of her evening ritual. He had seen it often as Malcolm the Cat. Watched her, admired her, loved her.
But tonight, for the first time, she removed her clothes for him.
She kicked away the sweatpants and stalked her way to the bed, pushing him down on his back and straddling him. He reached for her, but she captured his hands and placed them above his head.
Malcolm smiled and closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of her bottom pressed against his erection, and the suggestive way she was taking control. He felt her lips touch his, but when he tried to kiss her back she moved on, down his neck to his chest and lower.
She slid down the length of him, her lips continuing their search, finding him, wrapping their warm wetness around him, and he gasped. He fisted his hands above his head, savoring the feel of her. If she kept this up, it would be over entirely too soon, and that was not how he wanted their first time to end.
Sitting up, pulling himself away from her sweet mouth, was the most difficult thing Malcolm had ever done. But Jessica aimed a sly look at him as she dragged the back of her hand seductively across her lips. With a grin, he pulled her onto his lap and kissed her hard.
His hands were everywhere, touching, feeling, urgent. She was kitten soft, and when he found her breast, squeezed it, she made tiny gasping noises in his mouth. He moved lower, his teeth pulling on one nipple, then the other, and he delighted in every whispered sigh, every panting moan, and at the erotic arch of her back.
“Please, Mac,” she groaned, and he shuddered at the sound of her voice. “Please.” But he had more exploring to do.
Malcolm deftly switched their positions so that he was hovering above her, drinking in the lines of her body, the creaminess of her skin. The soft rise and fall of her breasts.
Malcolm shook his head, watching his dreadlocks brush against her cheeks, slow and gentle. Was this really happening, or was it just another of his fantasy dreams? He reached out to touch the side of her face, and she turned into his palm, eyes closed, mouth open as she first kissed, then nipped at his fingers.
Definitely real.
Moving his hands down her shoulders, across her breasts, Malcolm slid lower, his hair dragging a trail across her stomach, and she giggled.
He moved lower, leaving a trail of kisses on her hips, her thighs, until he was nuzzling the soft V between her legs. As he nudged her, her legs fell open and he found himself gazing at the treasure he’d been coveting for so long. His Jessica.
He kissed her inner thigh, and when she giggled again Malcolm paused. So long he had wanted this, wanted her, but now that it was happening, he was uncertain.
He should have been honest with her, before it ever got this far. He should have told her who he was, given her the option of throwing him out.
She raised her hips to meet his lips, and all thoughts of chivalry fled.
The first taste of her was ambrosia, heady, intoxicating, and as she moved against him, he devoured her, as his heart was consumed by the feel of her against his tongue. Her hands were in his hair now, holding him to her.
Like he had any intention of moving from this spot.
Too soon for Malcolm’s liking, she stiffened, screamed his name. With one final lick that had her bucking and pulling his dreads, Malcolm surrendered that oasis of bliss, and with a predatory smile, rose above her to claim her as his own.
Chapter Seventy-One
H oly Crap! That just happened. I was trembling all over, like a human earthquake, and when I was able to pry my eyes open?
Mac l
ingered over me, his dreads falling like a curtain around us, the look of pure satisfaction on his face leaving me flushed and tingling with aftershocks.
“Wow,” I breathed, averting my eyes. “That was…wow.”
Mac lowered himself to me, kissed my neck, my throat. I froze a little—Vampire flashbacks—but other than a little tongue action, he didn’t even come close to biting me. After a minute or so I relaxed again surrendering to the moment. He kissed me again, slow, deep, and I felt him down there, touching, ready.
He raised up on his elbows and nudged my face with his chin so that our eyes met again. His gaze was a question, and in answer I lifted my hips to join us together, as I felt we were meant to be.
With a groan, he slid inside me, filling me until our hips were touching. Mac lowered his forehead to mine, and we stayed like that for a long moment, savoring the feeling of being one.
Until I couldn’t take it anymore. I slowly moved my hips, and he joined me in the dance. The gentle back and forth, ebb and flow, of ecstasy that was the art of making love, each stroke a reminder of what my life could be like. Easy, calm. Normal.
Our pace increased, a rising tempo of passion and desire. Mac buried his head in my shoulder, and I wrapped my arms and legs around him, holding him tight to me as we reached our crescendo.
He squeezed me then, so tight I could barely breathe, but I didn’t care—breathing was overrated. All I wanted was this. Right here. Right now.
We climaxed together, clinging to each other, to this moment, as though it were something fleeting, ephemeral. If we let go, even a little, it felt like the moment would slip from our grasp, disappearing in a mist of nothingness, as if it had never been.
I fell asleep still wrapped in Mac’s arms, and as I drifted off I thought, this is how it’s supposed to be.
Chapter Seventy-Two
