by Joss Ware
Her hands at her waist, obviously ready to draw down her trousers, her slender, muscular arms alongside those high, palm-sized breasts with tight dark pink nipples…the dark hollow of her throat and the shadows near delicate collarbones…her long, slender neck. And the arrogant lift of her chin. Challenging him yet again.
Bloody buggering hell, did she know how to play him.
“What,” she said, drawing her gaze slowly, heavily, over him, “the hell”—she unzipped her cargos—“are you waiting for? Get out of those wet clothes.” The trousers fell, exposing lean legs and a little white swatch of panties that sagged a bit.
“Come here,” Quent said, in a desperate attempt to regain some control over the situation.
“You’re dripping wet…I don’t want to get cold.” Her challenging look swept over him and he knew he wasn’t going to be cold himself any time soon.
“If there’s one thing I can promise you, it’s that you’re not going to be cold,” he promised, tossing the arrow aside. She didn’t seem to notice.
“Is that right?” she challenged, her voice rough.
“What do you think?”
The next thing he knew, their bodies were smashed together. Somehow, her warm, sleek skin became plastered against his soaking clothes. Her hands shoving into the dripping mess of his hair, his palms cupping her panty-covered bum, their mouths ferocious and demanding.
Oh God. Yes. Thank you.
And then, it became all about Zoë. There was nothing but her—spicy, warm, sleek and strong. Her mouth soft and full, fitting to his, teasing away then coming back for more…her breasts pushing into his wet shirt, one of her legs wrapping insistently around him. Her hips lifting and grinding into his.
The bed bumped into his thigh and he cracked his knee on the edge of the table next to it, but he hardly noticed as they tumbled onto the brocade coverlet. He couldn’t get enough of her—the essence of her skin, somehow hinting of the same cinnamon flavor as its dusky color, the strength of her legs, twining, shoving between his, just as urgent to get it on as he was.
Her fingers pulled at the buttons of his jeans, difficult because the buttonholes had shrunk from the dampness, and Quent found himself almost laughing as she swore and yanked and bitched between kissing the hell out of him.
Good God, she can kiss. Her tongue swiped deep and strong, teased and thrust as she sucked and licked and nibbled, then pulled away and breathed a sharp, furious curse. Then went back for more with full, sleek lips matching his, fitting, slipping and sliding as their breaths mingled and her fingers fumbled.
“Let me,” he said finally, removing his hands reluctantly from her smooth skin, where they’d been relearning that long, curving spine, down beneath the warm cotton of her panties. Zoë arched against him, her breath warm and labored against his neck as she tipped to the side, sagging next to him on the bed.
For a heartbeat, they lay there, breaths rough and unsteady, and their eyes met. Caught. Quent felt as though something sharp and sudden pierced him, something uncomfortable, and saw Zoë catch her breath, then her eyes shutter. He thrust the moment away by yanking violently at the stubborn fly of his increasingly tightening jeans. Fucking last damned time he wore suede. The buttons exploded, popping and dropping as if he’d just undone a row of snaps, and then she was there, sliding her calloused hands down into his warm package.
He groaned aloud as she covered him, deft fingers closing around him, freeing the pounding center of his universe. And then the little sigh-groan Zoë gave when he slipped free nearly sent him over.
Jeans still around his hips, damp and heavy and awkward, he pressed her back onto the bed, half covering her and sliding his hand down past the stretched-out elastic of her panties, to her slick warmth. Oh God, she was full and wet and ready, and she shifted and sighed, shoving herself against his palm.
“You sure you came here for that arrow?” he asked, watching her face as he fingered her.
Her almond eyes, half shadowed by the dim light, closed and her lips parted for a soft puff of breath. “Damn right…It’s mine.”
He shifted his fingers, teasing them against her, coaxing and stroking, watching her breathing change, her eyelids flutter. “Then why don’t you go get it,” he suggested. “Don’t let me keep you.”
He settled his mouth over the closest of her hard, gathered-up nipples, sucking it suddenly and firmly as she tightened and arched next to him…then a blaze of pleasure barreled through him as she gasped and shuddered her orgasm beneath his fingers and lips.
Oh yeah, luv, that’s it. Let me show you how good it is.
He coaxed everything he could from her, waiting, teasing softly till she settled, then did it again. This time, leaving her clawing for breath, even writhing a bit…and reaching for him.
“Guess I’ll be going now,” she said in a raspy voice. Her full lips twitched up at one side. “Now that you mention it.” Her fingers closed around him and gave two—count ’em, two—quick, long strokes…then she was over him, and up and off the other side of the bed.
Quent’s breath exploded in a great gust and he flipped over toward her. But instead of being halfway across the room, as he’d feared, there she stood, right by the bed, a wicked, wicked smile on her well-kissed lips. Naked.
“Zoë,” he said, not caring if he sounded desperate. He was. Oh, bloody fucking hell, he was desperate…so desperate he thought about begging. Bloody Quent Brummell Fielding, begging for a woman.
“Well, shit, if you’d take off your damned clothes, I might be convinced to stick around,” she said. “They’re cold as hell and sticky too.”
Quent let out his breath in a gust of humor as he realized that, indeed, he was still fully clothed except for the raging hard-on thrusting from his open fly. He tore off his shirt and peeled the bloody jeans off, and when he’d slapped them to the floor in a damp pile, he looked up.
She moved toward him, pushing him back onto the bed, none too gently. The next thing he knew, Zoë had settled over his hips, her hands flat and warm over his chest, and lowered herself down. Oh God…God…
He squeezed his eyes shut, clamped his hands on her to keep the bloody damned minx from moving before he could regain control. Her deep, low laugh teased him like a smoky whip and he opened his eyes to meet hers, to read the same lust blazing there.
She tightened around him, he groaned as the pounding surged harder, almost lost it, and brought himself back.
And…no. In this way, he would be in control. With a swift move, he flipped her onto her back. Zoë half laughed, half gasped in surprise and delight as he took over, as he wasted no time before he brought them into the long, sleek rhythm.
The ride turned frantic, and Quent lost all sense of details but for the soft gasps and sighs, the slide of leg, the scrape of nails, soft lips, the rising, gathering pleasure, and everything became slick and hot and pounded through him, barreling to the edge…and over.
At the last second, he remembered, somehow, and twisted away with a deep grunt of release and effort…blinding pleasure trammeling through him as he reached what he needed. And held on as he slipped into the hard-won ease of sleep.
* * *
10 June 2010
6:00 A.M.
Devi is up and making coffee while I log in to check email so that he doesn’t notice. He’ll scold me if he knows, for we are on holiday. Three more days, and I’m back at the office to revise another design for the die shop. But for now, Dev and I have our first holiday since our honeymoon, and we are enjoying every moment of it. Even though we haven’t left home and there is much work to do, it’s nice to have a break from the rigors of the office.
10:00 A.M.
Something odd is happening. There are reports of very strong earthquakes in Phoenix, LA, Dallas and Vegas, Denver, St. Louis…everywhere. And at the same time, dark gray clouds are rolling in here. Looks like a nasty storm coming. I find it very disconcerting and a little bit creepy that it should come on the heels of m
assive earthquakes. Devi and I are surfing the Net on our laptops, looking for updates.
Noon
The ground is trembling here, in southern Nevada. Are we having an earthquake here? The Internet is down. Cell phones are dead. TV too.
Something very frightening is happening.
—from the diary of Mangala Kapoor
* * *
CHAPTER 2
“You did it again.”
Quent opened his eyes. He had no idea how long it had been…had he slept for hours or minutes?…but he didn’t care. Zoë’s voice, husky from disuse, and, he hoped, pleasure, was always welcome.
Because that meant she hadn’t slipped off into the night.
The room was dark but for the glow of the small lamp he always left burning when he exited the place. The curtains were drawn tightly enough that he couldn’t tell if a seam of daylight might play around the edges or not.
She lay next to him, propped up on one elbow, her breasts shifted slightly down toward the bed, tempting him with their perky nipples and smooth, feminine curves. Zoë and Quent weren’t touching, but he could feel the warmth of her body, and the slightest dip in the mattress from her insubstantial weight.
“Right,” he replied and half sat up, dragging a hand through his still-damp hair. It tended to curl up when it became wet and then dried on its own, leaving him resembling a messy teen needing a haircut.
This wasn’t the first time Zoë had mentioned the fact that he pulled out just before—or, hell, in this case, right as—he came. Bugger it. Quent wasn’t sure how to explain to a woman who lived in a time when the human race had been so destroyed that it was considered almost criminal not to procreate as much as possible, that he came from a time when a responsible man didn’t have unprotected sex with a woman he wasn’t married to…and even then, it was fodder for discussion.
And, quite frankly, it wasn’t something he wanted to talk about now.
“Are you going to keep doing that?” she persisted.
Quent felt a strange discomfort trickle through him, leeching away the remnants of his pleasure and satiation. “Probably.” He really fucking didn’t want to talk about this.
But then the memory of their previous conversation about this very subject, and how he was trying to keep her from getting pregnant, flooded his mind. She’d said something along the lines of, Oh, I never thought about that the other times.
The other times.
What fucking other times? Before she started making these night-time visits…or since?
Angry all over again, he added, “At least if you get pregnant, you’d know it wasn’t me.” Probably, anyway.
“Yeah,” she said after a moment, as if she’d had to think about it.
Quent’s belly tightened. Time to change the bloody subject. Back to something he could handle.
But before he could, she beat him to it. “You never thanked me for helping you find your friend who was kidnapped. The Corrigan woman.” She looked at him sidewise, eyes slanted meaningfully.
Quent released a short laugh on a gust of breath. “Right, then, what the hell do you think that was?” he said, spreading his hand to encompass the twisted sheets and clothes strewn over the floor.
She smiled back at him, sending another pang of lust twining down past his belly. “I thought you were just hot-damn happy to see me.”
That too. But he was damned if he’d say it.
I never thought about that the other times.
The other times.
Right. He was a nice little shag when she was in Envy, and that was just fine with him. A little cork pop, keeping the tubes lubed, and he was fine with that. Keep it simple and easy. And when she left to go wherever the hell it was she went when she disappeared, he could care less what she did.
“Shame on me for not thanking you properly,” he told her with a sly smile, “for helping us to find Sage.”
If Zoë hadn’t seen Sage being abducted from Envy a week ago by a bounty hunter who worked for the Strangers, they might not have found her as quickly and easily. That was, in fact, how Quent had come to be in possession of Zoë’s latest arrow. The one that now lay on the floor, hopefully forgotten.
He reached over and stroked the pad of his thumb over her nipple. It hardened and the dark rose areola gathered up prettily beneath his touch, tempting him to taste her again. She arched slightly toward him, and he leaned forward to kiss the side of her neck. How could she taste like cinnamon all the time? Spicy and sweet and a little salty…
She moaned softly, and he felt the lift of her pulse beneath his lips. Yes, indeed. Then, reluctantly, he pulled away. His mouth anyway; he kept his hand in place, gently cupping the weight of her breast. There were other things to talk about.
“We did find Sage,” he told her, wondering if they would actually have a bloody conversation. “In Redlow.”
“Yeah, I saw that she was back. She’s getting some from the smokin’ guy with the ponytail, isn’t she?”
The smokin’ guy with the ponytail was Simon, of course. Even Quent could admit that Simon resembled a Hollywood actor, with his sculpted features and the long hair that some women seemed to find attractive. “I could grow my hair longer,” he offered, gently tweaking Zoë’s nipple. “Wear it in a queue.”
She snorted and, to his surprise, reached to brush her fingers over the unruly mess of his hair. He realized with a start that he couldn’t remember her ever touching him except with demand, when they were going at it.
Except for that very first time, when she caressed his cheek.
“You’d be a lot damn safer if you cut this shit off. Or at least shorter.”
“Safer? You mean so you won’t be able to pull on it when we’re fucking?” He resisted the urge to close his eyes; her fingers, gentle on his scalp, felt so good.
She looked at him in exasperation. “You’re blond, genius. The gangas go after blondes. Didn’t I fucking tell you to wear a bandanna to cover it, so I wouldn’t have to save your ass again?” Quent laughed and she narrowed her eyes, realizing he’d been teasing her. “Dumb blonde,” she added. And gave a sharp little tug on a curl.
Then he sobered. “When we found Sage, we also found Remington Truth too. Sort of.”
Only recently had Lou and Theo Waxnicki and their Resistance learned that Remington Truth, a former leader of the U.S. government’s National Security Administration, had also been a member of the Cult of Atlantis. A variety of clues had helped them put the pieces together that the gangas, who came out only at night and called for “Ruuuth…ru-uthhh…” were really calling for Remington Truth, searching for him by order of the Strangers. The fifty-some-year-old Truth had had blond or silvery hair, which explained why the gangas abducted anyone with light hair.
As for brunettes and redheads…they were simply mauled and torn apart if caught by a ganga.
Quent, with his honey-colored hair was apparently blond enough that the simple monsters thought him a candidate to be Remington Truth…and that was how Zoë had come to rescue him.
A fact that she continually reminded him.
Zoë eased back and sat up, all remnants of teasing or flirtation gone. Her velvety eyes grew serious. “Holy hot damn. And you just now fucking decided to tell me?” Then she crossed her arms under those delicious breasts. “You sort of found him? What the hell does that mean?”
“Right. Well, apparently, the Remington Truth that the Strangers—and the gangas—have been searching for since the Change is dead.”
“So they’ve been looking for a dead man for fifty damn years?” Zoë gave a little rusty laugh. He saw a flash of dark humor in her eyes. “Fucking boulderheads.”
He couldn’t have said it better himself. Gangas were not only brainless, but so awkward they couldn’t climb anything but low stairs.
“We’re told Truth’s dead, though we don’t know how long that’s been the case. This is according to his granddaughter…whose name, interestingly enough, is also Remington T
ruth. Same really blue eyes, but she’s got long dark hair—no wonder the gangas were confused.”
That bit of information was just as interesting to Zoë as it had been to Quent and his friends, if the way she straightened up was any indication…although he wasn’t exactly sure why. Did she realize how badly the Strangers wanted to find Truth? Did she know that the Strangers had feared the man for some reason? That was why the Resistance was so intent on trying to find him—whatever the Strangers feared could only be a benefit to the Resistance. If they found it first.
“His granddaughter,” she said, eyes narrowing in thought. Or suspicion.
“Or so she claimed, before pulling a gun on us and disappearing. I’m not certain how much credence we ought to give her statement.” Quent felt a wry, humorless smile tug his mouth. “You might also find it interesting that, after she slipped away, she forced your friend Ian Marck to drive her off at gunpoint.”
He watched her reaction closely. Aside from being a bounty hunter who worked for the Strangers, Ian Marck could also quite possibly be one of Zoë’s “other times.” The big Slavic-looking blonde and Raul, his father, had kidnapped Jade to fulfill a bounty for one of the Strangers, so he was already on the Resistance’s shit list—and when Quent learned that Zoë was acquainted with Ian, that had just bumped him up a few notches.
“My friend, huh?” she repeated. The expression on her face gave him nothing, of course. She was just as practiced as he was at hiding his thoughts. That was probably how he’d managed to live eighteen years with Parris Fielding without being killed.
So, he pressed, “Wasn’t he the guy you went to talk to at the festival last week?” After she’d been making eyes at Quent from across the room. Very promising eyes, full of blatant invitation.
“You mean while you had your hands all over that blond chick’s ass?” Zoë returned coolly. “You looked pretty busy, plastered against her on the dance floor. Wonder how she felt about you eye-fucking someone else over her shoulder, genius.”
