Flames of Hope

by Cassandra L Shaw

  “Nothing. So, if you weren’t out being someone’s kink, what where you doing in that outfit? Visiting your gran?”

  “Working undercover.”

  A small fire ignited inside his head. What game was she playing? “You are already undercover.”

  She blew out a sigh. “I volunteer at the New Hope’s warehouse, where they put together the food hampers for the poor. I didn’t want to be recognized as Storm. A few doors up the road from the warehouse is a licensed sex premises, so I dress as a licensed sex worker and volunteer under the name CeeCee May.”

  “The good, charitable hooker?”

  “Wow, what a small mind you have. You think a sex worker can’t be a nice person?”

  Xylvar wheeled around Jasmine, touched the wig, his heart beating a tattoo of danger-danger-danger inside his chest.

  “No one knew? As in, you had no backup? No one knew you were going in there, in disguise, right where we suspect pious racists are kidnapping Eli and Crea?” His voice came out level, a little too soft and measured. His anger, fear, and the vicious, dark jealousy he’d felt toward an imaginary man, coated every word.

  “I kept my head down.”

  He wheeled up to her, shoved her onto the couch so she sat and he could truly look into her face. “No backup?” She shook her head, the scent of her shampoo and soap thickening the air. “The FBPI hasn’t taught you shit.”

  Her legs twisted to the side, she leaned forward until her face came a mere inch from his. “No one suspects shit. I’m a trained fucking operative, you condescending twat. This is one way I can get inside another link to the group. As CeeCee, I’m nearly invisible.”

  “You’re worried you’re not pulling your weight? Don’t have the lead role in this movie set of horrors?” He grabbed her around the shoulders, hauled her forward and slammed his mouth to hers. And kissed her the way he’d always wanted to kiss her. The honed blade of fury fueling all his passions.

  He slanted his mouth hard against her, forcing her to open, to taste him. One hand wrapped around her shoulders, locking her head to his. She opened to him. His stomach lurched, something feral, wild, and starving had him gripping her harder. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, feasting, feeding his hunger. Hunger to be touched. Hunger for love.

  Hunger for his Jaz.

  But feasting would never be enough. He never wanted to stop touching her.

  Her hands were on his face, her fingers running through his hair, she shifted and pressed those glorious, unbound breasts against his chest and moaned into his mouth. Then she broke away, kissed down and across his jaw, and nibbled on his ear.

  No one, bar doctors and nurses, and fists and blades, had touched him in years.

  Her soft, smooth silver dusted hands slid into his shirt. His chest, rising and falling, rising and falling, faster and faster with each caress, with each new skin cell she honored with her touch. Silver bloomed on his hands and up his arms. He could feel the swirl of it in his eyes, the warmth of it as it rushed to coat his skin.

  His shirt fell open, and she ran her hand over his pecs, rolled his nipples, and twisted the one that still sported a barbell piercing. She smoothed over mangled, twisted flesh. More metal bloomed on his skin and silver raced across hers. She leaned away, looked down, traced a line of silver. “So pretty. So hard. Male.”

  He went to laugh, but then she tugged off her top, tossing it onto the floor. And her breasts, oh sweet lord, her breasts. Each plump and pale, with silver streaks, and a proud tip of blood-engorged nipple. His tongue went thick as he stared, mesmerized.

  An almost-storm-colored gaze met his. He cupped her breasts, ran his thumbs over the nipples, and watched them peak and harden.

  “They’re even more magnificent than I imagined.” He threw an arm behind her, hauled her up, and bent to take one into his mouth.

  Her soft panting moans urged him to suckle harder. With his other arm, he pushed them both onto the couch. She scrambled sideways and back, pulling him out of his chair and on top of her.

  Still suckling, he found the elastic of her shorts and underpants and shoved them down so she lay bare to him. She scrambled, wiggled, hooked a toe into her underpants, pushed them down to her left ankle and spread her legs.

  His heart nearly exploded, his vision darkened before clearing. His beast scratched and clawed, pulling his silver to the surface to flash brighter than ever before. Even lying broken and dying in the dark, desert night had not elicited such metallic emotion.

  Tight, black curls trimmed into a whimsical heart beckoned. His brain, fueled by her scent, her perfection, started to buzz.

  Jaz was here. Naked.

  Beneath him.

  If he woke and found out this was another fucking dream, he’d go grab his revolver and blow his brains out. Not even the chance to walk would ease such bitter disappointment.

  “Is this real?”

  She tunneled her fingers into his hair, rubbed herself against him, catlike. “Better be.”

  He brushed those curls, enjoying the way they sprang back, how soft they were. He looked up at her flushed face, the red tips of her breasts, the dip of her stomach, and ran a silver-dusted hand down one thigh, then back up to do the same on the other.

  She shifted, lifting her hips a fraction, and he slid his hand over the curls, the vee between her legs, and ran a finger into her fold.

  “You’re wet.” Wet for him.

  She gasped. “Be something wrong if I wasn’t.”

  Another slide of his finger, and she parted herself, the pink, moist folds just peeking out. Her face was flushed, her breasts shifting with each breath. Something deep inside him shifted. In that dark place of anger and hate blossomed the realization that he could ease her, feast on her, and give her pleasure.

  Him. Xylvar.

  He pulled himself back level with her breasts, and suckled one, slipping his finger slowly into the tight, moist heat of her shaft. Legs dropping wider, she gave him deeper access to all of her. He slowly pulled his finger out and slid it back in, kissed her neck, suckled her breast, and found the tight bundle of nerves. As he increased the pressure, he pumped his finger faster. She thrust her pelvis up, pressing into his hand, spreading even wider, gasping and moaning his name.

  He could do this for her. Give her this.

  Skin flushed and moist, her nipple hard against the soft pillow of her breast, she thrashed wildly for release. He thrust in a second finger and worked her, trying to fill her as he would if he could, then, just as she tipped toward the edge he moved his hand, thrust another finger against her anus, and pressed.

  Her silver coating her skin, swirling wildly in her eyes, she screamed while rocking into his hand. As she slowly came down, he pressed and stroked her slower and slower, and kissed her. She snatched at his head, held her to him and kissed him back as if starved. Then she dragged her hands and nails over his back, down his arms.

  He shuddered at the touch, at the pleasure the pain gave him.

  Minutes passed and still she kissed and touched him, rubbed her breasts against his chest, causing a fire to roar inside his torso and head. He pushed down her body, until his face was level with her navel, and kissed her. She squirmed.

  “Xylvar. You said you haven’t touched a woman in years.”

  “I haven’t.” Didn’t mean he couldn’t remember, want, dream—imagine. And since sharing a room with Jaz, every fucking dream, awake or asleep, had been about ways he could pleasure her.

  He kissed down and down until he tasted her curls. With a light push, he pressed her legs apart, and licked. She shuddered under him. Hands digging into the cheeks of her ass, he held her spread open and licked some more. Took in the view, the scent of her, and wanted that scent all over him. He wanted to smell of Jaz, Jaz and sex and passion.

  His beast wanted him to bathe in her scent, to roll in it, and strut its ownership of her.

  A smell he’d only imagined, dreamed of, once had wet dreams about, until now.


  He slipped in two fingers, stretching her, and thrust while he licked and suckled her clit. Going by how she arched, she liked to be sucked, like to be stretched a little too far, liked the callused pressure of his fingers. He sucked, groaned as she arched under him, thrashing on the couch, her legs kicking at the armrest. He let go, thrust harder, faster, then suckled her again, and she screamed. She flashed bright silver as her orgasm spasmed through her. Her body bowing into a stiff plank, while she gripped his hair and pulled as he continued to suckle. When she finished, he licked her some more. To taste, to feel her, to be part of her.

  His scalp hurt in a way that made him proud to have a tongue and lips. Prouder he’d been able to give her this.

  Back up at her face level, he kissed her, Jasmine wrapping her arms around him, her legs wrapped around his muscle-wasted hips, still wearing the camo trousers he’d worn to meet Kaid.

  Home. That’s where he was. In her arms, covered in her sex-musk. Home.

  20

  Chapter Twenty

  Jasmine woke first, looking down at herself she felt the heat of a full-body, silver-laden blush searing her skin. Stupid to have had sex with Xylvar. And selfish—what did he get? This man wasn’t a giver. Wasn’t a taker, either. He was simply Xylvar. Xylvar stood for self-control, remoteness, impossible to reach mentally, emotionally, but apparently not physically.

  She unhooked her leg from his hip and hoped she hadn’t done him any damage. Something on her ankle caught her eye. Shit, her lacy undies still hung from her ankle like a flag of shame. Fighting the tide of mortification silver wanting to rise and coat her skin, she rolled and carefully slid her arm out from under him.

  Sitting on the edge of the couch she snagged her undies, picked up her top and shorts, turned and met the silvery depths of Xylvar’s very awake gaze.

  “Morning.” She mumbled, pulling her top over her head, slipping her underpants over her feet, before slipping them up to mid-thigh before she stood and covered her bare butt.

  She needed a shower. Not to wash, but to think, regroup, die of shame.

  Oh, yeah. It had been good, great, bloody soul-ripping glorious. The best goddamn orgasms she’d ever had.

  But some boundaries you didn’t cross. And one of hers—never have a one-night stand. Only to sleep with men she cared for. Which, meant she’d bedded just two men in her past. One a fiancé, another, a man she thought she could marry until she found out he had another girlfriend. Yeah, true love. Not.

  Both had been damaged. One unable to give up a drug, embracing death as an acceptable result of its use, while the other’s drugs of choice were sex and lies.

  And here lay choice number three. Xylvar. The most damaged, internally and externally, male she’d ever met. Masochism wasn’t her choice, but seemed to be her heart’s.

  “Running away?” Thick with sleep, sarcasm, and just a hint of hurt, his voice slid over her and slapped her shame across her face.

  She stared at the floor, wishing a big hole would appear she could drop into. “Just going for a shower.”

  “Sure.” As she left the room, she saw him throw an arm over his eyes while his chest rose and fell. She closed the bathroom door and heard him mutter, “Idiot.” Something crashed against the far wall. Glass hitting the floor, anger’s echo.

  After her shower of mortification and chicken soap, Jasmine dressed in an old favorite, a soft, linen dress, loose and shapeless. She considered it her most sexless outfit. Out of the bedroom, Xylvar sitting at the table, the contents of a large, blue envelope spread over the surface, didn’t look up or acknowledge her presence.

  “Coffee?” She asked, as normally as possible. They had sex, simple. It happened. Her nether regions tingled and warmed with the memory. God, those orgasms had been epic. And being able to touch him, truly feel those muscles, enjoy his masculinity, was something she’d remember forever.

  It would not happen again. They shared no relationship. Not even friendship. The Xylvar of now was not the Xylvar she’d been in love with a decade ago. But God, those kisses, the way he touched her…as if worshipping every part of her. She’d felt cherished, desirable, sexy, and went silver beast wild. What a foolish, horny girl.

  She pointed to the paperwork and a few codes. “Anything important?”

  “I have to go away for a few days, fly out Wednesday afternoon. I suggest you stay at Katoom for safety.”

  She stopped walking. “Why are you going away?”

  He ignored her and started reading through a printout, silver dusting his hands and cheeks. She walked around to the side of the table and tilted her head to read. “Boston. You’re going to Boston?” Then she snatched up another piece of paper.

  “Holy shit, you want experimental treatment—on your spine?” Her throat went dry, making her swallow. Her silver rising in an uncontrolled wave of worry.

  He didn’t look up, but she saw his face harden a fraction in the stubbornness of blind stupidity. “I’m already in a wheelchair, not like they can make it worse.”

  “Why not wait until—well, you know, it’s not experimental?” She half yelled the last word.

  He lifted his head. “Because my injury is almost too old. This is the only chance I have. The next few months are all the time I have left.”

  “And if it doesn’t work?” Would the disappointment be something he could take on, face, and continue through? Considering his anger, the almost soulless gaze, she doubted it.

  He shrugged. “I have a plan.”

  She’d heard the same deadness and certainly of tone in Tony’s voice when he realized he couldn’t break free of Mule’s chemical addiction and, in the end, would die. He hadn’t cared that death waited at the sidelines, its life-stealing sights set on him—he’d welcomed it.

  And Xylvar would welcome it too.

  Why did people she cared fore have death wishes? She put her hand, now solid silver, over the pages on the table in front of him. “What sort of plan?”

  “The sort that’s none of your business.” Bracketed by white lines, his mouth told her he was locking her out.

  “And if they succeed?”

  “I’ll be a man again.”

  “You think you’re not a man because you’re in a wheelchair?” She knew he thought it, but wanted him to say it, to hear how ludicrous it sounded.

  “Didn’t last night prove that to you?”

  A dull throb started behind her left eye. “What?”

  He started to read the paper again.

  Then his meaning dawned on her. “Last night was incredible. No other man has ever given me such orgasms, greater pleasure. There is nothing about you that is not a man. Have you looked in the mirror, seen your face, muscles, the way you move? Hell, Xylvar, the ability to walk or have an erection does not make the man.” She tapped his head, making him give her a hard silvery eyed glare. “Inside here is the man.”

  He knocked her hand away. “Well, you’re not the one in the chair, not the one unable to have a physical orgasm, so I beg to differ.”

  With quick movements, he gathered up his paperwork and slipped it into the envelope, rolled away from the table. “What I do with my body is not your business.”

  She jerked as if slapped, turning away as she fought to stay calm. And then she spied the bottle of scotch half empty. She picked it up, found the lid on the kitchen counter and screwed it on. She’d tasted it, smelled it on him last night, but she’d assumed he had just had one or two drinks.

  “You drank half a bottle of whiskey last night?”

  “I needed the edge taken off.”

  She remembered how angry he’d been when he thought she was screwing someone. Jesus, he been drinking, was drunk when, when…. Wednesday couldn’t come fast enough.

  To blank it out, to redirect her thoughts to something completely different she started to tell him about what she’d witnessed as a hamper volunteer.

  #

  The flights to Boston were full of the wealthy and connected. Xylva
r had only flown with the armed forces before. Personal flight travel well beyond his and most average income earners’ financial reach. Normally he’d have driven, or caught a seat in the passenger section of a goods train. Trains were certainly fast enough since they ran at over three-hundred miles an hour.

  At the airport, a driver held up a sign with Xylvar’s name written on it. He wheeled over wondering what they wanted with him, then realized clan had organized a lift for him.

  “Xylvar Johanneson, I presume?”

  He nodded, feeling a little overwhelmed. “Hope you have room for a wheelchair in your trunk.”

  “My van has wheelchair access, sir. Please follow me.”

  The drive to the hotel took nearly an hour. While the driver waited for the hydraulic ramp to slide back inside his van, he handed Xylvar a small card. “That’s the time I’ll pick you up on Friday to return you to the airport. Have a nice stay.”

  Xylvar took the card and slipped it into his pocket, lifted his overnight bag, and put it on his lap before wheeling toward the automatic door into the hotel. Five in the afternoon, and his first appointment tomorrow was seven. The specialists’ advised a good night’s rest.

  If they knew the state of his mind, he’d take the advice as a joke.

  He scanned his personal link, shaking his head at the signal from the small device he’d inserted into Jaz’s personal link. Still at the duplex, stubborn woman. Had he expected different? Not likely, and the reason behind his electronic deviousness.

  The pretty young woman behind the hotel reception desk passed him a lock-card and asked him to register with a handprint. At the door to his room, he pressed his hand to the screen. The door slid sideways and, as soon as he rolled in, it slid back. He wheeled in and spun the chair in a three-sixty tour of amazement. Katoom had set him up with a small suite. He rolled to the bedroom. One wall was covered in a classic blue pattern wallpaper, the other four were duck-egg blue. The bedspread and privacy blinds matched the blue and silver pattern of the wallpaper.

  He’d never been in a room so splendid. “Jaz would love this.” He ran his hand over satin smooth fabric of the bedspread, softer than down…fucking hell, soon he’d need to see a shrink. Fucking soft fabric, Jaz would love this. A bit of sex and his head was turning to mush.