by Jessica Lee
“A movie?”
“Yes, a movie,” she called out over her shoulder. “Don’t you watch movies in your time?”
“Some do on occasion.”
“And the some, I’m assuming, didn’t include you very often?” Shayla glanced at Creed. He sent her a what-can-I-say expression.
“Never had the time,” he added.
She plucked a large spoon from the utensil drawer and slathered the red sauce she’d prepared over the meatloaf. “I thought we could watch a movie while we eat. Help to pass the evening, you know.” Shayla looked his way. The words “without feeling awkward around each other” hung unspoken in the air.
Sauntering in closer to the stove, Creed eyed the lump of meat in the baking dish. “What exactly is that?”
“Meatloaf. Don’t tell me your childhood didn’t include the American classic dinner.” Shayla gasped in mock astonishment.
“I don’t believe so.” He leaned in and sniffed. “I think I’d remember that.”
“Oh my God,” Shayla cried out, snagged a dishtowel, and swatted him. He blocked with one arm and backed away on a laugh. “Just for that, you have clean-up duty.”
With their plates in one hand and drinks in the other, Shayla led the way into the living room and nudged the coffee table closer to the sofa with her shin. Creed followed suit and helped with the other side. Shayla set her dinner on one end and headed over to the DVD player. After gathering a few of her favorites from the top of the player, she held them up for Creed’s inspection.
“Okay, so what do think?” Shayla wiggled the fan of cases. “I have a little something for everyone.” She glanced at the first cover then back to the man on her sofa. “Terminator for the action lover.” Creed’s eyebrow lifted. “Umm, all right then, Dirty Dancing, my favorite for the romance and underdog lover.” Creed gave her an are-you-serious look. “And last but not least, Pitch Black, for the horror lover and for the women of the world who can’t get enough of Vin Diesel.” She sighed.
“Vin Diesel?” Creed leaned back against the sofa cushions. “What’s that?”
“Oh my God,” Shayla scoffed. “Not what. Who?” She shook her head. “Never mind. So what’ll it be?”
“Whatever your favorite was. That’s fine with me.” He leaned forward and lifted his glass of sweet iced tea.
“Okay. Dirty Dancing it is then.” Shayla couldn’t help the smile on her face. This should be interesting. The man who was allergic to romance and all things sexual watching one of the sweetest, romantic and sensual movies of the eighties. She popped the disc in, grabbed the remote, and returned to her seat.
Halfway into the show, Shayla couldn’t help but notice that Creed had done more staring at his plate and rearranging his food than he’d done eating and watching the DVD.
“You didn’t like it.” Shayla set her glass on the table. “I’m sorry.”
“No, no. It was really good.” Creed glanced up and smiled, but the action appeared like a chisel etching stone rather than a natural occurrence. “I just wasn’t very hungry.” He stabbed a small piece of the meatloaf and stuffed it in his mouth.
“Is it the movie?”
“This generation…” His fork to dropped to the plate with a clatter and he sat back, his gaze focused on a distant spot on the wall. “It’s all very chaotic compared to my century, from the rampant crime to the caveman-like lust.” He pointed to a particularly gyrating dance scene on the screen.
“Caveman?” Shayla laughed. “You’ve never been to this time period?”
“I have.” His gaze flicked to Shayla. “But never for more than a few hours. We all study the history of our country, but seeing it…” He breathed deep and released the air on a sigh. “The awakening feelings, urges…” Creed massaged his temple and returned his attention to the TV. “This is the same Earth, but it’s like I’m an alien on my own planet with some repressed genetic sequence that’s been switched to on.”
Shayla glanced down at her plate and the remains of her cold dinner. She didn’t know what to say or how to make things better. Damn. But how many people had experienced or could relate to a virgin time-traveler houseguest who was basically going into heat.
“Son of a…” Creed blurted, jerking her back into the moment. He shoved from his seat.
“What’s wrong?” Shayla glanced at the TV screen. Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey lay entangled in the bed, the scene leaving no doubt they were having sex.
“I have to get out of here.” Creed yanked the front door open.
“I’m sorry!” Shayla called out to his back.
For a second, his steps faltered on her words, but then the door slammed behind him.
Well, that did not go well.
Shayla collapsed back on the cushions. She’d known about the love scene but had hoped the tender romance depicted would show Creed that the emotions and sensations overwhelming him weren’t all bad.
She switched off the DVD player and TV with a couple clicks of the remote and gathered the dishes, stacking them in the sink. A wave of exhaustion rolled over her and her eyelids shuttered. The last few days had been too much. She locked the door and turned out the lights. The mess in the kitchen would have to wait until tomorrow along with the storm on her front porch.
She stripped off her clothes and slid into bed, quickly falling into a restless sleep.
A loud bang jolted Shayla from her dreams. Rolling from her bed, she grabbed her robe in the process, and darted into the living room. A quick scan of the cabin revealed an empty room.
Outside.
The noise must have been Creed.
What if that guy, Thomas, was back?
Her heart lurched up into her throat, nearly choking her. A knife. Yes. She’d have one of her own waiting for him this time. Shayla ran and snatched one from the block on her counter, then crept toward the front window.
The wood planks on the porch creaked, relaying the movements of whoever skulked on the other side of the pane. Shayla eased back the curtain.
Creed paced the length of the covered space. She scanned the rest of the area. No other shadows or movement. She switched her gaze back to her Double T. Shayla’s gut twisted at the sight. Even in the moon’s low light, the narrowed eyes, crossed arms and flat line of his lips were easy to read—he was in pain.
Before she could talk herself out of it, Shayla went to the door and jerked it open.
“Creed,” she called out and stepped onto the wood. Creed ground to a halt, his back to her, but he didn’t turn around.
“Go back inside, Shayla,” he commanded, his voice deep, rusty.
“Creed…” She sighed. “You’re in pain.” Shayla edged closer.
“Don’t.” He shook his head. “Don’t—get away from me. I can’t…I won’t do this to you or myself. I have to leave this time period with my head on straight.” Both of his hands curled into fists at his sides.
“But if you would only—” She took another step.
“Go away!” he groaned and spun around, his fingers diving through the short bristles of his hair as if the act helped him to hold on to his sanity.
She gasped, but not solely because of the words. The twisted agony of his expression stole the air from her lungs. God, her presence was hurting him even more. She had only wanted to help.
“I’m sorry.” She backed away in the direction of the door. “I’m so sorry.”
He whirled and slammed his fists onto the rail with a thud. “It’s not your fault,” he said, the words strained as if forced from between his teeth. “It’s just best—for both of us—if you’re out of range.” His head dropped, palms spread wide. “I don’t trust myself right now. Not that I’d ever harm you.” Creed swung his head to the side, facing her, his gaze dark with swirling, unspent lust. “I think you know what I mean.”
Shayla’s nipples pebbled and a shiver ran up her spine, but not from the cool air. Oh no, there was no use lying to herself. The gooseflesh stemmed from the look in
his eyes. The implication in his words.
She shouldn’t be so attracted to a man she barely knew. Worse, one who if she ever told his story to another soul they’d have her checked into the nearest psych ward.
But Creed Donovan struck a nerve deep in her core.
An intangible spot that, when triggered, created the need to not only care and protect him, but the desire to touch—be touched by the man. But they were never meant to be. They weren’t even meant to be in the same century, much less each other’s lives or beds. Besides, it remained obvious that even though Creed’s body burned for an intimate connection with her, he found the idea distasteful.
Unbidden, her hand rose to the base of her neck and found the small gold cross hanging there. She wrapped her fingers around the symbol for strength and sacrifice.
“I’ll go,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Shayla stepped over the threshold and closed the door. Her knees wobbled, sending her back into the doorjamb for support. The pulse at her throat bounded in rapid succession against her fingers. She had to let him go. Let him work through this, and get him out of her mind.
Shayla pushed away from the door and retreated to the kitchen. But what she wanted from there she had no idea. She just needed some distance between her and the exit that led to Creed. Her body ached for him. If she felt like this, Shayla had no idea how he seemed able to deny the raging need that had to be coursing through his veins. She grabbed a glass and filled it with ice water. Yes, that was exactly what the doctor ordered. Something to cool her down.
After last night, watching his orgasm, the pleasure that had racked his body, she’d had to take matters into her own hands for release. Logically, she’d understood he had no idea how to respond to what had happened between them. The aftermath had been more than awkward. But she’d left before he’d returned, so she wouldn’t make the situation worse by doing something crazy like begging for him to make love to her.
How was she supposed to go back to bed knowing Creed remained out there in pain? He’d never experienced sexual need, and this wasn’t a mere case of horny teenager. Years of suppressed arousal lambasted him, slamming into him full force. The magnitude of which she couldn’t even comprehend. Not to mention understand how he even stood out there and hadn’t crawled in his sleeping bag with his dick in his hand. He was amazing.
Shayla tossed back another swallow from her glass, cooling some of the heat in her body. If only Creed would allow himself to quench some of his own thirst.
His reasons for holding back were clear—he didn’t want to become a slave to the pleasures and desires of her time. He wanted to go home. Believed in his century’s laws and way of life. But why did that mean he had to suffer in the here and now? Wouldn’t fully experiencing a life without Sustain make him a better enforcer? He would have been where the rebels were. Felt what they felt and have decided to return. He’d be proof that it could be done, and Sustain was his choice.
Yet one question chilled her, kept her rooted to the kitchen floor. Could her heart survive after their time together ended, and he chose the life he’d left behind? The one that didn’t include her. She lowered the glass and breathed in a steadying lungful of air.
Who was she kidding?
Creed would be going home.
He didn’t have a choice.
It was a fact, and she had better get that through her head and her heart if she wanted to be with him for the next few days. In the physical sense. More than just the view from her window and the occasional conversation on her porch.
Decision made, Shayla set her jaw and pushed away from the counter. She would have to make him understand somehow. Watching him suffer and wear a trench into the boards on her porch was not going to work. Not for either of them.
On the other side of the room, she reached out, wrenched the doorknob, and pulled. Her breath hitched at the sight. Creed stood like a wall of solid muscle and hard determination on the other side. Both of his large hands clutched either side of the frame. Sweat beaded his forehead. Her gaze dropped lower. His pupils nearly filled the entire iris, and a cloud of lust shadowed what remained of the blue. His nostrils flared right before his lips parted.
“Shayla,” he groaned.
No other words were needed.
She brushed her fingertips along the heated flesh of his cheeks.
“I’m here for you,” she breathed.
Chapter Five
He was surely dreaming.
That had to be the only explanation. At some point, he must have passed out from the unrelenting need burning in his veins, and he was dreaming. There could be no other logical reason for her to be there, offering herself to him.
Creed had no idea how long he’d stood frozen at her door, refusing to allow himself to knock or go inside. The raging desire had carried him to the threshold, but he’d be damned before he’d insult her more than he already had the other night. And then he’d imagined she opened the door.
He lifted his hand and allowed the pads of his fingers to brush the dark-brown locks cascading over her shoulders. “Such a beautiful illusion.”
Shayla placed her palm over his wrists. “I’m real. I’m right here.” She brought his fingers to her face. “Touch me.”
The warmth of her skin seeped into his pores, sending a tingling rush over his flesh, lifting the hairs on his arm. His heartbeat stuttered. His shaft throbbed. Every ounce of resistance—denial—faded from his mind. At that moment, he couldn’t remember one logical reason why he’d ever pushed her away.
“I need you.” Creed seized her cheeks between his palms. “God, I want you so damn much.”
“Creed…” His name was a sigh on her lips. And then he was there, replacing the uttered syllables with his mouth, drinking her in. He was famished, dying of hunger and thirst, and the woman beneath him was the cool well sent to revive him—body and soul.
Into the house they stumbled, she moving in reverse, and Creed holding on, pushing forward. No way in hell was he letting go. Shayla gripped his biceps, her kiss giving and consuming. In every way, she was so damn sweet.
Shayla’s back struck the interior cabin wall, bringing their journey to an abrupt end.
Their tongues danced.
Teeth nipped.
The sharp sting of Shayla’s bite arced through his lower lip. Creed hissed. But the warm metallic taste of blood only succeeded in amping the rush of lust flooding his veins.
“Tell me what to do,” he whispered against her mouth.
“Whatever feels good. Just let go.” Shayla tore the open shirt down his arms, then worked the button on his jeans free. He grasped her hands, stilling them, then pushed the denim from his hips and to the floor. The straining erection that had been driving him mad for too many hours sprang free. He stepped out of the bundle and kicked it aside. She shrugged her robe from her shoulders, allowing it to puddle on the floor around her. His heart jackhammered against his sternum in anticipation.
Too slow.
“Your skin next to mine. Now.” Creed reached out, fisted two handfuls of her sheer blue gown and split it down her front. The delicate material fluttered from her arms. “Sorry.”
Shayla’s eyes widened, the warm brown rich and inviting. Beckoning. He wanted to drown in their depths.
“No problem,” she breathed.
Creed tore his gaze from hers and shifted his attention lower. Dear God. She was so beautiful. Full breasts with dark, rosy nipples rose and fell with every pant. Below the gentle curve of her abdomen, a dark mass of curls covered the vee between her creamy thighs. His cock flexed, the head leaking a clear fluid that formed a wet trail down the backside of his length. Damn if he suddenly didn’t feel like a cat fighting the overwhelming desire to cover her with his body, rub, and mark every inch.
He braced his hands against the wall, palms bracketing her head, leaving only millimeters between his chest and the hard tips of her breasts. Their heavy breathing was the only sound in the room. Shayla lo
oked up through her lashes, and the desire smoldering inside her eyes accelerated the inferno already burning him alive.
She wrapped her arms around him, her fingertips traveling the length of his spine before closing the gap between them. His eyelids drooped under the sweet sensation of skin against skin.
He had to move.
Needed more.
Creed slid his body over hers, pulling her in tight with his arms.
“God, you feel so good,” he groaned. His cock brushed her lower abs and the spark zinged a line of pleasure up his spine. “So good.” Shayla latched on to his nipple and the sharp sting of teeth to the bud had his back arching, his cock straining even more. “Oh shit,” he moaned. “Shayla…”
“I want you,” she groaned against his chest. Creed slid his fingers through the hair at her nape and pulled her head back, bringing them face-to-face. Her lips were pink, swollen from the passion of their kisses, her cheeks flushed. “Please,” she added.
“Yes. God, yes.” He lowered his knees, then with his arms snug around her, he lifted. Shayla wrapped her legs about his waist, her arms circling his neck, nearly crawling up his body. Creed stepped forward, allowing the smooth surface of the wall to help brace them.
The head of his cock slid against her warm and damp folds. Creed hissed. “Oh fuck. Shayla.” He grasped her shoulder between his teeth and lips.
“Creed,” she moaned and sank over the length of his shaft. Her tight heat engulfed him, punching the breath from his lungs. His legs buckled, but he recovered before going down, pressing her shoulders against the painted surface. “Oh God. Creed.” Shayla’s head fell back with a soft bump. “You’re so deep.”
Then she moved.
The initial penetration, the squeeze of her core against his shaft had been bliss. But nothing prepared him for the sheer mind-blowing pleasure that came with the slide of her walls over his cock.
“Don’t stop,” he rasped.
“No way in hell.”
Up and down Shayla flexed her hips with Creed’s help. Within seconds, his balls tightened, and the familiar tingling from the night before grew at the base of his spine.
