by KH LeMoyne
One quick stroke after another, he was true to his word, breaking her free with a hedonistic determination. Her body, as if tuned to his commands, responded. She clung to him as they moved, waves of pleasure building, heavier and tighter than before.
Rasping as his teeth teased at her shoulder, the slight pain pushed her closer. Yet, for all the masterful ecstasy her flesh experienced, it was the sight of him above her that whipped her toward her finish. Head bowed over her body, he shimmered bright and strong. Tied to him in body and soul, the cadence of his energy crested and pulled, barreling her along with him in an unconquerable tsunami of heat. And love. She could see that between them, and tears leaked with the realization. A sharp pain nipped below her clavicle, and as his tongue soothed the spot, her climax hit.
“Beautiful.” It was all she could manage. Floating in a cloud of pulsing physical sensation and emotional euphoria, she clung to Chisholm as he finished. A roar shook the table, and she peaked, plateaued, and fell again in tiny shocks, almost more than she could handle. Down, down, and softly farther, until long liquid minutes later they lay still together, the last vestiges of tremors lessening. Inordinately satisfied, all she wanted was to lie on the bench in his embrace and nap.
“Dani. Dannnni.”
She loved the way he said her name. But not yet willing to open her eyes and give up peace, she clutched him closer and wrapped her legs tighter around his waist.
Finally, he released her. Well, almost. He was still buried inside her, but at least she had the satisfaction of knowing he’d climaxed as well. She let a smile slip and felt the breeze of his sigh as his head nestled into the crook of her neck.
“You’re going to be the death of me, my—dear detective.”
Realizing his near slip and her sadness at his hesitation, she forced a chuckle but held him tighter. “It occurred to me you meant to kill me this way, too.”
“Then you won’t be able to blame me for having the best sex of your life.”
“Cocky much?”
He shook his head. “Truthful. Because it was the best sex of my life.” Gently, he pulled away from her, grabbing at something from the side of the workbench as he moved. Seconds later, she was ensconced in a blanket, lifted, and settled firmly on his lap on the couch.
“Charlie’s blanket,” she murmured.
“He won’t miss it, and I promise to wash it.” He brushed a kiss on the top of her head. “You know, you’re under my skin.”
Her heart tightened. What they’d shared was wonderful, but today wasn’t for words. They brought reality, and reality didn’t hold promises for their future. “Sounds painful.”
“Exquisite pain. Glorious and sharp at the same time.”
Shifting, she scrutinized his expression, searching for a sign he felt true pain from their connection. “Careful. Waxing poetic sounds like a commitment. This is just about appeasing appetites.”
His smile widened. “Are you hungry?”
A hot need twisted in her belly. How did he trigger responses with just the sound of his voice? But despite his humor and stamina, she wasn’t able to play games right now. They’d raged too quickly and roared too hot, leaving her vulnerable. Without any expertise and safeguards against dangerous emotions, the loser would burn and wither. And while what his golden eyes suggested seemed almost worth a singeing, she shivered and closed her eyes.
He gave her a shake. “Whatever is inside you, let it free.”
Her eyes sought his again, noting awareness firmly rooted there.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. I know what it’s like to shift, to possess a quality others don’t know.” He palmed her face. “Just because your ability doesn’t involve shifting or changing you physically doesn’t mean it doesn’t want free rein. Or that I can’t sense it. Don’t deny your true self to me.”
A little too emotionally raw, she changed the subject. “You just want to go for another round. At least we have the couch this time.”
He nuzzled her neck and pinched her skin lightly beneath the blanket. “The next time I want to make love to you on a soft bed so we can roll and stretch and sleep wrapped together.”
“And play and tickle.” She shoved at the hand still playfully pinching her. “I think I’ve got your number.”
Warm fingers caressed her hip. “Play, tease, pleasure…It’s all part of my plans for intimacy.”
She rubbed her nose against his chest. “And the purring sounds?”
He froze, scrutinizing her face as if it would give up her secrets, worry lines drawing his brows together. He actually feared her reaction? A little late now, but she at least could put that concern to rest.
“I enjoy them, Chisholm.” She held back her gasp as his eyes gleamed and a carefree smile broke across his face in a heart-stopping moment. He looked at her as if she were the most delicious morsel and a cascade of flutters washed from her stomach to every sensitive spot in her body. The sex had been incredible, yet these were the moments to live for. But that wasn’t possible.
“Tell me what you see.” He pulled away and rubbed his thumb from the center of her forehead down her nose. “What did you see that was beautiful?”
“It sounds a little—abnormal.”
His brow rose as he moved in, nose to nose with her, and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “You own a lion shifter. What defines unusual?”
Good point. Still, she’d never come close to explaining this to anyone without them assuming an attitude of disbelief and ridicule. Even Hank never knew how she did what she did. “Colors. For me, people are associated with colors. And sounds.”
Chisholm cocked his head. “Like auras?”
“The few practitioners I’ve spoken with see auras in a different fashion from what appears for me. I experience a combination of color and sounds. Maggie’s combination is a vibrant pink with pulses of total energy—an airy string instrument—violin perhaps. When I first met her, it vacillated with shocks of other colors, as if she’d lost control of herself. Which she had.”
“And me, what do you see?”
Embarrassed, she bowed her head for a second, gathering her thoughts. His impact on her was harder to describe. She wasn’t an artist or a musician, and delivering even a semblance of what her senses captured in the process to another person seemed impossible. But this was Chisholm. He had the skills to transform desire into solid, tangible feelings. And she believed if anyone could jump to the correct conclusion from her details, perhaps it would be him.
“You have always been surrounded by brightness. Actually, I’ve never seen anyone with your coloring before. And whether you’re angry or happy, your color hues just become richer or more intense. It never changes the way some do. There’s a sultry, earthy, full quality to your sound. Like—” She struggled to assign a tangible construct to the ephemeral sensation she experienced. “Spanish strings—soulful and bold.” She shot him a glance. “Sounds a bit woo-woo, doesn’t it?”
His fingers massaged along her scalp, playing through her hair as he shook his head. “No. It’s just part of you. What happened here today? Was there a difference in my normal color?”
Swallowing hard, she closed her eyes and refreshed the memory. “The color deepened, strengthened, and exploded into form. Designs curled at the edges like living beings. Especially at the—peaks.” Heat flooded her cheeks. “Basically, the more you purred, the more intricate the designs and the more complex your pieces.”
“Shifter tones transcend the skin, affecting the nerve endings. It’s one of the reasons shifters touch and vocalize. Could you feel mine?”
Like she needed to answer that question. She’d felt every bit of him, from flesh, to heat, to the beautiful earthy sounds that had swept her from one climax to the next. He hadn’t mentioned that mates shared more sensations, but he didn’t need to. Experiencing was believing. His eyes gleamed again, catching the truth in her blush. He kissed her cheek and progressed to her temple.
Prepared to deny it, she stopped as he cupped her cheek. “You’ve never seen me without being with me.”
“The same would hold true of everyone else I’ve met.”
“I suspect it does. You can’t deny you have an influence on others. Don’t discount the impact you have on me.” His thumbs stroked the edge of her lips before he kissed there again. “Isn’t that why you gravitated to such a unique position within the police force? Someone realized the ability you have to read and temper younger people. Your online course could be strictly e-mail based, but you mentioned once that you added a visual component to the classes. Do you search your students for the ones who need your help?”
With the floodgates of information open, Chisholm had jumped through her secrets one after another. She stared, waiting for him to strip another layer from her cocooned existence. But the exposure didn’t burn with humiliation or awkwardness as she’d expected. Instead, a small kernel of satisfaction kindled deep inside her belly.
“You must have stories,” he added. “Someday I hope you’ll trust them with me.”
Too bad they didn’t have the time for her to do that. And she couldn’t lead him on. She pulled the blanket closer around her. “Look, I expected we’d be good together, but it doesn’t change your circumstances, your need to leave without notice. It doesn’t change mine either. I have a job here. We each have our own lives.”
Tensing against her, he frowned. “Surely you’ve considered doing other things with your life?”
“You know my past. This is who I am.”
“It’s who you are now. I don’t get the impression it’s who you want to be. Obviously, with your classes, you reach for something else.” He held up a hand, his teeth visibly clenched. “This train of thought doesn’t have anything to do with me or us. Because whether you want a life with me or not, the woman I’ve seen today, the one I see with Maggie, the one who opens her life to touch others because she can’t live being less than who she really is—shouldn’t settle for living someone else’s dream.”
She sat up, away from his hold and pulled the blanket closer. “A very pat assessment. But theory isn’t reality, and changing my whole life isn’t as easy as you make it seem.”
Too late, she realized to whom she was talking, and she wished she could suck her comment back, for she’d finally pissed him off.
His scowl deepened in lines between his brows. His variegated strands of blond hair waved as he shook his head in disbelief. “No? I’ve reinvented myself, my life, and my careers more times than you could imagine. I could write a book on the subject long before you were born.” He rose and strode to the canvas. Legs planted apart and arms crossed, he studied it, not quite ignoring her, though she felt left behind. Just his naked profile, so casually trusted to her inspection, sent a tremor through her.
“Do you have any idea how many years I’ve practiced my arts. If they bear the power to move people, it’s because I dedicated myself to success.” He glanced over his shoulder, his expression smoldering and the golden flares around him spiraling. “I don’t want for you to lose years of finding the same satisfaction.”
Brimming with her own frustration, she braced her elbows on her knees. She wasn’t a shifter. If she had a hundred more years to live, she might give more thought to how she’d restructure her life, too.
Confused to feel so exposed and have no answers, she stood and grabbed for her clothes. At least she had the shield of fabric, even though her emotions remained naked before him. Her sweater added warmth but, oddly, no distance from Chisholm. She could still feel every touch and every caress, as if her body had memorized his actions and processed them in constant rewind.
She jumped as he skimmed his hands over her shoulders and brought her back against his chest.
“Talk to me. Don’t crawl back into the hard-and-fast pigeonholes forming your life. We’ve come too far from the polished detective and Mr. Barduc to go back.”
With a wince, she rubbed her palms over her arms. “Only because I was pulled off Maggie’s case.”
His hands dropped as he stepped back. “What?”
Damn, she needed to keep her mouth shut around him. “I was told last week the case was officially closed.” Bracing herself, she turned to face him. “These last few days have been my vacation time. A fantasy bubble, not us building a foundation.”
He didn’t break his silence or his dark stare, but she had to look away. The light had dimmed in his eyes more than she could bear. He took one step and dipped his head beside hers, brushing his cheek against her jaw. “How many more days?”
“Four.”
“I want them, Dani. Every last one.”
She didn’t respond but closed her eyes, rubbed her cheek against his, and relaxed into his embrace in resignation. She could give him those four days. And she’d keep them forever, like her images of his artwork, in her memories.
8
Chisholm gave the junior-size soccer ball a tap. Charlie ran headlong toward it. Instead of applying his own kick, he tackled the ball belly first in a painful-looking attempt. However, with a puffy winter coat to guard against the overnight cold front that had hit, and from his loud belly laugh, Charlie suffered from joy, not pain.
Crouched and awaiting the return of the ball, Chisholm tried to resign himself to only two more days with Dani. Between dinners and game night at the house, and stolen moments between her student appointments during the day, he’d experienced more happiness in the last few days than during the last several decades. Even the kids had made room for one more person in their group. Surprising, given how cautious each of them was with their true emotions in front of strangers.
Even Sam, who’d once been gregarious but had grown withdrawn when they’d entered WITSEC, hiding behind sports and video games to avoid any real discussion, allowed Dani’s attention. Her attempts to engage him didn’t meet with the usual staid two- and three-word comments, as if he’d sensed safety with her. No doubt a by-product of her gifts.
Thoughts of the future tied Chisholm in knots. He sensed desire and passion in her. Determining love was harder. Whether she felt the strength of their bond enough to trust it and consider new options for herself, he couldn’t tell. Not even shifter senses enabled him to read minds. And Dani’s was a complex design he’d rather experience than dissect.
He’d at least ensured she had an opportunity for more choices. Whether she’d forgive him for his meddling didn’t bother him. Though he hadn’t battled his instinct to mark her, he and his beast had held back from a final claim.
His phone vibrated. Glancing at Deacon’s number, he answered and settled into an Adirondack chair as Charlie poked under the bushes for the rabbits safely tucked in their den.
“Trim and Wharton are on their way back from the Minot airport. They checked out the rental car those men who asked questions at Maggie’s school were driving. They found an itinerary listing a final meeting in Chicago. It’s good Gambelli hires idiots.”
“Chicago isn’t in your territory.” Chisholm considered the brief outline Trim had provided of Deacon’s zone. Extensive, reaching from below the Mexican border and north into Canada, it stretched in an uneven line down the center of the States, with a missing segment squarely on top of Chisholm’s home. He understood the risks of living in another alpha’s territory. He’d heard of the fierce, brutal rules encompassing the land he inhabited. Luckily, he’d seen no sign of other shifters, but caution added an excellent reason to move on. Chisholm understood the limitations Deacon faced in dealing with those outside his governing space. Chisholm respected that intuition and power. And Chicago belonged to yet another territory alpha, escalating Deacon’s complications.
“No. But I have an understanding with Whitman Sheridan. His lieutenant, who runs Chicago, tracked the men for me. There’s a solid connection between them and Little Al. Ring a
bell?”
Hell, yes. “Alfonso Gambelli runs the bookies and heads up the gambling organization.”
“Correct. What we’re not sure of yet is whether his father knows his son’s put a contract out on children. According to Whit, that’s not Marcucio Gambelli’s style. But the old man doesn’t have oversight of all his businesses anymore. His son seems to have inherited the family muscle, minus the brains. We might be able to exploit that angle. Trim and Wharton should join you within the hour. I’m on my way as well.”
Chisholm struggled for something to say. All this work for a shifter who hadn’t pledged his oath yet. “I appreciate your efforts. How am I going to repay you for this?”
Deacon was silent on the other end for a moment. As if he’d heard Chisholm’s underlying concern of never-ending indebtedness, he answered, “I ran through hard times before I committed to becoming an alpha. I’ve pulled more than a few shifters out of the fire who’ve had no one to help them. This isn’t about payback.”
Good words, almost too good. But Deacon was right. He needed help.
“Pay it forward, Chisholm. Just keep doing what comes naturally.”
Chisholm slowly pressed the End Call button. The sense of unease, wrapped around his bones like barbed wire, didn’t release as easily. He didn’t question Deacon’s efforts or even his motives. The man radiated fairness. No doubt dangerous when crossed, but good for his promises. The alpha had produced more results in several days than Chisholm had seen in the last three years in his silent battle with Gambelli’s goons. But the net around his family was tightening.
What had felt like days of slow-press torture before Maggie’s attack now felt like a minute-to-minute struggle for breath against an enemy he couldn’t see. What nagged at him was that he’d called Deacon too late. If he’d trusted sooner, perhaps none of them would be at this point in the battle.
