by K H Lemoyne
When she started to pull her hand away from his neck, he pressed it back.
“No, leave it there. I’m going to let you see.” He moved his hand to the skin above her pubic bone, splaying his fingers as he had positioned hers.
“From your pleasure, I can feel your heartbeat here.” His fingers brushed her skin. “With my hand, with my lips.”
At his next shallow thrust, she let a small moan break through her lips and felt his pulse jump beneath her fingers.
“Your pleasure, my response.”
She gentled her fingers against his pulse in wonder, but he moved her hand to cover his lips and cheek. With a quick kiss, he set up a shallow rhythm, one to keep her tense and eager but not close enough to what she needed.
His hand moved up her body, his knuckles brushing her nipple as his head bowed next to hers. Then he plunged deeper, his stroke faster.
She let out another moan, but it was the tightening muscles of his cheek and the quick drag of air beneath her fingers that spiraled her need.
“I can see you through your body’s responses. Even if I can never see your face in full sunlight, love, every shiver and breath you take speaks to me.”
He moved her hand to his abdomen as he nipped her earlobe, and then his stroke pulsed faster. “The catch in your breath, the heated flush of your skin and the rhythm of your heart.” His tongue swirled behind her ear, and his teeth followed with a quick bite, forcing another gasp from her and a clench of his muscles beneath her fingers. “Each an image of your emotions.”
She angled to give him access as his teeth rasped along her shoulder. Another bite and she moaned, the quiver of his muscles feeding her arousal, his emotions bleeding from his body through her fingertips and swirling the peaks within her even higher.
“The signs of your body are here for me to read, in spite of how much I desire to see the passion in your eyes and the expressions on your face as I make love to you.” He moved her hand around his neck. “Feel between my shoulder blades.”
She gasped as he bent to suckle her nipple. A corresponding growl emanated from his chest, one that rumbled beneath her fingers. Before she could think, his hand gripped her thigh, opening her more to him, allowing a deeper, harder slide into her body.
He moved faster, his angle and pace driving a whimper from her lips and a grunt from his. His hand held her tight, but his thumb teased at the pocket between her thigh and pussy lips, the maddening stroke alternating with his pace.
His lips touched hers. “I can feel your need beneath my thumb. Right before you come, your muscles start a delicate quiver that shoots like little sparks of energy.”
His breathing, now as rapid as hers, transmitted his need. She could feel the sweat on his back, slick and hot.
“I’d be happy just to bring on that quiver and feel it beneath my lips all night long.”
Air dissolved from her lungs. Whether it was the responses of his body beneath her fingertips or the low, throaty caress of his words or his pistoning rhythm as he drove into her, she could only hold on as the crest broke. A tight, high keening split through her lips, captured immediately by his mouth, as she rolled in one long wave of pleasure joined with his.
Minutes later, still panting hard, she gripped him, her cheek to his chest, with the thundering beat of his heart to comfort her. His arms cradled her, and he tucked his face into the curve of her shoulder.
“Could you see me, Mia?”
He pressed a kiss to her skin and she snuggled closer. “I see you, Turen.” Those damn tears threatened again. “I would know you anywhere.”
He rolled to his side, carrying her with him, and she thought perhaps he hadn’t heard, but his words whispered to her in the dark. “That’s right, love, anywhere at all.”
CHAPTER 12
The warmth on her cheek felt good. Seconds ticked by until the brightness and heat intruded. Mia blinked against the sunlight streaming on her face and flipped over in bed. One eye cracked open to check the clock. Eleven. Not too bad. Given the lingering fatigue and stiffness of her muscles, she wouldn’t have been surprised to find she’d slept away the day.
She pushed out of bed and stumbled to the shower. Rote repetition had her in the kitchen dressed, starting coffee, and checking for messages on her answering machine, wondering how she’d gotten there.
“Mia, this is John. I’ve sent you a few emails about your proposal, but I need some committable dates. Give me a call back. It’s Wednesday, noon.”
The message beeped, and she jotted down the note. She should have checked her messages yesterday but she rarely had many so she hadn’t bothered.
“Mrs. Bowman, this is Ellie Strathmore, Mr. Dennison’s secretary. He asked me to have you give him a call about a claim we received against your husband’s estate. If you could give us a call by tomorrow, Thursday, it would be most helpful.” The beep sounded again.
“Mia, this is Ed Dennison. It’s Thursday, four o’clock. I need you to give me a call. We’ve received an unexpected suit against your husband’s estate that requires an acknowledgement by tomorrow. I’m going to send a courier with a copy of my summary and the papers. I’d prefer to talk to you before I send a response.” Again the beep.
Her hand halfway to the coffeepot, Mia frowned and turned to the calendar on the wall. She might have forgotten messages on one day but this was only Thursday morning. She’d arrived back home at around three o’clock, before the sun even cracked across the horizon.
Mia set her coffee mug down with a thunk and walked to her office to click on her computer. A minute later, the screen lit up, the time and date registered in the bottom corner of the screen. Mia sank into her chair. She’d lost a whole day.
Wednesday night she’d made her way to Turen, and every muscle in her body still radiated with the intensity of the experience. The ghosting of his hands and lips over the most intimate parts of her body still created ripples of pleasure.
But if today was Friday, then she’d been with him for more than twenty four hours. She had never been with him that long—and the whole time spent in each other’s arms. No wonder she’d slept so late.
With a deep breath, she picked up the phone. The office of Brackston, Levy, and Dennison handled the settlement of her husband’s affairs. They’d handled her business legal affairs over the years.
“Mr. Dennison, please. This is Mia Bowman.”
The line switched over immediately. “Mia, I was worried you were too upset to call. Glad to hear from you. I want you to know that you don’t need to be concerned, but we do need to respond.”
“Ed, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
There was a long, uncomfortable pause. “You haven’t read the couriered papers?”
“No, I’ve been…away for a few days. If they left the papers, I’ll look at them, but could you just lay it out for me?”
A heavy sigh issued across the line. “We’ve received a lawsuit claiming a portion of Alexander’s estate for a minor child.”
Mia frowned at the computer screen. “What minor child?”
“One being carried by a woman who claims Alex as the father and stipulates he acknowledged the baby and intended to care for it.”
The coffee started to churn in a sick swill in Mia’s stomach as the acid backwash clogged her throat. “Can someone do that?”
“The law allows any legitimate claim to be pursued. The frivolousness of the case is, unfortunately, the burden of the recipient. But there are limits to what a suit such as this can touch, and it would depend on the birth of the child and proof of parentage.”
“What limits?” Mia held her breath and tried not to swallow so she could get through this call. She just had to make it to the end. Part of her was so glad Alex was dead, because right now she could just kill him for this final blow of humiliation.
“If she can prove paternity, she can make a bid for a portion of his 401k—she wouldn’t be entitled, but I’m just stating my suspicions. Of
course, she and the child would have social security during the child’s minority. The additional requests for his insurance and the house would be rejected. The stated beneficiary governs the insurance and the house—”
“The house is mine and only mine. My grandmother left it to me. It’s in my name, not Alex’s. As it is, the insurance barely paid for Alex’s funeral and his debts.” The debts had been high, probably indicative of how Alex had funded his adultery. Setting up a second home was costly. Mia closed her eyes, counted to ten and tried hard to remember herself back in Turen’s arms, his breath on her cheek, far away from this nightmare.
“You should be covered, but we will double check everything for you. I understand how upsetting this seems, but please keep in mind it could take a long time to play out, and frankly time is on your side, Mia. You and Alex were married. His petition for divorce wasn’t filed before his death, so that’s negligible as well. Legally this woman could spend years on attorney fees with no results. And she would first need to prove paternity.”
“So what do I need to do? She can’t touch my property or my earnings, can she?” Mia walked with the phone back to the kitchen and opened the freezer door. She stuck her head inside to quell the heat and nausea threatening to bubble over. The cold helped. That and the pouch of peas she rested her forehead on.
“No, you don’t need to worry on that scale. Once the child is born, we’ll have DNA to test against Alex’s. Then we can narrow down options further. Don’t worry.”
“I see.” Yep, definitely wanted to puke. “Then you don’t need anything from me for the time being?”
“Just your consent for us to proceed. I’ll keep you informed, and if anyone tries to contact you directly, send them to us.”
“Thank you, Ed.”
“I’m sorry you have to be dealing with this, Mia. We’ll try to take care of as much as possible.”
She thanked him again, hung up, and made it into the bathroom before she vomited.
“So much for a good start to the morning.” Mia wiped a damp cloth over her face.
“How about we start again?” She took a deep breath and changed into sweats and a T-shirt.
In spite of the revolt of her stomach, she needed to blow off some steam. She picked up the weighted mock sword she’d used for defense class and headed out to the garage.
Slipped between the back and screen door of the house was the courier’s packet. With a snort, she tucked it under her arm. Once she’d pulled back the double doors of the old two-story garage, she flung the packet to the far side. It slid down a pile of old magazines and landed upside down on the floor.
Fresh perspective, that’s what she needed. And a lot of space. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to compose. Musty air greeted her, free of gasoline and motor oil. There had been no cars in the garage for thirty years, the space having served as her grandfather’s grandiose toolshed. Now it served her.
A few years ago, she’d hung a boxing bag in the corner. Other exercise equipment ringed the edges of the cleared, forty-foot radius of concrete. Light poured in from the large window over the garage doors, casting sun squares across the dark gray surface. For her sword practice, the windows provided plenty of ambient light during the day, and ancient tin lights strung from the rafters handled nighttime needs.
Six full-length mirrors hung from the support pillars that braced the overhead beams for the attic level. The mirrors reflected back her stance and posture to keep her honest, or disgusted, depending on her performance.
Faked calm in place, she moved to the center of her practice area, closed her eyes, and dredged through the lessons Turen had coached. The first one had emphasized stance. Later he’d helped her find the right distance for attacks and pivots: how to evade, how to recover, how to consider beyond each step.
Combining his instructions with those from her daytime instructor, she’d developed a fast-paced workout. The process took all of her concentration and left little energy or brain space for the bile cutting into the fringes of her life.
More importantly, Turen’s presence blanketed her practice. She could almost feel him beside her, adjusting the motion of her swing, giving comment.
Her warm-up steps progressed into a blur of arms and legs. Similar to a gymnast in a floor routine, she maximized her use of the space and transferred her momentum into calculated movements, forward and back. When to speed up or slow down, the pacing of segments and positions, was key to maintaining the process for a good forty-five minute drill.
Sweat coated her skin as she rounded from her last pivot. With a twist of her wrist, she raised her sword for a defensive block. Flames of green and orange ripped from her fingers and along the wood to hit a spot on the garage floor some ten feet before her.
With a yelp, she dropped the practice weapon.
A quick shake of her hands confirmed there was no damage. She’d felt no heat, yet black soot marked the floor and smoke lingered in the air.
Holy shit.
Slowly she walked to the scorch and scraped the soot mark with her sneaker. A narrow smudge streaked the tip of the light gray suede. She picked up the wooden practice weapon. A charred layer covered the outside, yet the structure appeared undamaged.
One more try?
She moved slower this time and painstakingly monitored her maneuvers in the mirrors. Weariness bore down on her, but determined, she shook it off. Almost ready to quit, Mia gasped as flames leapt again. She bit the inside of her cheek and held the weapon, resisting her instinct to freak and run. Objectivity and analysis, the words of her trade, drummed through her mind.
Still she incurred no pain or damage to her skin. In fact, it appeared as if the flames erupted from within her. More confident, she removed one hand from her practice weapon and moved in concert with her routine. The rainbow-colored flame lived along her fingers, and with a spin she inflicted another bolt of fire on a new patch of concrete.
The mirror reflected a narrow ripple of fire dancing from her fingertips. With her execution completed, the fire extinguished.
She dropped the weapon at the edge of the ring. The wood had sustained too much heat damage to be useful for anything but compost.
Freaky. Though no more strange than having ancient text appear in her kitchen.
She glanced at her clenched fists. No evidence remained. Could she leverage the flames without a blade? Could she control the discharge? Were there consequences to her being able to do this?
Mia frowned at the potential unending list of questions. Frankly, she was tired of consequences. If she could harness these flames, then so be it.
Her grandfather had passed away years before she was born, but her grandmother had kept all his tools and gadgets. After Gran’s death, Mia couldn’t bear to part with any of their belongings.
She dug through the stacks of boxes and chests, finally settling on an old fish fillet knife in a leather holster and a metal coffee table leg. Two and a half feet long and narrow, with minimal weight, it was ideal for her purposes. She set the knife aside, not prepared to work with anything sharp, and went back to her stance with the table leg. The slender shape fit easily into her grip. The metal was rough, so the combination of her sweat and the spins wouldn’t allow it to slip.
The routine progressed slower this time with her energy flagging. Her focus intensified on the sequence and the sensations until she gained confidence in her ability to control the sparks.
Thoughts of rage and anger accentuated the flame and made it difficult to control. Calm enabled a consistent delivery. Practice awarded her minimal control of the intensity and brilliance of flame.
Sweat saturated her clothes by the time she sank, drained, to the concrete floor. She reveled in the refreshing cold against her back.
How to bring this up to Turen or should she?
Maybe the better option was to wait until she perfected the skill more. Practice in a calm, safe environment was very different from maintaining precision during p
anic.
She stood with a grunt as her muscles protested the move, and headed back to the house.
Fortified by a hot shower and a nagging new suspicion, she booted the laptop in the kitchen. She waited for the machine to grunt, beep, and whir to the point where she could bring up her file and started to type in her experiences with the fire.
Nothing rose in the air. No transparent screens. No gilded words.
The Archives were being stubborn. She kept on and entered her latest discussions with Turen and her questions about mates. Nothing.
She stood and circled around the kitchen. “Archives, just show me information about mates already.” The words and lettering shimmered before her. In shock, she backed up. The bump of her hips against the sink stopped her. She had shouted the command in frustration. The last thing she expected was compliance.
With a tap at a shimmering section of the dialogue on mates, the screen morphed and expanded into deeper detail. Mia suppressed an uncomfortable need to giggle at the Guardians’ unearthly version of a search engine and read over the open segment.
No explanations appeared, only an encyclopedic list. The screen displayed a record of personal entries that compared the differences and possibilities for mate markings.
Markings?
The first entry she selected was clinical in nature. It categorized the appearance, locations, and variations of the mate marks. Each mark replicated in identical fashion on their mate, though usually in varied, discreet positions of the body depending upon gender.
She checked several more listings. No pictures presented themselves, merely an ongoing litany of possibilities. One notation went on to review a child’s representation of their parent’s mark until they reached the age of maturity. Their mark then evolved in conjunction with their own skills. The entire list of entries delivered the information with the objectivity and distance of a doctor or scientist, unlike the earlier emotional segments by Rheanna.
