Storm

by Jo Raven

  “By risking it. Don’t you want to risk it?”

  “Been risking everything, all my life. It’s not as good as it’s cracked up to be.”

  “Surely some things are.”

  “Things, maybe, but not people.”

  I turn to go, and he grabs my arm, holding me still. “What do you mean?”

  I don’t glance back at him. I gently pull my arm free, and when I reach the bedroom door, I tell him. “I won’t risk your life. And that’s why I have to go.”

  STORM

  Risk my life? What the hell?

  I push off the wall and limp back to the bed. Christ, I’ve fucked up my leg pretty good. Probably when I raced like I had hellhounds at my heels to tell Raylin to get out of the house when I saw the trucks arriving. Or maybe from putting too much weight on it when I pounded into her.

  And fuck if my cock doesn’t stir again at the memory.

  I ease myself down on the mattress and rub a hand over my face. Risk my life. Whatever. What have you done, Raylin? What’s going on with you?

  She doesn’t come back immediately, and I wonder if she slipped out the house and is gone, while I’m sitting here, waiting for her to come back. To explain. Not like I can run after her with my leg on fire. I massage the cramped muscle and wish I could forget.

  I need a drink. I wonder if I can hobble down the stairs to raid the liquor cabinet. I bet it’s still stocked, even after all this time.

  Shit, I sometimes wish I’d stayed at my last job. It was a bikers’ bar, down by Tallahassee, and life was simple there. Break up some fights, mix up some drinks. Fuck some pussy.

  What I really wish is that Hawk and Rook were here. We’d go on a bender that would never end. But they aren’t here.

  They don’t even know where I am. Nobody does. Though they did vanish while I was still in the hospital, so fuck them. Guess they decided I’ve had enough handholding and back-patting for a guy my age. Guys my age are supposed to have their head on straight. To know a thing or two about life.

  But turning twenty-one is not all it’s cracked up to be. Sure, I can now drink legally. As if it’d have stopped me before… And I’m independent from my uncle.

  Cause he’s dead.

  I reach up and rub my chest. Why the fuck do I feel this pain when I remember this little fact? Motherfucker wasn’t worth it. Crushed all joy out of my childhood. How many times I wished for him to drop dead when I was younger?

  And yet. Maybe it was the way he died. Before his time. Reminds me too much of… of others.

  Goddammit, why am I thinking of this now? It’s been over a year now. A year since I got the call about his passing and returned to town. A year to find my feet and calm the hell down.

  Of course, the car crash four months ago didn’t help. But what the fuck. I’m alive. Unlike others, and…

  I lean back against the headboard and hang my head, drawing a shaky breath. Yeah, the guys are right. No reason why I should break down now. I had my chance when they were there, but I was too numb.

  Not anymore. Now I feel too much. Every scar hurts. Every memory aches. And now this girl has turned my world upside down, and I have no clue what’s going on with her. Only that I need to find out, and fix it. Make it right.

  Maybe that way I can heal myself, too.

  Chapter Six

  RAYLIN

  Ice cubes. That’s all I find in the freezer of the huge fridge in the kitchen, apart from some frozen baguettes and fish fillets. I wrap the ice up in a towel and stare down at it, my hand going numb from the cold.

  Am I leaving or staying? What the heck am I supposed to do?

  Yeah, great, Storm is in pain, and I’m here, standing around like an idiot, his compress in my frozen hand.

  I cross the hall and start up the stairs. What if I stayed a few more days? What’s the harm in that? Make sure he’s okay, that his leg won’t be giving him trouble. Map the scars on his body, get to know him better.

  But then I’d have to explain myself. Tell him everything. At least, the things that really matter, that could put his life in danger if my father’s shady associates somehow find me.

  Would they kill me if they found me? The million dollar question. Maybe not immediately. Which is even worse.

  But they haven’t found me yet, have they? Maybe they really lost my tracks.

  Feeling lighter, a spring in my step that wasn’t there before, I reach the stop of the stairs and hurry into the bedroom. He’s propped against the headboard, his bad leg stretched out on top of the bed.

  Stark naked. Perfect. Beautiful, long limbed and strong, cast in bronze and silver, his hair shiny jet. He says nothing as I approach, a wariness in his gaze that wasn’t there before.

  I sit on the edge of the bed and place the compress on his thigh. He flinches, then moves it down until it’s almost over his knee. I keep quiet, too, not sure how to start. Seconds trickle by, turning into minutes. Slowly the pain etched on his face fades, and he lets his head fall back with a sigh.

  “Thanks,” he says, his voice a little garbled, as if he’s falling asleep. “Feels good.”

  Everything about you feels good, I want to say, but I don’t. I fight the urge to caress his face, stroke away every line of pain.

  Instead I say something I never planned to say. “I used to have a cat.”

  “A cat.” He blinks at me, his eyes gleaming underneath his thick lashes.

  “A kitten, really. Horatio.”

  “Hor… are you serious?” His chuckle is deep and delicious.

  I nod. “My mom used to love the name.”

  He straightens slightly, his laughter fading. “Used to?”

  “She died years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Me too. “So as I was saying, I had a kitten. Gathered him up in a back alley and took him home. My roommate loved him. Megan. Nice girl. Heart of gold. She’d feed Horatio when I was out, pet him, hold him. She’d make me breakfast and look for me. I was starting to settle down, let down my guard, relax. Be happy. Feel safe. And that was a mistake.”

  “Why, Ray?” He shifts on the bed, runs a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face.

  “Because my dad’s associates found me again, and I had to run. Had to leave Horatio and Megan behind. Told you, lives are not worth risking.”

  “Christ. Who the hell is your dad?”

  “Small-town conman. A nobody who got in well over his head.”

  “Okay.” He looks doubtful, and no wonder. “So why are his associates after you?”

  “Because dear dad and even my brother pointed the finger at me. Told them I was behind the mess the two of them made, and that if they wanted answers, they should come to me.”

  Answers and money, but I’m still not sure I should tell him that much, or the whole truth. Not like he can help me, anyway. He just needs to be aware, and careful. Life fucks you in every turn, and you need to keep your eyes peeled and your walls up.

  “Those motherfuckers,” he says and takes my hand, his jaw clenching. “I’d kick their teeth in. How can they put you through this? Their own flesh and blood.”

  And strangely, I have no doubt he’s serious. He holds my hand tightly, grinding the bones of my fingers together, but I like it. I like how my sadness and anger flows into him and returns to me through his crushing grip. I like how he doesn’t seem to doubt me for a second, the truth in what I’ve told him, and even though I want him to be suspicious, to watch out… I’m grateful.

  Still, I have to push. “You believe me? You don’t think I’m lying?”

  He lifts his other hand to my chin, grips it lightly, and studies my face. “I’ll take the risk.”

  Oh God, he’s undoing me. “You’re nuts.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He releases my chin and waves his hand back and forth, glaring. “I know. You’ve said it often enough.”

  Then he grins, and I cover my mouth with my hand, fighting back laughter. He’s funny, and cute, and so dis
armingly nice… I can’t even.

  I should pinch myself. Soon I’ll be waking up, alone and on the run.

  “They don’t know where I am,” I say. “At least, I don’t think so.”

  “So what are you afraid of?”

  I shake my head.

  “They won’t find you. I’ll hide you well. I swear. Stay.” His gaze is steady and earnest, his insistence breaking down my defenses.

  I let myself go. “Maybe. For a few days.”

  “That’s a start,” he says and leans back again, a frown marring his brow. He reaches down and shifts the cold compress. “Should be enough time for me to use filthy, hot sex as a means to convince you to stay longer. To take a risk on me, too.”

  Only he doesn’t know it’s not the sex that’s tempting me—although it sure is hot. No, it’s him, his pain, his anger, his kindness, his faith in me. This man has a core of steel and gold, and he makes me want to trust.

  Trust is something I haven’t felt in a long, long time.

  ***

  I bring Storm a glass of water to take some painkillers I found in the bathroom cabinet, and he promptly falls asleep, still sitting on the bed, propped on the headboard. It looks uncomfortable, but I don’t want to wake him up.

  Don’t want to touch his face, either, his lips, those long lashes resting on his cheekbones, or cuddle up to him and rest my head on his shoulder.

  That’d be cheesy. Unbearably romantic and sentimental. But damn, I almost give in before I tear myself away and wander the house. I check out the kitchen first. Breakfast would be good. The fridge contains some cheese and ham, and I remember the frozen baguettes.

  I could work with that—but I hope there’s a plan B for lunch.

  Leaving the baguettes in the sink to defrost, I explore the mansion Storm may or may not have broken into. The owners like him. Huh. I wonder if they know he’s here now.

  Trust, Ray. Show some trust.

  Yeah, well, it’s hard when you haven’t trusted anyone for most of your life. When your family has let you down in the worst way, and you haven’t been able to keep a friend for years, first because your dad won’t allow you to let anyone in, and then because you’re always looking over your shoulder for your pursuers.

  Trusting isn’t easy. What if he’s playing me? What if he lied to me about the owners of the house I broke into? Or everything else for that matter?

  Not that he’s said much. Sure, he talked, but it was all vague.

  Slipping outside and walking down the beach isn’t much of a conscious decision. I need to see for myself. Need to confirm that at least one thing he told me is true.

  So when I reach the house where I spent my first few nights here and cautiously climb the three wide steps to the terrace, I’m prepared for just about everything—but above all, disappointment.

  Did I mention I have trust issues? Big time.

  I approach the window, my bare feet soundless on the tiled floor. I press my forehead to the dusty glass and look into the living room.

  Empty. The furniture is gone. The sofa, the armchairs, the coffee table.

  I step back. My hands shake slightly, and I shove them into the pockets of my shorts. Glancing back at the beach, to make sure nobody is watching me, I walk across the terrace to the kitchen window. A glance inside confirms it.

  The mahogany table and chairs are gone.

  Mouth dry, I back away. What if someone is inside, watching me? What if the cameras are back online? If I tripped the alarm?

  If someone finds out where I am and come get me?

  My heart booms in my chest as I rush down the steps and walk across the beach to the water’s edge, doing my best to keep from running away like the devil’s after me. Slow steps. Hands in pockets. I’d whistle if I knew how.

  Don’t look over your shoulder. Don’t look to see if there’s anyone standing on the terrace.

  God, I wish I had my gun, the one Dad gave me on my sixteenth birthday. Other girls got dresses, parties and trips abroad. I got a 9mm Nano Beretta. I had to leave it behind when I ran for my life the time before last. It hurt, losing that gun.

  Everything hurts when you have to let go.

  I walk aimlessly along the surf, letting my feet sink into the cool, wet sand with every step. The clouds haven’t cleared, and the air is heavy. Feels like rain. Muted sunlight filters through, torturing my eyes. So warm. Sweat trickles down my back and between my breasts.

  Storm told me the truth. He ran to warn me. He knew I wasn’t housesitting, like I told him. I was lying, and he knew it but didn’t care. Because he wanted me to be okay. He believes I’m good.

  He’s taking a risk on me.

  This is all too much to take in. Too much I have to accept. Change my perceptions, loosen the chokehold of my mistrust.

  Tell him everything. He deserves to know if he’s to offer me shelter.

  I can do this.

  So I turn my steps toward the mansion, toward Storm, determined to lay all my cards on the table, come what may. I won’t let him take a risk without knowing the real stakes. He believes in me, and I won’t let him down.

  ***

  Sighing in relief, I slip into the mansion and close the door behind me. I stand for a long moment in the hall, in front of the sunken living room, gathering my wits about me. The thought of seeing Storm again makes me smile in spite of myself.

  You were gone for half an hour, Ray. Come on.

  Yet my smile lingers as I quietly climb the stairs. Can’t help it. Even the memory of his wicked grin and sexy bossiness, that gentleness when it comes to holding me, and let’s not forget that hot body… My heart skips a beat, and familiar heat floods me.

  Yeah, he’d be impossible to forget, and the realization makes me stumble. I catch myself, suck in a deep breath and keep climbing.

  Not the time or place to wonder about that. I’m on a mission, and I’ve hesitated enough. This isn’t like me. I normally know my mind and do what I have to do. I’ve been raised to be a tough girl.

  And he’s melting me like chocolate on a hot plate.

  Silence reigns on the upper floor and a lone wooden plank creaks as I step into the bedroom. I’m rehearsing my words in my mind, like I used to do at school when I knew the teacher would demand to know why I didn’t do my homework—because of gun practice, or running with my brother’s friends—and I had to give a convincing excuse.

  Only this time I have to tell the truth, and it’s just as hard.

  I stop.

  He’s still asleep. The cold compress has slid off his leg and to the floor, the ice cubes melted into a small puddle.

  He’s so handsome…

  A swarm of drunken butterflies divebomb inside my stomach, and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth at the sight of him. He has slipped down a little, one hand resting on his stomach, almost covering the red scar, his cock lying on his thigh, thick even when soft. His soft dark hair is messy, falling in his eyes. His lips are slightly parted, letting out soft puffs of breath.

  My blood’s running hot in my veins, and my mouth waters. I wonder how he might taste. How fast he’ll get hard. What sounds he’ll make when I lick and suck on him.

  Dammit, Ray. How am I ever going to talk coherently to him and tell him what I need to say if he short-circuits my every sense?

  Doing my best not to make noise, I step closer and study his sleeping form, that muscled chest with the thorns and roses licking his sides, the powerful shoulders, the long, sinewy legs.

  A scar I didn’t notice last night or this morning, busy with other things, catches my attention. It’s on his left hip, a deep gash once, now an angry red welt with the marks of stitches. It doesn’t look that old. Older than the one in his side, perhaps, but not by much.

  What the hell did that to him?

  My hand lifts of its own volition, hovering over the scar. I itch to touch him all over, feel those beautiful muscles under my fingertips, under my lips. Didn’t get a chance last night. He wa
s in charge, and it was smoking hot, but now he’s laid out in front of me like a buffet.

  And this is all new to me. New and amazing. My handful of sexual explorations were quick one-night stands that ended before day dawned. Never got the chance to observe a guy like this, lying before me naked and gorgeous. Never got the time to think up wicked things to do to him.

  Like see if I can wake him up slowly, one lick at a time. If I can make him hard before he even realizes he isn’t dreaming.

  Bold move, Ray. Bold move. But, hey, live a little. Life isn’t only guns and bullets.

  I grin, then bend over him and lick a path from his exposed sac to the tip of his cock. Salty. Slightly sweet. I sweep my tongue again along his length, and take him in my mouth.

  His taste explodes on my tongue, more bitter than I expected, with a hint of spice. I suck on him and feel him grow, forcing my mouth wider. He’s thickening, lengthening. Hardening.

  A thrill ripples through me. My breasts ache, my nipples stiffening as I mouth his growing erection. He groans deep inside his throat, his hand curling into a fist against his chest. His hips rock up a little, pushing his cock into my mouth. His lashes flutter against his cheeks, his eyes moving under the pale lids. His head rolls to the side, and he mutters something unintelligible under his breath.

  He’s still swelling, already hard as steel, and he’s so big now I can’t even take half of him into my mouth. Wrapping a hand around the base, I give an experimental swirl with my tongue under the head of his cock, and he arches back, moaning out loud.

  “What the...?” He’s staring down at me now, eyes wide. His hand lifts, reaching for me. “Ray?”

  I move my mouth down and back up, dragging my lips over his hard shaft, my hand at the base mirroring the movement.

  He hisses, and his hand lands on my head, fingers tangling in my loose hair. “Fuck…” His hips lift again, shoving more of his hard-on into my mouth, and I choke a little. He stills, but I don’t stop sucking on him, and he moans out my name. “This is… hot damn, babe. Oh yeah.”

  I doubt he knows what he’s saying right now, or the way his body moves in rhythm with my motions, thighs tensing when I reach the head of his cock and play with it with my tongue.