He guided his vehicle into a space next to the Honda. Grabbing his binoculars, he stepped out. He’d just run up the dune and scan the beach for stragglers. He made it to the front bumper of the truck before he froze, assaulted by familiar smells.
Fear. Blood. Celeste.
Not fucking possible.
Celeste was gone, taken from him in the cruelest way—forever. He must have finally lost what was left of his mind.
Over the wail of the wind, he heard a low mewling sound, like a kitten in pain, and he lurched into movement, quickly circling the compact car. A small figure lay on the ground, a woman with long blonde hair matted red with blood.
Celeste’s hair. Celeste’s scent.
Celeste is dead you idiot. Get it together.
Fur ruffled under his skin as he approached her. The logical thinking man knew Celeste was gone. The wereleopard who lived on instinct insisted this was its mate, and someone had hurt her.
He growled, low and threatening, man and leopard beginning to merge in growing fury when he knelt and carefully rolled her over.
Celeste…alive.
His chest tightened when he brushed the hair off her face, but he pushed all conflicting emotions away. No time for that now—he had to get her to safety. What the hell was she doing here anyway?
He easily lifted her and carried her to his truck. The driver’s side door was still open, and he maneuvered his way in while holding her against his chest. Squeezing his eyes shut, he took a deep breath, dragging her scent deep into his lungs. A feeling he could only describe as joy overwhelmed him, and he choked on a sob. In any other circumstances he would have laughed. Big, bad, Jason Leonidas crying like a baby? But she was alive. How many times had he wished he could change the past? How many times had he wished he could go back and insist she not get on that damned plane?
Fury replaced the joy. Where the fuck had she been? She’d abandoned her mate. She’d let him think she was dead. The only thing that kept him from shaking her awake and demanding answers was her sudden moan of pain. He held her too tightly, knew she’d probably bear bruises later from his rough embrace. Gently, he laid her across the bench seat, resting her head on his lap.
He cranked the engine, put the truck in drive and headed for the ranger cabin where they would ride out the storm. He glanced down at her, ran a finger over his mark on her shoulder. Together again. Together at last.
She stirred, agitated, but remained unconscious, and he frowned. How long had she been out? Smoothing his hand over her hair, he murmured, “Shh, baby. Almost there.”
His voice seemed to soothe her, and she settled. Within minutes, he’d stopped the truck and carried her into the small building he called home. He paused in the living room, wondering if he should lay her on the couch. Hell no. She was his mate—she belonged in his bed. A few steps down the hall and he was striding into his room. He pulled the blanket back, laid her down and stepped away.
He struggled to get his mind past the shock of her presence. He needed to have a look at the wound on her head, clean it up and see if he could wake her. Forcing himself to focus, he gritted his teeth and stared down at her. How had he missed the impossibly small bikini? Even that was too much concealment though, and he wanted it gone, wanted her uncovered and exposed to his hungry gaze. He remembered too well what the scraps of material covered. The small perfect breasts. The generously rounded hips and hot pussy that always welcomed him, no matter how he’d previously loved her. His cock sprang to hard, throbbing attention. She groaned again, rolling her head against the pillow and spurring him to action. First things first.
He got his emergency kit, a clean cloth and a bowl of cool water. Placing the items on the nightstand, he shifted her over enough that he could sit next to her and dipped the cloth in the water. The wound was on her right temple, and he cleaned it as gently as possible while still being thorough. She’d been hit with something, and the gash was long but not deep. The butterfly bandages in the kit would be fine to close it, but first he had to make sure there was no sand in the wound. His biggest concern was concussion, but that worry was alleviated as he worked. Her breathing was even and steady, and once her eyes fluttered open to focus on him for a few seconds. He was pleased to see no dilation in her pupils. She closed them with a sigh. It was her scent, however, that really eased his mind. He didn’t catch one whiff of anything that would indicate an injury in her brain. It had been a glancing blow. It was probably a combination of the heat, surprise and the hit that had her sleeping so soundly. She’d be fine in a couple hours.
When he was sure the cut was cleaned, he disinfected the area, pressed the edges together, and sealed it shut. He exchanged the bloodied cloth for an unsoiled one and refilled the bowl with clean water. Sitting next to her on the bed, his hip against hers, he hesitated. Cleaning the wound was one thing, cleaning the rest of her might be out of line. But fuck, it had been a long time, and he couldn’t not touch her.
After dipping the washcloth, he bathed her face, the fine high cheekbones, the perky nose, the stubborn chin he’d loved beyond reason. He frowned when he saw the long scar up the side of her cheek. It hadn’t been there before. His gaze raked her body, lingering over the flat smooth belly and the faded scars that crisscrossed the top of her bathing suit bottoms. There were more scars on her legs, and he gently wiped away crusted sand from her knees while he thought it over. She hadn’t had any of these scars the last time he’d seen her, but it had been awhile since the plane crash. Her injuries had time to fade like these.
He searched his memory of that time and knew he paled under his deep tan. His father’s death in the same crash hadn’t registered for months. He’d been mad with grief and consumed by fury at Celeste’s family when they told him she’d died in that crash, for refusing to let him see her body. He’d blamed them for her death, still did, despite the proof she was alive. As soon as they’d realized her infatuation with the wereleopard was a great deal more than just that, they’d been quick to pack her up and send her home. A leopard in the ruling wereleopard clan wasn’t good enough apparently. But she’d never made it, the small plane left the private airstrip at the Refuge Resort in Arizona only to be taken down by a sudden storm in the Appalachian Mountains.
He hadn’t believed them, had been sure he would feel it if she was dead. Since he was told to stay away from the funeral and threatened with execution if he entered wolf land without permission, he refused to believe it. Until his brothers forced him to view video of the crash site, forced him to see the wreckage. There was no way anyone could have survived that mangled wreck, so he’d begun to accept it.
Now he didn’t know what to believe. If she’d been on the plane, how had she survived? And why the fuck had her family told him she was dead? He’d been living with a gaping hole in his heart for a year and for what? Werewolf snobbery? His cat side hissed in response, demanding release. It wanted to run off the rage, the hurt, the shock, the fear. The new questions. If Celeste had survived, what about his father? He needed to let his brothers know ASAP, but it was all too much to take at once and with no target at which to vent.
Jason finished bathing her and cleaned up the mess. He walked back to the living room and opened the front door. It was raining hard now. The wind blew it sideways, and it fell in sheets rather than drops, but the deep porch kept most of it outside. A few drops hit the floor at the open entryway, and he went to the hall closet for a towel, dropping it down to soak up the moisture. He knew from experience that the storm would go on for a couple of days, in fits and starts until Iris passed over the area. This round of rain and wind would probably stop soon, for a short time at least before picking up stronger when the next band reached them.
Glancing in the direction of his bedroom, he stripped. There was no help for it. Worry ate at him. Every emotion under the sun consumed him. A quick run would help sort out the jumble. Then hopefully he’d be able to deal with Celeste, his need for her, and her betrayal. Because under the f
ury, was a bone deep hurt that twisted his insides into painful knots. He could have forgiven her for dying on him, but she hadn’t. She’d left. She’d never given them the chance they deserved. It was the ultimate betrayal. He wasn’t sure if he could ever forgive her for it. One thing was certain though, forgiveness or not, he wasn’t letting her go again. They were mated. Whether she liked it or not.
Shifting to leopard form, he padded outside, leaving the door open behind him. He considered closing it, but dismissed the idea as quickly as it came. With the electricity out, the air conditioner didn’t work. Right now that wasn’t a problem, but the house would get unbearably hot and muggy very quickly once the rain died down. Plus he planned on staying near the house. Should she awaken or cry out while he was gone, he’d have a better chance of hearing her if the door was open. Decision made, he ran off into the surrounding brush.
There were jackhammers in her head. Even moaning hurt. Funny, she didn’t remember partying last night. She frowned, and it made the pain worse. Actually she didn’t remember last night at all. Rolling over, she pressed her forehead into the pillow and was immediately swamped by Jason’s smell. Oh, God. Where was she?
She couldn’t think past the pounding behind her eyes, but when the room shook with a crack of thunder she jerked her head up, wincing for her trouble. She hated storms. There was one window, and outside it a palm tree whipped back and forth.
Definitely not in Kansas anymore. Or Atlanta. Whatever.
Rolling back over, she took stock. Her head hurt like hell, but everything else seemed fine. Only one way to know for sure. Gingerly, she pushed up on her elbows, cursing the pounding headache that spread over her face with the strain. She sat up, gasping, and looked around the room. To call it bare was generous. It contained the bed and a dresser. The walls were empty. There was nothing to identify its owner but the scent of the sheets on which she lay.
But that didn’t make sense. She looked out the window again as another gust of wind buffeted the house. Rain tapped the roof, and she cocked her head, pressing her hand to the side that throbbed the most. The sound echoed loudly in the room, and her headache seemed to pick up the rhythm, pulsing in time to the rain. It was familiar. Tin would be her guess, and that at least helped her narrow down her location to probably somewhere in the South where in recent years tin roofs had become all the rage. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed. Not the Southwest, so not Jason’s home. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and set her feet firmly on the floor.
And why the hell was she wearing a bikini?
Only one way to find out, Celeste.
She had to venture out of the room, find out where she was and who else was here, if anyone. Her mind refused to accept it might be Jason, even if her body thrummed at the thought. She didn’t dare wish it was so. She squeezed her eyes shut. Jason was over. Jason was the past.
She stood and took a step toward the door, but froze when a black leopard appeared and blocked the space. Her eyes filled with tears.
The first time she’d seen Jason in leopard form, she’d been very confused. His brothers looked like typical leopards in their were forms, tawny and gold with black spots. Jason was dark, his coat black, his spots brown to cream colored. He’d explained that sometimes nature threw a genetic anomaly out there, in the leopard and wereleopard worlds. Melanistic leopards were often born in litters with regularly colored siblings, probably an evolutionary advantage for jungle ranging leopards. All of the big cat species had melanistic or black versions. The same held true for werecats. Black was not a common color to see, but not rare either.
Looking at him now, she remembered the pain of that conversation. His pain. She’d felt his loneliness and had wanted to soothe it. He’d identified himself as the outsider in his family, but she’d seen how much they loved him, how much they needed and respected him. Although, none of that had really mattered to her. She’d thought he was beautiful. She’d loved him beyond reason. She should have known better, she thought bitterly with the benefit of hindsight, but the observation didn’t make one damn bit of difference in her reaction.
He padded closer, stalking, and she clenched her fists. She would not reach out and bury her hands in that fur, would not give in to the tears threatening to fall. The big body pushed against her, his head butting and rubbing against her thigh in a show of affection, and she couldn’t help the sigh that escaped. He pushed her until the backs of her knees hit the bed and she sat, giving in to the temptation and sinking her hands in his pelt.
Soft. Silky. So, so dark and lit with light at the same time, like the mysteries of the midnight sky. And definitely Jason.
She was afraid to speak, afraid to shatter the spell. It was the best damned dream she’d had in over a year.
He moved closer, sat on his haunches and rested his front legs along her thighs. Then he licked her, a long swipe of his tongue up the side of her face, over her old scars. The raspy stroke woke memories. This tongue, this man. Months alone and lonely and heartbroken in a hospital bed. Yet she shuddered as her body responded to him, recalled the out of control feeling of being in his arms.
Memory shattered the dream.
Except it wasn’t a dream, was it? She pushed against the cat and scrambled back on the bed. Shifting, the man followed, crawling up her body and pinning her under his weight. A growl rumbled deep in his chest.
“No,” he ordered, refusing to allow her to retreat.
She tried to push him away, but he grabbed her wrists and held them next to her head, while forcing her thighs apart with his knees and settling between them. His erection pushed hard and throbbing against the juncture between her thighs. She grew slick, felt the swelling in her clit and saw by the way his nostrils flared he knew it too.
“So long,” he muttered, before his lips descended on hers.
God help her, she couldn’t resist. She opened her mouth to him, accepted the stroke of his tongue. His pelvis ground against hers in a matching rhythm, and she was positive the only thing keeping him from plunging into her was the thin fabric of the bikini. It wasn’t much of a barrier, and she wished he’d throw it away. She’d toss it herself if he ever let her wrists go.
The kiss was all too short as he broke the contact and trailed his lips along her jaw, down her neck, and finally closed over the old mark on her shoulder. He nipped it lightly and her back arched, her pussy flooding with cream as an intense orgasm froze her. God, she couldn’t respond to him like this, so quickly, after so many months absence. It was mortifying, and she strained against him. She needed a minute to collect herself, to attempt to build some kind of barrier around her heart. She feared she was too late. Maybe she’d never managed to do it in the first place.
He released her wrists, rolled onto his back and moved up the bed, pulling her across his chest with one arm around her waist. Somehow during the move he removed the bikini bottom. His cock insistently pressed against her center and with his eyes he begged for admittance, but he was leaving the choice to her. How could she resist? Her body had been dead for a year and now it screamed for the fulfillment only he could give her.
Refusing to acknowledge the niggling worry over where he’d been or where she was or even if it was real, she sat up on her knees and moved over his hips. She held her breath, closed her eyes and allowed the fantasy to take over as she took him inside her. Slow. So slowly. If this was a dream she didn’t want to ever wake up.
She felt his hands behind her neck, over her back. Shivered at the sensation of fabric sliding free of her skin. He was finally seated all the way inside her, when his hands closed over her breasts. Her entire system threatened to melt down.
“Look at me,” he demanded.
His thumbs flicked over her nipples. She opened her eyes in time to see his nostrils flare, to see him lean forward and flick his tongue over one hard point. He sucked it into his mouth, bit down. It was just this side of painful, and she grew wetter, felt her body rushing to acce
pt him. She shuddered, then groaned. Didn’t even fight the orgasm she felt rising from the very center of her, the heart and soul. Nothing had ever equaled being possessed by Jason. Nothing ever would, she realized with sadness. As if he sensed her slipping away he moved his hands around her ribcage, let her nipple fall free of his mouth, and squeezed a little.
“Slow and easy is not going to cut it right now.”
She nodded. She knew. Maybe later he’d let her pet him, stroke him. When the leopard was appeased. He rolled her over, reached to wrap her legs around his hips, and plunged into her. She grabbed his shoulders and hung on. He wasn’t slow or smooth or even gentle. He was wild. Out of control. His fingers bit into her hips, holding her still and she tried to shift a little, tried to at least meet his thrusts.
He growled a low warning, and she waited for the spike of fear. She’d always been a little afraid of his primitive side and he’d been careful not to scare her, not to push her too far too fast. The old alarm didn’t come. She’d learned to be strong after the crash, found that she liked that about her new self. She ran her hands down his shoulders, over his pecs. Paused a minute to flick her fingers over his nipples. He growled again, and she almost smiled. She wasn’t scared at all. She was really, really turned on.
“When did you get so brave?” he asked, voice guttural with lust.
About a year ago. The answer froze in her throat. His eyes had turned from their natural green to the narrow amber slits of his cat and she knew he was losing what little control he had. She liked it. Liked that she could push him to it. She didn’t answer, just shook her head, arrested by his expression, by the need and desire stamped across his face.
Not that he gave her a chance to frame a suitable reply. He reached between them and pressed his thumb against her clitoris. Every thought fled. Every worry. Everything but sensation. And sound. She heard herself screaming as she came, heard skin slapping against skin, heard him grunting as he came seconds later.
Passions Recalled: Forbidden Passions, Book 2 Page 3
