Never Again

by Michele Bardsley

  Arlene leaned in and read, “ ‘I hereby relinquish the name of my father’s lineage and take that of my husband’s, which I will henceforth honor and use as my own.’” She snorted. “Well, so much for women’s rights. I think the magicals need to update their paperwork.”

  “It’s just a formality,” said Gray. “And you don’t have to take my name. Whatever you decide, our marriage will still be legal.”

  She nodded, and looked down at the certificate, still apparently unsure about which name she wanted to use. It reminded him how Kerren insisted she remain a Rackmore. She’d marked out that same sentence. He didn’t blame Lucy for not taking his name—after all, one day their marriage would be dissolved and it would probably be better for her to keep “Rackmore” anyway.

  She leaned down and scrawled her signature: Lucinda Therese Calhoun.

  Gray tried to tell himself he wasn’t pleased by her choice, but . . . well, he was. Yeah. It made him old-fashioned and maybe a chauvinist, as well. She picked up the paper, and then flinched. “Ouch.”

  “What?”

  “Paper cut,” she said. “Crud. I got blood on the certificate.”

  She showed it to him, and he watched the red smear fade into the paper. What the—

  Both their signatures turned silver and one by one the letters lifted from the page. They swirled together in a dance of bright, merry magic. Then slowly returned to their original positions and faded to the black ink.

  “What the hell kind of magic was that?” asked Gray.

  “The marrying kind.” Arlene gently took the certificate from Lucinda and placed it in her folder. “I have to get these babies directly from the Grand Court ’cause of the spellwork. Magical notaries do that stuff themselves, but don’t you worry, even though I’m a mundane, my seal will work just the same. It’s why I order the certificates special.”

  Gray frowned. “That didn’t happen when I signed the certificate with Kerren.”

  “Well, maybe you had the wrong kind of paper,” huffed Arlene. “You damned sure had the wrong kind of wife.” She patted Lucy on the cheek. “This one’s perfect. I suggest you keep her.” She stuffed the file back in her purse and shooed everyone away from her truck. “I gotta get home. Y’all do, too. G’night!”

  They all backed away from the truck.

  Taylor tipped his hat. “I’m tuckered out. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He patted the jar he still held. “I’ll make sure this all goes to Marcy’s headstone.”

  “Get her the best,” said Gray. “I’ll pay whatever’s left.”

  Taylor nodded. “Good night.”

  Gray and Lucy said their good-nights, and then Gray took his wife’s hand. They had walked to town because Lucy insisted she wanted the exercise. It wasn’t that far, but he still regretted not bringing her down in Grit’s truck.

  “I feel so strange,” she said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. Like I was tied down and someone cut me free from the ropes.” She smiled up at him. “I feel like I’m floating.”

  “Sounds like a good feeling.”

  “It is,” she said. She stopped, and he did, too. She stepped into his embrace and stood up on her tippy-toes to brush a kiss across his mouth. Her small hands drifted down his chest, fluttering along the edge of his pants.

  His balls tightened.

  “I don’t feel like doing the dishes after all,” she said.

  “Oh?” he asked. He brushed her hair back and let his fingers drift down the side of her neck. “What do you feel like doing?”

  “You.”

  He scooped Lucy into his arms and hurried up the hill toward the house.

  Chapter 9

  Anticipation buzzed through Lucinda as Gray carried her all the way up the stairs and into his bedroom. Ever since she’d signed the certificate, she’d felt an odd sort of freedom. Maybe it was only that she knew she was safe—that Bernard couldn’t touch her again. Not ever. Oh, he might try, but it wouldn’t matter. Not now. And if she had to live with her curse for all her days, then so be it.

  Gray put her down onto the freshly made bed and then rolled in beside her. He gathered her close, and her heart started to pound. He was so gorgeous. She traced the line of his jaw and dragged her forefinger across his lower lip.

  “What now?” she asked.

  His breath skirted her lips as he leaned down and took her mouth. It was a tender assault—but one that made her ache. Made her want more. His hand slipped through her hair and cupped the back of her head. He deepened the kiss, thrusting his tongue inside to mate with hers.

  Heat flared. Oh, yes. There was the lust that Gray inspired so well. Need was an ache that he both encouraged and fulfilled. She had never felt this way before, and she reveled in her first true tastes of passion.

  His lips moved down her throat, lingering at the base. His tongue dipped into the concave between her collarbone, followed by the soft brush of his lips.

  His hands slid under her shirt, and she shifted so that he could reach the back strap of her bra. He easily unsnapped it.

  “Sit up.”

  She did as he asked, nerves plucking her stomach, her skin tingling, her body aching for his touch. Everywhere. She wanted to feel him everywhere.

  He took off her shirt, her bra. Then she lay back on the pillow and let him. His stroking fingers made her want to purr. Oh, how she loved his touch.

  “What happened?” he asked. His fingers danced along her scars—and there were so many. He’d made her forget that she was flawed. That Bernard had damaged her.

  Shame filled her. She tried to sit up, to push away his hands, but he pressed a kiss to her belly, and she stilled.

  “You’re beautiful, Lucy.” He looked up at her. “We all have scars. Some you can see. Some you can’t.”

  She reached down and put her fingers on the scar that twirled down his temple. “I don’t see your scars,” she said softly. “I just see you.”

  “Let me love you.”

  Her breath caught at his words, and for an aching second, she wanted to know that Gray really did love her. How wonderful it would be if their marriage was real, and she was truly his bride. The woman who held his heart.

  But that could never be.

  Instead, she gave herself over to his tender ministrations. He kissed each and every scar, and with every bestowal of affection wiped away her shame. Though Bernard’s marks remained on her flesh, the memories of his cruelty faded. Bernard’s final hold on her crumbled away—shattered by the man who worshipped her now.

  There was only Gray.

  Touching.

  Kissing.

  Loving.

  He trailed a path to her breasts, raining tiny kisses over each of them, cupping them in his hands and squeezing lightly.

  Then his mouth closed over one turgid nipple.

  “Oh,” she said. “Oh, Gray.”

  He paused and looked at her with a heavy-lidded gaze. “I love when you say my name.”

  “Gray,” she offered. “Gray.”

  He kissed her, this time with rough possession, to show her that his control was snapping. She wanted him so much. She felt the same unleashing of her desire, hot and slick and wild.

  “More,” she said. “More.”

  She tangled her fingers in his hair. He gave her nipples torturous attention, suckling them so hard, the pain turned to pleasure.

  Her heart pounded.

  Her blood raced.

  Her body burned.

  His hand coasted down her stomach and wiggled beneath her jeans, her underwear. He infiltrated the nest of curls at the apex of her thighs. He lightly pinched her clit between his thumb and forefinger, released the tiny nub, and pinched again.

  Lucinda moaned.

  Not content with those small torments, Gray slipped two fingers inside her and curled them up slightly.

  He began to stroke.

  Pleasure spiked. Raw electricity, flaring bright and hot.

&nb
sp; “How are you doing that?” she panted. She arched, trembling. Her eyes rolled back in her head as sensations built in intensity. She lost the ability to breathe, to think. He made her feel so good. And however he’d managed to find such a sensitive spot within her . . . oh, she was glad.

  He was looking at her, his eyes dark with passion as he penetrated her. “Yes, baby. Like that.”

  Lucinda grabbed his shirt and twisted the fabric. Her heart pounded and pounded—waves against the shore, stars crashing to earth. She moved her hips in rhythm with his strokes. She couldn’t look away from those blue eyes, the sky on fire, the sea raging.

  “Come for me,” he whispered.

  “You,” she managed. She shuddered, sucking in air. “Not without you.”

  “We have all night,” he promised. “This is for you.”

  He leaned down and laved one taut peak . . . then lightly bit.

  Lucinda felt the world shatter all around her. She cried out, giving herself over to the rolling pleasure, riding wave after wave. She held on to Gray tightly as she fell endlessly into light and heat and beauty.

  She collapsed against the bed, thoroughly sated.

  But Gray wasn’t finished with her. All night, he’d said. She managed to open her eyes. “Again?” she asked.

  “Damn straight.” He yanked off her jeans and underwear, and then dragged off his own clothes. She caught a flash of his gold dragon tattoo on his pectoral, and the scar that covered his right shoulder.

  “Lucy,” he said as he moved on top of her. “You are beautiful.”

  “You make me feel as if I am,” she said. “That’s enough.”

  He parted her thighs, and she knew it cost him to be gentle. Maybe later they could take each other like ravenous beasts—tearing and clawing and screaming. But now, she wanted this slow conquering.

  With one hand, he captured her wrists and raised her arms above her head. With the other hand, he steadied himself over her. His cock filled her, his motions steady, and tender. Oh, so tender.

  “I’m not going to last,” he said. “It’s been too long for me. And you . . . I can’t resist you.”

  “We have all night, remember?” She scored his buttocks with her nails. “More, Gray. Give me more!”

  He pounded into her, his strokes deep and sure. Still he held her wrists, his thumb pressing against her erratic pulse. She bucked against him, her clit throbbing as pleasure built swiftly once more. He was panting, trying to hold on, but she didn’t want him to. He’d given her enough. . . . Now she wanted to give to him.

  “Come inside me,” she begged.

  His eyes flew open and he stared down at her. He sucked in air between his teeth. Sweat dripped off his brow. “Lucy,” he murmured. “Lucinda.”

  His face went tight and he stilled, groaning as he buried his cock deeply. She wrapped her legs around his waist and clung to him as he spilled his seed within her.

  Her body was awash in need, desire. A buzzing climbed her spine, then zipped down again—sensation after sensation vibrated from her core.

  Gray let go of her wrists and held himself up. “You’re close again, aren’t you?”

  She nodded. “I can’t seem to help myself.”

  He grinned as he sat up and knelt between her legs. “Touch yourself.”

  “What? Where?”

  “Hold your breasts. Play with your nipples.”

  Even though they were both naked and sweaty, and all kinds of messy, Lucinda felt her face go hot. She’d never touched herself intimately like that . . . not with someone looking at her with such anticipation. Gray wanted to watch her, and the idea that he wanted to . . . unexpectedly turned her on.

  Everything about Gray turned her on.

  She was beginning to realize what a terrible and selfish lover Bernard had been.

  “I’m not frigid,” she said.

  Anger flashed in his eyes. “Did Bernard tell you that?”

  “I never had an orgasm with him. He told me it was because I’m . . . broken.”

  “You are not broken,” he said evenly. “Touch yourself, Lucy. Let me take you over the edge.”

  Tentatively, she cupped her breasts and squeezed.

  Gray groaned. “I’m getting hard again already.”

  “You like it.”

  “Hell, yeah.”

  She grasped her own nipples and experimentally pinched them. Twin bolts of lightning arrowed straight to her core. She looked at Gray, dazed. “That feels good.”

  “Keep doing it, baby.”

  He leaned down between her thighs and suckled her clit. Little fireworks started going off right then.

  Lucinda rolled her nipples between her fingers, tugging on them, while Gray alternately sucked her clit and rapidly flicked the swollen nub with his tongue.

  Pleasure exploded, and she screamed Gray’s name as she fell into the glorious fire once more.

  He crept out the back door of the sheriff’s office and shut it quietly. The lock snicked in place—and he smiled. No one would ever know he’d been creeping around inside after office hours.

  He’d set up a spell trap on the sidewalk in front of Gray’s house. If anyone left the house carrying the eye, he would know who. It had galled him to buy the trap from an online vendor when he should’ve been able to make his own. Even with the amplification of the objects and constant practice, he could barely tap into the energies. Soon, he promised himself, very soon.

  Still. Nothing pleased him more than to see it in the sheriff’s possession.

  It was just past one a.m. The alley was a through and through, and even though it was the long way, he didn’t want to walk past Ember’s. She was too damned smart, and far too sensitive to the shifts in the balance. He couldn’t chance her looking out a window, or even stepping outside. She wasn’t predictable, and that made him uneasy. It wasn’t that he couldn’t control the situation. He was in complete control. No, it was only that he was careful.

  Always.

  So, he went left and took a stroll. He patted the front pocket of his pants, reassured.

  The eye was his again.

  It was worth the risk he’d taken earlier in the day—dosing Arlene’s tea and locking her in the bathroom. He liked the old gal, and he didn’t want to hurt her, not unless he had to.

  Again, he’d purchased the magic he’d needed to turn off the safe’s spellwork. The slow-degrade add-on had been expensive, but he’d needed the protections to fade over twelve hours so that no alarms, or Mooreland’s uncanny senses, were triggered.

  He grinned. Getting into the sheriff’s office to retrieve his possession had been a cakewalk. He’d placed a marble into the bag and left it. Oh, the oversized glass orb wouldn’t fool the sheriff if he opened it, but if he just checked the safe, he’d have no reason to believe the eye wasn’t in its bag. There was no way to replace Gray’s protections, either, but hopefully Mooreland wouldn’t notice. If he did, he’d probably just ask the Guardian to reinstate the protections, and that would be that.

  He had no idea how long it might be before the sheriff realized the object was gone. A day. A week. It didn’t really matter. He’d covered his trail. No one would be able to follow.

  It was time to start his work again.

  Thirteen days until the new moon. The portal would be frail again, and this time, he would call forth Kahl and make the bargain. Gray Calhoun in exchange for his magical birthright.

  He would have the power he deserved. What good was knowing all that he did about magic and yet not having the fullness of it to work with? All the objects he’d spent years gathering, unlocking, coaxing into his possession. All the time and effort he’d used up learning about things he could never do.

  But soon . . . soon he would come into his powers. And then he could right the wrongs of his past. An injustice had been done, and he would make sure the debt owed was paid.

  The alley spilled onto Silver Lane, which connected to Main Street and, farther down, Dragon’s Way. On his
right was the town square. In the middle of the paved circle lined with its moldering benches and overgrown bushes was the full-sized bronze statue of a dragon, its wings extended as it stood on its hind legs, snout pointed toward the sky.

  On the other side of the circle, several yards beyond the statue, was the Temple of Light, which was locked up most of the year. Gray opened it only for his grandstanding. He remembered how the place used to be open year-round, available to anyone who wanted to go inside and commune with the Goddess. The temple had gotten vandalized several times, and Grit finally shut its doors. Faith was a tricky thing: hard to gain, easy to lose. No one had faith in Gray—especially now that he’d married a Rackmore.

  He frowned. Then he turned away from the town square and headed toward Dragon’s Way.

  He hadn’t expected the marriage. Not that he was particularly worried. He’d done his research and learned how Franco had cursed his mistress’s thaumaturgy. The witch was weak. Hardly a threat at all—not even as the wife of Nevermore’s Guardian. No, he didn’t need to worry about them. And he always had his ace: Franco. One call to the Raven and he’d give the newlyweds all kinds of headaches.

  Might come in handy if things didn’t work out with Kahl. Oh, he had no doubt he could call the demon lord forth. He knew the spells, had the right kind of objects, the necessary tributes. But having a backup plan was never a bad thing. Franco had contacts. He could open doors into all sorts of places. It wasn’t the same as having the gratitude of a demon, but it was close.

  Even so . . . it might not be a bad idea to give the sheriff and the Guardian something else to worry about. Mooreland was too smart for his own good. And relentless as hell. There wasn’t much crime in Nevermore, so the sheriff had plenty of time to devote to Marcy’s murder. Of course, her murderer was already dead, so in a way, Mooreland owed him for taking out the trash. Then again, the damned fool hadn’t seemed satisfied about Lennie’s death. His intuition was too finely tuned. The sheriff was the kind of man that followed hunches, no matter how strange.

  Yes. He definitely needed to send them scurrying off in another direction. Keep ’em busy so they didn’t have time to think about Marcy or Lennie.