by Eden Ashley
“It’s okay.” He stared back into the fire. “I get it if you don’t want to talk about it.”
Feeling a spread of cool dampness across her thigh, Davey looked down. Her right hand trembled so much that water had spilled from the glass. “You’re right. I don’t,” Davey said and set the glass on the coffee table. She tried to change the subject. “Did you have trouble sleeping?”
“I don’t sleep.”
It was odd the way he had phrased it. “Insomnia?” she asked.
“No. I mean I never sleep, Davey.” Shifting slightly, Ethan repositioned to angled himself toward her. “I didn’t just lose a big chunk of memory after the car accident. I also lost the ability to sleep—at least temporarily.”
“That’s not possible. Humans can’t survive without sleep.”
Ethan shrugged. “The team of doctors monitoring my recovery was worried at first. But so far, I’ve suffered none of the usual adverse side effects.”
“Okay,” Davey said, accepting that. “But at the first hint of you going psycho, I’m taking your gun and shooting you.”
Smiling, Ethan leaned forward into the light, causing the fire to reflect in the dark hollows of his pupils. “Be sure to keep your eyes open. If I’m trying to kill you, then you really shouldn’t miss because I never do.”
The lingering smile split his expression into two very different halves. Davey knew he was only joking—just as she had been. She would never shoot Ethan. But something about his hypnotic gaze was haunting, slightly somber, and very intense. Transfixed by his stare, too late, Davey realized she had leaned forward and that he had claimed the remaining the distance, capturing her lips within his. When his hand came up to rest against her face, that tender touch electrified her skin and spread the warmth of the kiss throughout her entire body. His mouth worked slowly as if savoring her taste, and then his tongue pushed forward, prodding at her lips and she parted them, sighing as he plunged into her depths. The heat built between them, folded over Davey and then pulled her under. Soon she was gasping as his hands discovered new territory, gliding beneath her shirt to move over her back, caress her shoulders, and slide across her belly. Trembling, Davey sank into Ethan and craved more of him. She wanted those gentle hands to squeeze her breasts. She wanted them to strip her naked and his long fingers to dip between her thighs and find her clit swollen with pleasure. Wet and aching with need, only Ethan could satisfy the yearning he’d ignited.
Whimpering as his hand closed over her breast and his thumb rolled tortuously over her hardened nipple, Davey’s own fingers roamed to explore the extent of Ethan’s desire. What she found sent a gush of wetness flooding between her folds. The massive swell twitched at her touch, stoutly straining against the material of his pants. Gripping the thick mass of his arousal, she found she could barely get her hand around him. Moaning, Ethan pulled her into his lap and suddenly that bulge was pressing into Davey’s ass, making her wild with need. Her panties were completely soaked when she parted her legs to straddle him, rocking forward to slide her aching clit up and down his shaft. Hissing, Ethan’s hands shot up and gripped her hips, digging his fingers almost painfully into her flesh as he gasped. But Davey didn’t stop. Working her hips, she grinded against him in slow circles, massaging his cock as she watched his face and reveled in the struggle unfolding on his face, knowing he wanted her as badly as she wanted him. The thought made her smile in triumph.
When she changed the direction of her hips, Ethan arched beneath her and a groan rumbled deep in his throat as his head dropped back against the sofa. Davey pressed her mouth against his exposed throat, loving the sudden vulnerability. He briefly went limp, but then lifted his head and something other than desire flashed in his eyes as he looked up at her. The gentle savior was gone.
Grabbing her ass, Ethan yanked her closer and stilled her movements. One of his hands drifted lower and then his fingers were filling every hole, dipping into her dripping folds and up between the spread of her cheeks. Gasping, Davey couldn’t stop the moan that ripped from her throat as she folded over in pleasure. His fingers thrust deeper and she bucked, involuntarily grinding against his hand as her thighs begin to shake. Having him dually inside of her felt so good—the sensations quaking through her threatened to rip Davey apart.
Suddenly and inexplicably, she thought of Palmer. The errant musing became a full blown hallucination as he completely replaced Ethan on the sofa. Palmer’s dead eyes gazed up at her pleasure, and it was his cold fingers moving inside of her. Knowing it couldn’t be real, Davey squeezed her eyes shut and willed the vision to go away. When she opened them, maggots were crawling all over Palmer’s skin, dropping from sagging eyelids and falling out of a gaping mouth. Screaming, Davey leapt away from him and fell backward, landing awkwardly on the hard floor. The corpse stood up and reached out with one rotting hand, offering its aid. The smell was almost as awful as the sight of it. Her gag prevented the next scream as she rolled to her knees and scrambled away. Headlong into the fire.
Powerful hands grabbed her ankles, instantly stopping her momentum, and then the same irresistible force dragged Davey backward. Now the smell of decay permeated the air, clogging her nostrils and filling her mouth. Sobbing, she turned her face away, afraid to set eyes on the monster that held her.
Over the panic, Ethan called to Davey, urgent and desperate as he tried to calm her hysteria. Suddenly, the hands holding her were warm again. The smoky scent of fire and cedar replaced the smell of decay.
“Daveigh, breathe,” Ethan said. His voice was calm but insistent. “It’s me. Just breathe.”
Focusing on his voice, she wanted to obey, but air wouldn’t come. She tried to roll to her side, but Ethan wouldn’t let her. His hands wouldn’t budge. “You’re hyperventilating, Davey. You need to breathe.”
It took every drop of will she possessed, but somehow Davey shut out everything except the sound of Ethan’s voice and what he asked of her. Finally…finally, her lungs filled with sweet air. Several minutes passed before the rhythm of her breathing returned to normal. Silent tears slipped from the corners of her eyes. Unable to look at him, Davey stared up at the ceiling. “I’m sorry, Ethan. God, I’m such a screw up.”
“It’s okay. I’m amazed you’ve avoided a meltdown for this long.”
“No.” Davey shook her head and sat up, pushing his hands away. She still couldn’t bring her eyes to meet his. “It’s not okay. I promised I wouldn’t do this. Palmer just died and my mind is totally messed up. I can’t be with you, Ethan. Not in this way. I destroy everything I touch. I’m a disaster.”
Pressing two fingers to her chin, Ethan nudged her face toward his. Davey yielded but stubbornly kept her gaze on the floor. “Listen to me,” he said. “You’re not a disaster.”
“I am,” she insisted, but risked a glance into his earnest eyes.
“Fine.” Ethan sighed. “You’re a beautiful disaster,” he whispered.
“Please don’t say that.” Davey closed her eyes again as a fresh swell of tears started. “I’m no good, Ethan. I’m no good to anyone.”
“That’s not true, Davey Little. You’ve been good to me since the day I met you.” One finger stroked her cheek. “Okay, that’s a lie,” he admitted cheerily. “You were a little rude.”
Davey choked out a laugh. “I’m sorry about that too.”
“Don’t be.” Ethan grew somber again. “Don’t ever be sorry with me, Davey.”
*
The next morning unfolded way less awkwardly than it should have. Davey was standing at the stove, carefully scraping up a second batch of blueberry pancakes from the bottom of a too-hot cast iron skillet, when Ethan walked in from outside. She spared him a glance before directing her full attention back to the pancakes. The tops were perfect. But on flipping them, Davey visually confirmed what her nose had already told her. She frowned. Each and every pancake was a regrettable shade of brown. Even some of the blueberries had burned.
Turning back to Ethan
, she forced a bright smile. “I made breakfast.”
“Oh yeah?” Dressed in fitted jeans and a worn plaid shirt that hugged his shoulders but was a little too big everywhere else, Ethan stood next to the dining table, lifting his hand to scratch one ear as he considered the plate stacked high with Davey’s earlier failure. Instead of burned, the cook on these were too far in the opposite direction, oozing gooey instant batter from all sides of the crumbled pancakes.
Her smile faded slightly. “I think the coffee is at least good. I hope you drink coffee. All cops like coffee, right?”
“It’s an occupational hazard.” Edging closer to the stove, he peered down at the burned second batch. “I’m impressed you got the wood stove going so well, but the pan is too hot.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Davey replied, but then uttered a frustrated groan. Gesturing with the spatula, she pointed at the half-raw pancakes. “At first it was too cold and that crap happened. So, I added more wood and now this. I think it’s because the damn stove is so old.”
Only Ethan’s profile was visible as he opened the stove door and raked the burning embers about, but Davey was pretty sure she saw an amused smile tugging at his lips. Without further comment, he reached into an overhead cabinet and retrieved a bottle of oil, placing a few drops into the pan before removing it from the heat and setting it aside.
He leaned against the counter. “Let that cool, and we’ll try again.”
Though Davey was grateful, she wrinkled her nose. “What do you know about cooking?”
That sexy hint of a smile flickered at his mouth again. “Only enough to survive,” he said.
Though her traitorous hormones wanted to kiss him, Davey punched him in the arm instead.
“Ouch.” He rubbed his shoulder. “What did I say?”
That’s for making me like you, she wanted to answer. Burying the thought, she poured him a cup of coffee and shoved it into his hands. “Cream or sugar?” she asked sweetly.
Ethan looked surprised. “You found cream here?”
She shook her head. “Nope.”
“Then why would you—” he began but dropped the sentence as she crumbled into a fit of laughter. Smiling, Ethan chuckled and shook his head. Davey quickly stepped away because the sound of his laugh combined with the way he looked in the morning light was enough to make that big, stupid organ in her chest want to do equally stupid things.
Needing to think about anything other than kissing Ethan, she cleared her throat. “Uh, there’s something else I was hoping you could help me with. It’s a little more dangerous than making pancakes though.”
“I live for danger.”
Davey rolled her eyes. “My attempt at humor was pretty lame,” she admitted. “And yet somehow you surpassed me.”
“Fine,” Ethan said, growing instantly serious. “I won’t joke then. What do you want, Davey Little?” He moved into her space, filling the entire kitchen with an aura of unexpected intensity. “Tell me, and I’ll do it. Anything.”
The temperature in the room abruptly felt ten degrees warmer. Licking her lips, Davey resisted the urge to back away. “Target practice,” she finally squeaked but was appalled because she couldn’t manage a complete sentence. “If it’s safe,” she added.
Ethan reached out and slowly stroked his fingers through her hair. He was getting under Davey’s skin and obviously knew it. He also seemed to be enjoying himself. “Target practice,” he repeated, with his hand still entangled in her locks. His fingers brushed against her neck and Davey trembled. She closed her eyes, afraid he would kiss her and then she might really be lost.
At last, Ethan stepped away and all of his maddening heat receded with him. “Okay,” he said as he returned the cast iron skillet to the stovetop and began spooning dollops of batter into it. Glancing at Davey over his shoulder, Ethan smiled. “I’ll teach you how to keep your eyes open. It’ll be fun.”
19
Ethan didn’t waste any time keeping his promise, and her lessons started right after breakfast. Things began easy enough, with Davey simply getting use to the feel of holding a gun in her hands while loaded and unloaded. By mid-afternoon, she could almost distinguish the difference between a full clip and an empty clip, just by picking the weapon up.
Davey looked down the sight of a 9mm Beretta—taken off of one of Marx’s dead goons—exactly like Ethan had shown her, lining up the barrel with one of three soup cans positioned on a platform ten yards away. Morning had faded into a cool but humid afternoon, the air heavy with imminent rain. A cluster of fat raindrops splattered against her forearm, leaving behind their chilly footprints. Davey lifted her gaze from the cans and looked worriedly up at the darkening sky.
“Once a target is in your sights, you must never take your eyes away,” Ethan said.
“The gun isn’t loaded.”
“Very good,” he said, sounding pleased. Ethan gently removed the Beretta from her hands and slid the barrel forward, revealing a single shiny cartridge. “Except for the one in the chamber.”
“Okay.” Interest piqued, Davey leaned in. “Show me how to do that.”
“Sure. Then you can practice taking it apart and putting it back together. But first, I think we should go inside and have lunch. We’ve been at this for hours. You must be hungry by now.”
In actuality, more than an hour had passed since the first pangs of hunger had crawled through Davey’s belly. Starving was a better way to describe her appetite now. “I could definitely eat,” she said. “But you had to save the day with breakfast, so it’s only fair I redeem myself by making lunch.”
Ethan agreed easily. “Okay. What are we having?”
“How do you feel about spam tacos?”
“That sounds terrible.”
She laughed. “I think I can whip up some vegetable soup then.”
Ethan showered while Davey made preparations. Via the painstaking use of a manual can opener, she struggled through opening can after can of tomatoes and assorted vegetables. Bringing a pot of water to a boil, she threw everything in and added whatever spices she could find. Eventually, the concoction began to smell appetizing. Back home, Tina wasn’t much of a cook and neither was Brady, so oftentimes, the chore of putting a healthy meal into Hogan’s little tummy felt into Davey’s lap. Though calling herself a proficient cook would have been a stretch, she was confident enough in her abilities to know neither she nor Hogan would ever starve even if only meager provisions lined the pantry shelves at home.
Hearing a noise in the living room, Davey turned and saw Ethan, freshly emerged from the shower and busily cleaning out the fireplace. He was shirtless, allowing her a great view of his lithe body as his muscles flexed, especially those biceps and shoulders. Ethan seemed too focused on his task to notice, so she didn’t feel any shame in openly staring. Besides, if the guy didn’t want to be gawked at, then he really shouldn’t have been prancing around half naked.
Finished with the remnants of the fire, Ethan set about adding fresh kindling and more logs. “This place holds onto a chill,” he said, surprising her.
Quickly spinning around on one heel, Davey returned to the stove and reduced the soup to a simmer. “It sure does,” she answered normally as if she just hadn’t been drooling over his abs like a polar bear with a baby seal on its dinner plate. “Need a hand with anything?”
“It’s done, but I won’t start the fire until nightfall…unless you’re cold.”
“I’m okay.” She cleared her throat. “So, I was thinking about everything that’s happened and had an idea. Maybe you could be a biologically engineered soldier or something like that. It would explain a lot of things about you—the way your body healed those bullet wounds, the memory loss, and sleepless nights.” Finally looking at him, she found Ethan watching her quietly. Davey felt a pang of remorse because he had put a shirt on. Abs like his were meant to be admired.
Moving into the kitchen, Ethan slouched against the counter, angling his narrow hips towar
d her. “So, you were up all night thinking about me.” His tone was matter of fact, definitely a statement and not a question.
Davey leaned away to put some distance between them. Having him stand so close to her was messing with her brain. “I didn’t say that,” she objected. “And you’re changing the subject.”
He shrugged. “Your theory sounds like pure science fiction.”
“You got something better? Let’s hear it.”
“Lunch smells good.”
She folded her arms. “It won’t be ready for another half hour.” Ethan was clearly avoiding the subject, but she wasn’t about to pressure him into it. She knew how much she hated it when people did that to her, so she would lend him some space. “Okay, you obviously don’t want to talk about what happened to you, so maybe you can show me how to take apart the Beretta while the soup finishes?” she suggested.
Ethan nodded. “Step into my office.”
Davey took a seat across from him on the floor, and he set the gun between them. Picking it up, he broke the weapon down into half a dozen parts in less than ten seconds. Pointing to each piece, Ethan identified all the parts while she did her best to remember everything. Davey decided to treat the Beretta like an equation, assigning numerical values to each of the parts and solving them in a way that formulated the big picture aka the completed gun. Doing so, she was able to reassemble the Beretta after only her second attempt—but nowhere near the speed of Ethan’s performance. After taking the weapon apart and piecing it back together three more times, they moved on.
“This magazine holds seventeen rounds,” he said, handing her the rectangular shaped chunk of metal. “Pay attention to the amount of ammo you’ve used. It could save your life.”
Taking the magazine, Davey flipped it over. “It’s empty.”
No sooner than the words left her mouth, Ethan held up a row of bullets pinched between his finger and thumb. “Load it up,” he said and surrendered them.
Struggling with the first bullet, she found the next three were far more cooperative. “Okay now what?”
