Theta Waves Box Set: The Complete Trilogy (Books 1-3) (Theta Waves Trilogy)

by Thea Atkinson

  "Interesting," the man said. "And you don't worry about contracting HIV as you unroll your little ruse." He rocked back in his chair, balancing on two legs. Theda waited, hardly daring to breathe, doing her best to keep his eye. There was a moment when she thought he might accept her explanation, but then he got to his feet and paced in front of her.

  "Well," he said, finally facing her. "If you won't tell me, then Ezekiel will."

  She wasn't sure what he meant at first, not until Ezekiel moved from his spot next to the wall and trudged over to the mayor, crossing his arms again expectantly.

  "I won't tell him anything either," Theda said. "Because there's no more to tell. I'm not selling any religion; I'm not pushing any ideas. All I'm doing is trying to keep myself fed."

  The mayor cocked his preened head at her. A shock of pomaded hair fell forward against his brow, and he brushed it back into place. "Keep yourself fed, or keep yourself high?"

  Theda tried to move some blood into her shoulders by working them back and forth as much as she could with her arms so far behind her. When she found no relief she answered with annoyance biting through her tone. "Sometimes one, sometimes the other. If my days are good, it's both." She twisted against her restraints. "If you think it's any more than that, you're ludicrously stupid."

  He actually laughed at that, and for a second Theda let herself believe they wouldn't take things any further. Ezekiel looked at her thoughtfully and pulled out a hefty looking folded knife from his cowboy boot. His eyes were locked on her mouth as he spoke to the mayor. "I think I can take it from here, boss. But it'll cost you extra."

  "I don't care what it costs," the mayor said. "Just get it done." He stalked toward the door and paused long enough to look back over his shoulder. "I have a small matter to attend to, but I should be back within the hour."

  Ezekiel grunted. "Get going then. I'll wait here for my payment."

  He waited until the door was closed before he knelt in front of Theda. She could see that there were some premature gray strands in his hair, and that he'd not shaved in days. No doubt he didn't have time what with all the lurking about and stalking her.

  "If you've been watching me, then you know what I do doesn't take long."

  He nodded, placing one palm on her knee.

  "And you should know I have nothing in mind except getting through every day with a full belly and every night in a blissful state of nothingness."

  "It's not so much your intent, Minou, as what happens after the things you do." With his free hand he flicked open his knife. It was a monstrous thing, with a sharp point and an edge that he obviously worked at keeping. He met her eyes with his and held them for a long moment before he spoke again.

  "Do you think I'll need to sit down first?" There was a note of humor in his voice, but somewhere beneath that, Theda could tell, was anxiety too. She nodded quietly.

  "You know that what happens afterwards is none of my affair," Theda said, trying one last time. "I can't control what happens to people after they leave me."

  He nodded. "I'm sure that's true."

  He squeezed her knee gently before relinquishing it and with one thrust jammed the point of the knife into his finger and waited until blood bubbled to the surface.

  "Open up," he murmured, almost intimately.

  She sighed, resolute. She considered for a moment that if she didn't focus, maybe the magic wouldn't happen. And if the Magic didn't happen, there'd be nothing for him to tell the mayor, and even less reason to hold her. But they'd be watching her then. She knew that. And she knew her power would betray her in the end. Constant consumption of the godspit had left her unable to control it. His life would come to her, and she would share it, and this time she couldn't explain it away the way she had with the mayor.

  "Go on," Ezekiel urged.

  "Do you need the money that badly?" She asked him. "Is it so bad for you that you would prostitute yourself this way?"

  He smirked. "Things are bad all over, as if you hadn't noticed." He shifted on the floor so that his legs wrapped around the feet of her chair. He leaned forward, and she could smell the leather of his coat, the remnants of some cologne he'd put on days before.

  "That man who was looking for me--"

  "Hunting you," he corrected.

  "Hunting me," she repeated. "What did you do to him?"

  He shook his head. "That's none of your business."

  "Sure it is," she said. "Did you kill him for my sake?"

  "For your sake?" He chuckled. "I killed him for mine. I couldn't have him stealing my bounty. Now, go on. Open up."

  "You're a bastard," she said.

  That made his smile even broader. "Precisely what my mother used to tell me," he said. By now the blood was running down his finger and pooling into his palm. He had to keep it level and pointed up so that it didn't run down his wrist. "This is getting messy," he said. "Just do it already."

  "You're not going to like it," Theda warned.

  "The boss man wants proof. My wallet wants more money. What's like got to do with it?"

  "Well, I'm so glad your boss man needs proof to murder someone. Shows he's at least got more scruples than the city he's ruling." She locked eyes with that gaze that reminded her of sun bleached grass, of running through the park with her dog on her heels, both of them chasing balls. Of feeling her toes in the turf, of laughing with her mother. Picnicking with her father. Days where she was just a girl and everything was possible in a world wide open to possibilities.

  Once again, she remembered how far gone those days were now, how they would never come back, and she thought that perhaps pharmaceutical bliss wasn't what she needed anymore. Maybe nights of mindless ecstasy followed by living through days of corruption weren't enough to keep her heart beating after all. Maybe if she performed her little trick, proved herself to the mayor, accepted the accusation and the death that would follow, maybe then there would be peace.

  She felt the tip of Ezekiel's finger probing against her mouth and she opened, letting him slip inside, wiggling against the inside of her cheek, pressing up into her palette until she curled her tongue around him and pulled hard on the wound.

  The magic of the re-visions was always so much like dropping onto solid ground from a tall tree, that at first she didn't realize she'd jumped. The copper taste of blood morphed into the taste of apples and cinnamon as her tongue twisted around the flesh of something she knew was no longer a finger. More supple, rasping across hers and drawing it forward. A tongue, she realized.

  She was breathless with excitement. Heart pounding into her throat, she could only register one thought: Finally. Finally she had him and his arms were pulling her close, so close she felt his erection through her skirts, the taste of the pie she'd fed him still on his mouth, so sweet but not gentle. Not anymore. Fever behind his kiss, as though he too had been waiting. Too long. They'd both been waiting too long.

  Chapter 6

  Clothing becomes an enemy that twists and snakes around their bodies, tying her to him with layers of skirts and petticoats. She can either take them off or hitch them up, but before she can make the decision, he chooses for her. The cold damask of her dress when he pushes it aside, lays heavy on her stomach, and his hands are already heating her midriff as he inches toward her navel with exploratory fingers. She's wearing nothing beneath so the air in her bedroom is cold on her sex, a delicious thing in contrast to the heat she's feeling. Burning for him, she thinks, and breaks away from his mouth to let go the moan trapped in her throat, hears it echoing back at her from the depths of his.

  "Cathrin," she hears him say. "I can't stop."

  "I know," she confesses. She understands fully; the need to feel him against her, in her, is so great she can't stop her hips from grinding into his hand. His fingers trail between her legs, tangle in her curls for a long moment until she thinks she'll need to ride them to feel some relief.

  "Don't stop," she tells him. "Whatever happens, Markus, don't stop."


  It's the permission she knows he's waiting for, but she barely gets the words out before he plunges both fingers inside of her, opening her, easing in a third, and she does ride him then, needing to feel the friction. He devours her mouth again, moaning into it as she moves against him. "You now," she says. "You. Please."

  "Oh, God, yes," he says and yanks his fingers free of her to work at his breeches. She can feel him rummaging at them as he stretches atop her. Both of them on her bed, stretched sideways across it where they've fallen. She presses into his forearms, unable to keep herself from moving. It's become instinct now; her sex seeking his, feeling empty and vacuous without him. She needs to be filled, plunged into, spread apart, and he's taking too long to do any of it. It seems like an eternity before he has his cock free, before it presses against her thigh.

  She reaches down, wraps her fingers around it, thinking to press it against her opening, let the slickness of her sex there ease his entry, her muscles, so thirsty for him pulling him inward, gripping him.

  "Not much longer," he says. "But I've dreamed of you so long, I won't be able to do more than thrust the once." His hand moves to her jaw, fingers cupping the back of her neck. "Please, Cathrin."

  He shifts on the bed, expecting her obedience, and for once, she doesn't mind obeying. She can wait a little longer if it means having him inside of her somewhere, even if it is just her mouth, and truly, it could be as delicious as his tongue. She can use her mouth to make him beg to fuck her. Yes. She would like that.

  He's already throbbing with anticipation as she swirls her tongue over the tip. It's smooth like the satin of her best dress, but rigid and thick, and it spreads her cheeks like it would her sex, filling her up. She does want it this way, she realizes now. She's greedy for it, wrapping her tongue around, sucking him in. She can taste his renewed desire against the back of her throat. He fills her so she can hardly breathe and has to struggle to let her throat relax. Yes. She can let him ease even further in, just enough to force a moan from his mouth. Then pull away slowly, drag in a breath, joining to him by the thin string of saliva.

  He plunges in again, his hands in her hair, bucking against her mouth like he's fucking her, and she can feel her sex grow wetter with each thrust, aching to be filled like he's filling her now. She lets her fingers press against her clitoris, flicking it once, twice before she sinks her fingers inside. Pumps along with him, moaning against his erection each time she slides over it.

  "Now," he says, but it's a question not an order and she answers by looking up at him, asking her own. "Please, Cathrin. Please let me take you," he says.

  Her nod is all he seems to need. He withdraws and is pushing against her mound within seconds, demanding entry. He's fevered now, his hands trembling as he guides himself inside. Her gasp of pleasure as he buries himself into the walls of her womb ends in a long moan that speaks to the months they've spent waiting, wanting, unable to release themselves from the tension. She feels him there, knocking, pressing, rocking into her. His hands grip her buttocks, titling her higher so he can devour her at any rate he pleases. It's not enough. Not for her. She's waited so damn long for this.

  "Take me from behind. Take me hard. Take me like you're punishing me."

  "I should punish you," he says, gripping her wrist and twisting her around.

  He's inside of her again in moments, and this time she strains backward, lifting her so he can pummel her with his shaft, again and again. He can't fuck her nearly hard enough to dispel the months of waiting. His hands grip her hips, yanking her back onto him, cramming every inch of his cock into her, beating against her womb. She wants to feel him spasm inside her, wrapped so tightly around him that she can feel each final surge, her sex greedy as her mouth to devour him.

  Still, his release is a disappointment. It's too soon. She is nowhere near ready to forgive herself, even if she is coming, even if the world is spilling onto her sheets like the sun has exploded. She wants to cry because it's over, but she falls onto her belly exhausted, his seed already warm on her thigh, growing colder. He collapses beside her, panting but grinning at her from her side.

  "It'll be longer next time," he says. His finger trails along her cheek.

  She starts to grin at him, pleased to hear there will be a next time, but a voice at the door stops her cold.

  "I doubt it," the voice says.

  Cold washes over her as though it's been thrown at her; she knows the voice. It's his voice. She could grab for the sheets, pull her gown down, but instead she squeezes her eyes shut instinctively. Paralyzed by the reality of discovery.

  "Erich," she hears herself say. Her eyes won't open no matter how hard she tries. She can feel Markus beside her, moving about and guesses he's pulling up his breeches, trying to find some dignified way to face his best friend. She might not be able to see, but she can feel the tension charging hairs on her body, the sense that at any moment things will spiral out of control. She hears boots scuffling across the wooden floor. Still, she won't open her eyes.

  "Look at me, Cathrin." It's an order from a familiar voice. She chews on her lip, ashamed of herself for giving in, of wanting Markus so badly.

  "I said look at me," Erich's finger touches her beneath the chin. There is a shift in the sound of his voice. She swallows hard; her eyes flutter open. Even as she discovers that her fingers are clenching the sheets, she realizes that the face in front of her is not contorted in anger. She licks her lips. Waiting.

  "You should be punished, Cathrin," he whispers. His thumb moves from chin to earlobe. Snakes around the back of her neck, pulling her closer to him. There's the fleeting thought that she should wonder where Markus is, but she is so absorbed in her fear and shame, that she doesn't dare resist. Erich's mouth descends on hers, forcing her lips open. He suctions her tongue, pulling it into his mouth just to the point of pain, then releases it. He nibbles at her top lip, bites down.

  "You will be punished." His lips move from hers but his gaze bores into her, commanding her without speech to stay perfectly still.

  "I can't blame you for wanting my wife, Markus," he says. "She's very beautiful; Lucifer in disguise, I think."

  It's a strange description, and she tries to study his face, but can't make out the emotion beneath the careful mask. His hands descend to her bodice and tear at the material. He doesn't stop until it's fully rent, her belly straining for the air. Only then does his mouth descend again, this time to her navel, where he nibbles at the skin and sends trails of shivers down her legs. It's then that she knows this will be her punishment, to be taken in front of the man beside her, to be used forcefully, with no thought to love or tenderness. Her husband thinks it will shame them both, but he's wrong.

  The thought of Markus still standing next to the bed, watching, sends a thrill up her spine. She's dreamed of such a session; she's wild, she knows, but it doesn't matter in this moment. She revels in it. The nights she's succumbed to her husband's expert touch, all the while dreaming of having two men trailing kisses along her skin, of filling her, all those times she'd known she was wanton, but she'd fired to it just the same. Before Erich, she'd foolishly believed it was a woman's chore to please her husband, and when she'd realized he knew how to turn the chore into a pleasure, it became the one thing that decided her. Not his wealth and position. No. She needed a man to thrill her body, and Erich did.

  His mouth leaves her skin only long enough to curse at her, to tell her how she will be punished. To tell her all the delightfully delicious ways he will make her suffer. She can feel her lip trembling in anticipation and her eyes lock on Markus's even as her husband's mouth descends below her navel, to scour between her legs with his tongue. She can see the bulge in Markus's breeches, and knows he feels the same. Her husband might think to punish her with his touch, find his way to dignity through treating her like a harlot, but he can't imagine how badly she wants it.

  "Punish her, Markus," he says. "Make her suffer for making you wait, for cuckolding me."
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br />   She half expects Markus to resist; he's a gentleman, after all. He's Erich's best friend. He should be mortified at his betrayal.

  But he isn't. He shifts onto the bed, facing her, on his knees with his cock insisting she open her mouth for him, and they throttle her together these two. Yet Erich's expression is never more than controlled complacency while Markus's is pure abandonment and surrender. Even in the heat of orgasm, Erich watches her carefully, as though he's examining her, searching for something.

  It's a fortnight before the truth of the punishment finally comes out and she realizes the depth of her betrayal, how profoundly Erich feels that his examination is nowhere near done.

  She's in the parlor when they come for her. At first, she's confused, thinking that Herr Schönenberg is there simply to pay his respects, to introduce her to the newest member of his diocese, Constable Fritzaen. She's seen the man about the village, dressed in cloth of gold as though he was royalty, his wife ingratiating herself among the nobility as though they always belonged. Of course they didn't; Erich would have organized a masque if it was so and he hadn't.

  No, this constable had no lineage but what came from the cesspools of execution and theft.

  She lays down her needlepoint, at any rate, smoothing her skirts as she stands to welcome them. She's about to ask them if they'd like some tea when she notices that Erich is coming in behind them. He doesn't so much as point a finger at her, or lock his eyes on hers when he speaks.

  "There she is," Erich says. "The mark is on her."

  "The mark?" she asks her husband, confused. "What mark are you talking about?"