by Dee Willson
“It was. On loan from my family until last year, when I wanted it back,” he says, very matter-of-fact, not a smidgen of gloating.
I would gloat.
“This is insane! You actually own this?”
Bryce nods, and I’m over the moon with delight. Without delay I step to the next miracle on the wall and Bryce walks me through his collection, his knowledge of fine art rousing my libido. I analyze the brush strokes, the pigments, the awe-inspiring details. All the while, Bryce’s velvet voice seduces my intellect. “Redon, The Cyclops, circa 1914,” he says. “William Blake, Ancient of Days, 1794.”
“I can’t believe you can spend time with these wondrous creations whenever you wish. I’d never leave the room!” We make a slow sweep of the gallery and when we’re done I yearn to start again, craving the smooth cadence of Bryce’s voice.
“There’s a painting at the top of the stairs I’d like you to see.” Bryce gently guides me toward a stairway leading up. I move reluctantly, questioning Bryce’s motives. “A painting,” Bryce repeats, “and then we’ll have some dessert.”
Heat from his mouth warms my ear and tiny shivers run through me from head to toe. I swallow another gulp of wine.
One step to go and I stop short.
“No way.” I’m blown away.
At the top of the stairs, on a large landing outside double French doors to the master bedroom, under custom lighting that calls attention to the abundance of texture, is a painting I recognize. I know every single stroke, every color mix, every ounce of heart and soul that went into creating it.
My heart and soul.
“I—I—” I stammer. I don’t know what to say. My head whirls in circles.
“The honor is yours.” He rests his hands on my waist.
“Tess Morgan, Crimson Spirit,” I murmur as I lean into him, allowing his arms to hold me tight within his frame.
I’m in shock. Bryce has my painting on his wall, in this exquisite mansion, among world-renowned artists. As a painter there is little more I want for my work than to have it where it’s admired and cared for. I feel like a doting mother, proud of her progeny. Even now, after all these years, this piece still takes my breath away.
I’m so happy I could fly.
“I sold this painting at a gallery showing a few years ago.”
“To me,” Bryce breathes, his embrace tightening. His sweet scent surrounds me, tugging at my heartstrings and teasing my every defense. “You’re humming again. I should call you my angel,” he whispers in my ear.
“Because of my painting? The wings?” I say.
“No,” he says, his eyes leading mine downward. Our feet hover a foot above the hardwood floor, freaking me out. “Relax. Your heart is racing. Just think calming thoughts and breathe.”
I release the tension in my muscles starting at the top of my head, working my way down, just like he taught me. A minute or two passes and I open my eyes cautiously. Total relief only comes when I confirm our feet are firmly on the floor.
“You said there was to be no mythical stuff tonight,” I say. “That would include hocus-pocus, don’t you think?”
“It wasn’t me.”
I turn and glare. “How? How did I do that?”
“Well,” he says, eyes radiant. “You were able to—”
I press two fingers over Bryce’s lips, stopping him midsentence. He bites me and I yank my hand back laughing.
“This is a normal date, two ordinary people talking about regular things. Tomorrow, tell me tomorrow.”
Bryce grins. “No parlor tricks,” he says, turning me to face another set of stairs. As I turn I see Bryce’s bedroom, the huge four-poster bed taking center stage. Bryce chuckles. “Your heart is racing again.” He takes my hand.
I follow him down the stairs as quick as my feet will take me.
“You were awfully loud for someone with so few tools out to work with,” I tease when we step into the kitchen. Bryce’s jaunts to the kitchen during dinner were quite noisy, so I expected to see the telltale signs of labor, but other than a few roasting pans in the sink, there is no evidence of our three-course meal.
“Yes, well,” says Bryce, his hearty laugh filling the room, “Clause is a very talented man.” He heads to a set of paneled doors on one side of the floor-to-ceiling curtain I vividly recall leading to an outdoor patio. He tugs on a steel handle and a gust of cold air bellows from within, unveiling a built-in Sub Zero freezer. “Dessert is on me.” There’s a small bounce in his step.
He’s adorable like this.
He pulls a bunch of items out of the pantry and sets a long glass bowl on the island countertop. “One banana split coming up,” he chimes, rubbing his hands with exaggerated enthusiasm. He glows, luminous, happy.
I examine the inventory and realize he’s got all the fixings to make a killer banana split: three flavors of ice cream, bananas, strawberries, chocolate sauce, caramel, and whipped cream. I reach over to help and he affectionately taps my hand with the spoon. “No way,” he says. “This is something I can make.”
Yielding to his show of domesticity, I pull up a stool and watch him create his masterpiece. The sweet smell of ripe bananas fills the air. A clock ticks, faintly, from the next room. An adorable grin of pride twitches the right side of Bryce’s upper lip as he makes swirls with the whipped cream, making me laugh.
“You are rotten to the core,” I say when he’s done. “There’s an entire pant size in that bowl.”
“Just for us.” Bryce grins and we lean over the granite, clutching silver spoons to dive in.
“Hmm, this is really, really yummy.”
Within minutes we’re clashing spoons, playfully fighting over a bit of banana. With a chuckle Bryce surrenders, scooping the piece onto my spoon and topping it with whipped cream. “All yours,” he says.
I shove the entire spoonful into my mouth and hum through cream-covered lips.
“Whipped cream,” mumbles Bryce, reaching to skim my upper lip with his thumb. My breath catches and his pupils set fire. A low grumble trembles in his throat as the tip of his thumb slips between my slightly parted lips, grazing bottom teeth, and I lick sweet cream from his finger.
His smile vanishes, the muscles in his jaw locking.
Another pass of his thumb has me quivering, burning to feel his lips on mine. Goosebumps prickle my skin, the sudden temperature in contrast to the chill of ice cream dripping down my wrist from the spoon suspended in midair.
“I could love you,” he says.
Bryce’s words echo in the darkness, love you, love you, love you . . .
The spoon tumbles to the granite, the tinkling on an endless rampage while I plummet through the black abyss on a slow spiral. Flames lick my neck and face. I see flashes of my wedding day, the birth of my daughter, holidays with Meyer. The inferno rips through my insides, devouring everything in its path, leaving bitter heartbreak to bubble to the surface.
“You have no right to say that,” I say, pushing away from the island.
Bryce’s hand drops to the countertop with a thump. “You should be loved.”
“I am loved—I was. I fell in love, married, and we were happy.” I hurl the words like they’re objects to inflict pain. “We were supposed to grow old together.”
Bryce looks away. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
The weight on my chest is so heavy I can hardly stand it. Melted ice cream forms odd shapes across the countertop, playing games with the unbearable pressure in my head.
“I have to go.” I turn for the door.
“Please don’t.” Bryce steps close. There is no trace of a smile left on his face.
For an instant guilt shakes me. I’m not the only one to have loved and lost. The moment passes and I leave, sucking drips of ice cream from my arm as I bound down the hall. When I reach for my coat, Bryce’s intense stare follows my every move. I tuck my jacket to my chest, debating how to say goodbye. Vision hazy, I pull my scarf from the coat rack and reach for
the door.
“Wait,” says Bryce, catching me full stride, his thick arm holding me tight.
As one we fall back against the elaborate wood trim. My body feels weightless, suspended, my red heels barely touching the ground. My coat, clutched in one hand, hangs to the floor. In my head I’m struggling to pull free, to escape, but my body defies me, snubbing instruction for the feel of Bryce’s body pressed close. The air around us hums, electrified, intensifying as time ticks on.
“I can’t let you go,” he whispers. “Not this time. Please don’t go.”
“Free will,” I say, voice cracking.
He loosens his grip. “You’re stealing my favorite scarf.”
I look down to see autumn spun into thick braids: Bryce’s scarf. The sight sends tiny needles to perforate my rage.
“So I am.” I wrap the scarf around my neck.
“Stay with me,” he whispers.
Bryce gently prods taut muscles, releasing my grip on my coat. It drops to the floor, and he loosens his hold with the caution of someone expecting a jolt. But I can’t move. Not while his intoxicating scent combined with sweet cream and wine coddles live nerve endings and his heart pounds through the back of my knit sweater.
I close my eyes as his warm lips touch my neck, every brush pushing heartache further out of reach.
“Stay.” His tongue follows the contour of my ear.
A tempestuous shiver runs through me.
“I can’t.”
Meticulous fingers unbutton my sweater. “You can,” he says, purring seduction. He places soft kisses on my neck, behind my ear, filling my head with sexually explicit imagery. My sweater slips to the floor.
“It’s my choice.” I stretch—an invitation to taste.
“Um, hmm.” His mouth explores my skin, and he groans.
The low rumble in his chest feeds the fever that grows within me with every ragged breath. I squirm, clinging to the ends of the scarf.
Sweet mother of . . . this feels . . . oh my.
I surrender.
My bra hits hardwood and subtle fingers dust over skin that prickles in anticipation. He caresses me as if reminiscing over every plane and recess, playing beyond the boundaries of fabric, increasingly brazen with every stroke. His mouth becomes savage, his heavy breathing creating erotic waves that lap between my legs. Somewhere in a distant realm of my consciousness screams a voice, my voice, asking if I’ve lost my mind.
Ignore it, my body screams.
My skirt falls and Bryce shifts to the faint rustle of material, his sweater being pulled over his head. The feel of his bare skin on mine sends me into an uncontrollable tailspin, my entire body arching against his. My blood boils, the lace underwear and scarf too much to wear in this heat.
“Don’t,” he says, stopping me from removing his scarf.
Entangling his fingers with mine, he pins them to the doorframe, compressing every inch of our naked bodies. Lace is no longer between us. I push into him, starving to get closer. He’s hot, hard, and large against my lower back. Bryce moans, primitive, and my knees buckle in response. His fingers run down my front and between my slick thighs, the contact making me desperate, needy.
Ah. Oh. Ohhhhhh.
Something Bryce mentioned weeks ago comes to mind, something about Keepers and their ability to control cell temperature to kill disease. The worry is wiped from my mind as carnal sounds—embarrassing sounds—fly from my throat, and his play gets rough, turning the frenzied burn into a rage that pumps on the borderline of agony. My hands hurt in his, but my protest gets lost in the feel of his tongue, and when his teeth grab my earlobe, I gasp for air.
Please is an inch from my lips when Bryce jacks up my leg and pushes into me.
I cry out.
We move together, the wood echoing vehement cries of passion. Teeth nip my skin, the sensation a lightning bolt of pleasure. His body commands and directs, reveling in the power to shatter me from the inside out.
And if he stops, I’ll beg.
Don’t stop. Don’t stop!
He doesn’t stop.
I push into him with all my strength. The blaze devours the last of my control, and I explode, a consuming submission that radiates through my core, vibrating my extremities. My insides pump, nails dig into Bryce’s hands. And Bryce releases with a groan, a deep, pulsating heat I feel over my own.
The weight of his sculpted body falls heavy onto mine as he rides tremors, chest heaving, his stubble scraping my shoulder.
Our bodies hold tight to each other, rooted, motionless. Nothing but the sound of relentless panting fills the air. Slowly my mind climbs from the depths and my breathing stumbles upon a tenable pace. My legs ache, fatigued from pushing over two hundred pounds of muscle into the doorframe, and my hands throb between his and the solid walnut.
Bryce loosens his grip but he doesn’t let go.
“Stay with me,” he whispers.
Stay with me . . . stay with me . . . stay with me . . .
I close my eyes as the realization of what I’ve done sinks in. The world around me begins to shatter, and my mind, taking control, bellows angst. Emotions erupt, panic at hand.
Bryce takes my face in his hands and kisses me.
Worry is replaced by desire.
“Choose me, us.” He scoops me into his arms.
I kiss him back. Hard.
And I surrender my soul as he carries me to his bed.
Gone
February 15th
I cover my eyes, protecting them from the relentless sun that gleams in from the windows beside my bed. Then drop my arm when I realize the room is piercingly dark. My head clears. I smell Tess all over me. Thankful she can’t see my corny smile, I reach for her.
“Tess?”
I’m the only one in my bed.
I call out, hoping she’s in the john, but no one answers and the lights are out. Where is she? She wouldn’t have left, would she? I’d have felt her slip away. Surely I would have heard her.
“Tess?”
I grunt and roll over. My hands ache, wanting to touch her. I curse the blackness and for a split second fantasize Tess is here, her silken hair across my sheets, mesmerizing green eyes heavy, earth-shattering smile, but in a blink the vision is gone and I’m in bed alone.
A glutton for punishment, I inhale deeply, tasting her on my tongue. Muscles tense and blood pumps heavy through my veins, making me hard and agitated.
Maybe she’s downstairs.
I spring from the bed, driving my toes into the plush carpet while I fumble through my tousled hair, attempting to look half decent, like I didn’t just have the best night of my life. I give up, I look thoroughly worked over and it’s awesome.
I throw on some boxers and call for her from the top of the stairs. “Are you in the gallery?” It’s dark, the lights out. I’m totally confused. She wouldn’t leave, not without waking me, not without saying goodbye, would she? Why?
I take the stairs, three at a time, flicking lights on as I go. She’s not in the gallery. Or the kitchen.
Bloody hell.
Her coat is gone and my scarf is back on the coat rack.
She left.
I don’t understand.
I fall against the doorframe, thoughts of her all too clear, thoughts of her naked, in my arms, in my mouth, under my skin. I rub my eyes with the meaty part of my palms, trying to get control of my body. It wants her, bad. I want her. Now that I’ve found her, I can’t imagine my life without her. Why would she leave? Did I do something wrong?
She must have been overwhelmed and needed space.
The sun hasn’t risen but I can’t go back to sleep. I need a distraction. I’m restless. I’ve got to move, to burn, to pound something. On my flight to the basement, to the gym, I stop short at my cell on the kitchen buffet. I want to call her, hear her voice, see her again.
After a delusional moment, I joggle my head clear. I can’t call her this early. I have to be patient. Cool. The cell practically l
eaps into my hand. I put it back down.
“Christ, I can at least wait until morning.”
A couple of deep breaths help me muster focus, but the smell of Tess, of sweet sweat encouraging the flow of testosterone takes over and my focus survives all of three minutes.
This woman—this amazing woman—has turned me inside out.
Twenty hours later I am going stir crazy. I’ve lost count of the number of messages I’ve left for Tess, not one returned. I lay in bed, toiling over each and every detail of our night together, plagued with guilt. Her every word, every expression, tortures me. What have I done? I’ve blown it, that’s what I’ve done. I found her, finally found the woman of my dreams, and I messed up. She wasn’t ready. Maybe she didn’t hear me say she couldn’t get pregnant, that Keepers choose when to reproduce. Maybe I should’ve been clearer. I shouldn’t have . . . What was I thinking?
“I wasn’t thinking, and that’s the problem.” The dark is a silent audience.
What happened to all my control? For months I’ve managed to keep my paws to myself, and the one time I get her alone, the first time she lets me in, I screw up.
I thought she wanted me, needed me to prove how I feel about her in more than just words. Maybe I was wrong.
“Fuck,” I shout, hoping to dissolve the bitter taste of regret. It’s a vulgar word, a term I never use. Instead of making me feel better, it pricks like a thorn, making me miserable and conjuring images of her naked body pressed to mine, the feel of her touch. I moan and the smell of her fills my lungs. I roll onto the other side of the bed with a boner from hell.
Next to wanting Tess, the only thing I want is some sleep, a reprieve from visions of our future, our past, and the mind-boggling lust destined to overtake me. I grab the clock and throw it across the room, tired and frustrated.
Some way, somehow, I’ve got to get Tess to talk to me. I’ll plead for another chance, beg for forgiveness.
She’ll give me another chance.
She’s got to.
Eight hours later I’m swiping at icicles, pacing at her front door. I can’t imagine she’d tolerate twenty minutes of ringing, so she’s either not home or she’s much more upset with me than I thought. I shimmy the flowers through the door handle. My boots leave tracks in the new-fallen snow as I trek to the back of the house to peek in the garage. Her car is not there.
