Rock Hard And Wet (BBW Paranormal Romance) (Nymphs Of New York)

by James, Jennifer

  “You cannot protect anyone. You’re a failure, Theo. Get rid of the female. If you keep her for even one more day, she will die.”

  “Are you going to kill her?” Fear for Callie burbled to the surface, overshadowed his grief for the lost girl he’d loved so many years before.

  “No.” Booker dropped him. “You are.”

  Chapter Seven

  Weak, morning sunlight created a rectangle of warmth on the lower half of the bed. Callie rolled over and sat up when she realized the empty half of the bed was cold. Nothing new there. A man hadn’t shared a bed all night with her in—didn’t matter. A long ass time.

  A small spark of hurt lit and died before she let it catch fire. Theo hadn’t made her any promises. Hell, she hadn’t promised him anything either.

  Strips of bedding twined around her legs and abdomen. She kicked her legs and used her feet to push it down and off. “Theo? Hello?”

  The silence of the apartment surprised her. Only the hum of the refrigerator and various electronics met her ears.

  A quick walk through the rooms revealed she was indeed alone. The remains of her skirt lay discarded on the bathroom floor. If she turned it to the side, put the worst rent in the fabric so that it came up to her hip instead of to the tops of her thighs it might cover enough for human decency. Eh, why bother? She tossed it into the trash can in the kitchen. The pretty scarf had survived, but not her tank top. Theo was hard on clothes.

  After a quick shower to bolster her spirits, she retrieved the notebook sized sketch book from her bag and a cellophane wrapped package of charcoals. The soft black sticks made for messy drawing, but right now she wanted messy. Blurry lines and shadow. The angle of the rising sun put the hour well before seven o’clock. Seating herself before the sliding glass door in the bedroom with her supplies, she forgot about Poseidon, Theo, mates, and deadlines. Only lines, windows, flowers, cars, and the people beginning to move through their apartments across the alley mattered.

  Art let her simplify life, keep it contained and as clear or obscure as she liked.

  Petra had rolled her eyes and snorted when she insisted on stopping at the art supply store. What had started as a hobby long ago for Callie had grown into something close to addiction and obsession. The other nymphs had long grown tired of posing for portraits. Admittedly, she could draw them all from memory.

  A young human woman crossed behind the set of windows directly across the way, her attention focused on the infant resting its head on her shoulder. She appeared to sing a song, holding a mug in her free hand and walking with a rocking sway to her gait.

  Callie shook her head and returned to using her thumb to smooth the shadow at the left side of the landscape she’d quickly sketched. Babies weren’t on her agenda.

  More lines and shadow took shape on the page, and she paused to study the sketch she’d produced. A well of emptiness opened in her chest and threatened to overtake her. The charcoal snapped into two tiny, unusable pieces.

  She ripped the paper from the sketch book and crumpled it into a ball, dissatisfied with the line angles of the buildings. It bounced off the glass and rolled under the bed. Cellophane crinkled as she retrieved a new piece of charcoal and sketched a few sweeping lines across the blank page.

  The soft concussion of air and vibration of footsteps moving toward her alerted Callie to Theo’s return. She used a hard white pencil to add highlights to the portrait that had consumed her attention for the last two hours.

  He halted at the end of the bed, his boots visible in her peripheral vision. Neither of them spoke.

  She set the sketchbook on the floor to her left and put her palms into the small of her back, pushed her chest out in a stretch. A half dozen landscapes scattered across the floor in a rough semi-circle around her. Theo retrieved one and sat on the floor next to her.

  He held it by the edges and studied it, careful not to marr the easily blurred and smudged medium she’d used to create the art. After a few minutes, he set it aside and chose another.

  This one focused on the skyline as far right and left as she could see from the bedroom. Only the rooftops. Another traced the line of the alley below, held quick-drawn people striding down the sidewalk.

  When he’d looked over each discarded piece, he held his hand out, palm up, and waited. Her heart beat accelerated and she licked dry lips. Picking up the book was easy; she’d had her fingers curled around the edge for the last few minutes, waiting for him to ask to see the final piece she’d worked.

  Callie moved to stand, but he stilled her with one hand on her thigh. “You work quickly.”

  The rough rumble in his voice surprised her. She peeked at him from beneath her lashes. Dark stubbled coated his cheeks and chin. Darker circles marred the skin under his eyes.

  “Yes.” The cool temperature of his fingers on her skin began to seep into the muscle. “Where—” she began, and then decided to rephrase her question. She didn’t think she had any right to ask about his absence. “You look tired.”

  “A little.” The large blunt tip of his pinky came within a millimeter of the portrait. “You put the scars in. Otherwise, I’d think this was Logan.”

  “The scars are a part of you. I didn’t know a grotesque could scar.” The weight of his hand surprised her when she lifted it from her leg to chafe the skin in her palms.

  “We can scar. If the circumstances are right.” He took a deep breath and passed the book back to her, forcing her to drop his hand.

  She wanted to ask what “circumstances” meant, but didn’t. “Why would you think it’s Logan?”

  “Because I look happy.”

  She frowned and closed the front cover of her sketch book, bit her lower lip, and frowned. “This is how I see you.”

  Tugs on her hair caught her attention, and she swiveled her head to take in his profile. Deep furrows crossed his forehead, the corners of his lips drawn down. He’d buried the fingers of his left hand in her hair and combed his way to the bottom. Even though she’d showered hours before, the underside was still damp. Letting it air dry let the natural waves come to life in the strands. If she used her control over water to force the molecules from her hair, she could tame the locks it into a stick straight mass. This morning, she’d been so focused on her art she’d forgotten about drying her hair.

  “I got those scars because a bomb exploded near the building I was perched on, and shrapnel hit me in the face.” He grasped her shoulder and caressed it with his thumb. “I was helpless to do anything to help the humans… It was part of my punishment.”

  A shudder racked his frame and traveled through his hand into her shoulder. The London Blitz. So many had died, and for him, a naturally protective male, to be forced to do nothing...

  Callie set her book aside and clambered over his legs until she sat on his lap facing him. Grey sparks lit and died in his eyes, moving through his irises in lazy spirals. He barely breathed. She coiled her arms around his back, legs around his waist, and laid her head on his shoulder. There was nothing she could think to say to ease his pain. Even the curiosity to know what he’d been punished for was squashed in the face of his torment. Every muscle in his body rigid, his hands fisted on his knees, Theo trembled every now and then but didn’t make a sound.

  She made circles on his back with her palms, eventually moving them under the lower hem of his shirt so that they had skin on skin contact. The bristly stubble on his jaw poked her lips, but she kissed him anyway, pressed her mouth to his neck and face, offering comfort with her acceptance. If her body could help heal the open wound of his heart, she’d gladly give it.

  When she reached his mouth, he released a strangled cry and wrenched his face to the side. Instead of following, she changed direction and gave her attention to the column of his neck and ears. The huge muscles in his back provided a landscape she didn’t think she’d ever tire of exploring.

  A thought exploded out of the place she’d tried to ignore all morning. When she’d first
begun the sketch of his face, she hadn’t realized the feelings growing in her heart, despite the long moments the day before in bed. It’d been easy to dismiss this morning when she woke up alone.

  Two days left.

  None of this had been in her plans. Seducing Theo presented a challenge, and she’d taken it. Now, she knew she had a new hurdle to overcome—convincing him that the fun-loving nymph he’d brought home for no-strings-attached sex would be the perfect lover and mate for him. For forever.

  She returned to his jaw and worked her way over to his mouth. The tight line of his lips would discourage a less determined conqueror. Nibbles, licks, probes of her tongue failed to make progress. Her palms strafed over his back, higher than before, until she encountered something rough and sticky high on his shoulders.

  He cried out in pain and crushed her to his chest. Hot liquid surged out of his back and across her flesh.

  “Theo, what’s wrong with your back?” She extracted one of her hands and stared at it in horror. Blood coated her fingers and palm, racing down in a thin rivulet to her wrist.

  He clutched her tighter and shook his head, the iron hard brace of his arms caging her in. Yet, for all his power, he did not harm her. Somehow, he controlled his body and the obvious urge to bury his pain in the press of their flesh.

  “Please tell me what happened.”

  “It’s an old injury that reopened last night.” His gruff whisper caressed her ear.

  A shiver chased over her skin when he took her lobe between his lips and sucked on it.

  “We need to bandage it.” Oh gods, it had to have something to do with that other grotesque he’d mentioned. The one on the roof.

  “No.” He licked his way to the top of her ear and pulled back far enough to gain the space necessary to claim her lips in a deep kiss.

  All thought fled her mind, drowned in the texture of his tongue on hers, and the span of his hands as he cupped her breasts.

  Theo shifted and stood, cradled her body to his, and placed her on the bed without breaking contact. He broke away, stripped his shirt off, and shoved his jeans down and stepped out of them. Callie drank in the sight of his chiseled form, took her time memorizing every thin white line of scar tissue, and devoured the hollows and dips of his muscles. The longer she looked, the harder his cock became until it stood nearly straight up.

  “Damn. All this for me?” She pushed up until her weight rested on her elbows and smiled at him. “I’m not sure I’m worthy.”

  The silver-grey swirls appeared in his eyes. He put one knee on the bed and crawled up with feline grace. “Guess you’ll have to prove yourself, Nymph.” The heat of his mouth trailed from the arc of her foot, over her calf, up to the back of her knee.

  Callie giggled, his beard stubble tickled where it rubbed over her skin. He licked his way up her inner thigh and held her firm. She laughed harder and squirmed. One arm pinned her down by the abdomen, the other her thigh, and he descended on the crease where her torso and leg met. Blunt teeth nibbled over the valley of flesh until she was ready to beg him to move to the right and use his teeth on the throbbing ache in her pussy.

  “Theo, please. No more. I can’t take it,” she panted.

  He flicked her one last time with his tongue, released her belly, and used both hands to push her thighs up and back. The rough, callused skin of his palms strafed down, and his thumbs parted her lips. He leaned down and licked her from bottom to top in one long swipe.

  “Maybe I should go shave. I don’t want my beard to rub you raw.”

  She met his gaze down the length of her body and thought about kicking him. Then a trickle of blood ran over his left ribcage and a tiny drop of blood hit her leg. No, he needed joy, happiness, and fun. Things she considered her specialty.

  “Well, if you do, I’ll be forced to take care of things here myself.” She reached one hand down and sank two fingers into her wet channel, and then spread her cream over her clit. “It’s not nearly as fun alone, but I think I can manage.”

  His attention zeroed in on the tease, so she did it again. This time when her fingertips collided with her swollen nub, the pleasure brought her hips off the mattress.

  “Again.” The sensual rub of his thumbs on her parted lips increased as he moved them up and down in time with her strokes.

  “Like this?” She parted her fingers and purposely avoided her clit. He growled, and when she moved her hand down again, he caught it and sucked her fingers into his mouth. When he released them, he sucked her nub into his mouth, and the rumbling purr she’d heard before vibrated through her whole body.

  The flat of his tongue laved over her, the sound’s intensity increased, and she bucked against his mouth, screaming her orgasm.

  “Theo—oh gods.”

  He swept her ass up off the bed with both hands and held her tight to his mouth, continuing the merciless assault until she came again.

  “Open your eyes, Callie.”

  When she cracked her eyelids, Theo covered her body with his, and wiped his face in the bed covers next to her head. He caressed her temple, and she used his hair to tug him down for a kiss. The hard heat of his cock prodded at her entrance. She shifted, grasping him by the base to guide him inside.

  He slid the head in, and then held still while he studied her face. “You have freckles.”

  “Yep.” She wrapped her legs around his hips and tried to pull him further inside.

  “Slow down. I want to take my time.” He slid one arm under her back and traced her cheekbones and nose, then her lips with his free hand. She bit him, licked his finger, and kissed it. Their mouths met, and he took control of the kiss, slowing her down to a gentle exploration instead of the greedy hunger she tried to consume him with.

  His tongue slipped into her mouth, and with each plunge, he rocked his hips forward, easing his thick length in a little further. When Callie attempted to take him deeper, he held her hips firm to the bed, not willing to let her rush their lovemaking.

  It seemed like forever, but finally his cock filled and stretched her pussy with its full length. A shudder ran through him from the crown of his head to his feet, and he released her hip. Her muscles clenched around him and she struggled to remain still. Theo retreated and thrust forward with a precise steady rhythm, his pelvic bone colliding with her clit at the height of each movement. She planted her feet to the bed, clasped her hands on his ass, and dug her nails in, the torture of the slow build up almost too much. He pinched and rolled her nipples. Kissed her until she lost all breath.

  “Fuck, female.” His pace faltered and he slammed into her, increased his speed until the sound of flesh hitting flesh filled the room.

  “Yes, Theo, hard.” She cupped his cheek, sorrow for the pain haunting his eyes welling inside her. “Let go, whatever it is. Let go.”

  He buried his face in the crook of her neck and jerked as his orgasm spilled his cum into her. She stroked his hair and wrapped her arms and legs around him as his erection softened inside her. The sticky wetness of blood clung to her forearms, the wounds in his back weeping.

  He shifted to the side, took his weight off her torso, and covered his eyes with his arm. “I don’t want to hurt you, Callie.”

  “You didn’t.” She touched his bicep, but he flinched away. “Come shower with me.”

  “No, you go ahead. I’ll get one after you.”

  Confusion swamped her, followed closely by hurt. “Okay, well, how about after we both shower, we get something to eat. I’m starved.”

  When he didn’t respond, she scooted off the bed and stood on wobbly legs. “The invitation’s still open, if you change your mind.”

  A shred of the blanket from the bed rested on the floor near her foot. She gathered it up, draping it around her body toga style. The rejection hurt more than her pride. The muscles in her chest over her solar plexus ached, tight with misery and a choking ball of sadness. She’d taken everything he’d given, but he didn’t want to accept what she offered in re
turn.

  Chapter Eight

  Booker’s words played over and over in his head, an endless loop he couldn’t turn off. They drowned out the shower running in the bathroom. His thoughts turned briefly to her naked, water sluicing over her large, full breasts and the dips and curves of her soft belly. Blood rushed to his groin and his dick stirred despite the sorrow and guilt plaguing him.

  You cannot protect anyone.

  He rolled onto his back, the reverberation of the peasant girl Sonja’s screams playing though his head. The events happened so long ago across the ocean. The memories had become faded, and he’d managed to push them largely from his mind. Until last night. Booker’s words overshadowed the beating.

  If Callie stayed with him, she might die. Without his wings and the constant problem his wounds represented, he wasn’t at his peak physically—outcast from his aerie, half crippled, and easy pickings for any number of other supernatural beings. The grotesques tended to make enemies, and when your foes possessed friends and relatives who lived for hundreds or even thousands of years, the danger could come from any direction.

  Instead of the fury Booker had probably meant to incite with the news Logan witnessed Sonja’s death, Theo felt only grief for his brother. For the grotesques, losing an innocent under their guard was one of the worst things imaginable. And Logan had been ordered to sit by and watch as she’d been attacked and killed.

  He couldn’t find any room in his heart for anger with Logan. If his brother had disobeyed Booker—and thereby the rest of the Elders—his punishment would have been even worse than Theo’s. Expulsion from the aerie, not even allowed to exist on the fringes of the grotesque’s society. It also would have left Theo without the protection he needed while his Censure kept him trapped in his hunting form as little more than a piece of statuary. Logan transported him from place to place, spoke to him every day—the sound of his twin’s voice pulled him back from the brink of madness many times.