Once Upon a Kiss

by Nora Roberts

  With her arm banded around his waist, Kadra watched Harper exchange several small disks for a bottle. He fought the top off, drank deep.

  “You must pay for water? Does it have magical properties?” She took it, drank. “Nothing but water,” she said with some amazement. “The merchant is a robber. I will go back and speak to him.”

  “No. No.” Despite the dizziness, Harper laughed. “It’s just one of the acceptable lunacies of our little world. When water comes out of the tap, it’s free. Sort of. When it comes out of a bottle, you pay on the spot.”

  She pondered this as they came to the intersection. She’d watched the way the people, the cars, the lights worked together. When the metal tree ordered the waiting group to walk, everyone hurried, often sliding and swooping between cars that jammed together and faced other metal trees with lights of amber, emerald, and ruby.

  Everyone in the village played along.

  She felt Harper sag, and pinched his waist ruthlessly to snap him back. “We have only…” She flipped back to his earlier term for the section of road. “One more block.”

  “Okay, okay.” He could feel sweat running a clammy line down his back. His vision was going in and out. “Let’s talk about me. I’m thirty. As of yesterday. Unmarried. Came close a couple years ago, but I came to my senses.”

  “Had the woman bewitched you?”

  “No.” He had to smile at the term. “You could say that was the problem: she didn’t bewitch me. This is a huge disappointment to my parents, who want grandchildren. As I’m an only child, I’m their one shot at it.”

  “Is it not possible in this place to make young without a lifemate? Can you not select a breeding partner for this purpose?”

  “Yeah, you could, and a lot of people do. I guess I’m more of a traditionalist in that one area. If I have kids, I want them to have the package. You like kids?”

  “I am fond of young. They have innocence and potential, and a special kind of beauty. In time I will select a breeding partner so that I may make life. It is a great honor to make life.”

  “I’m with you on that.” Nearly there, he told himself. Please, God, we’re nearly there. “Anyway, my parents live in New Jersey. Another world.”

  “Was Old Jersey destroyed?”

  “Ah…no.” His head was spinning now. Concentrate, he ordered himself. Just put one foot in front of the other. “Geography and world history lessons later. Let’s stick with personal revelations. I didn’t want to tie on my dad’s cop’s shoes, so I veered off into private investigation. I apprenticed with a big, slick firm uptown, but I didn’t like the suit and tie brigade. Went out on my own about five years ago. I’m good at what I do.”

  “It’s wasteful to be bad at what you do.”

  “You know, my dad would lap you right up. He’d like you,” Harper explained, breathlessly now. “He was a good cop. Retired three years ago. He’d go for your sense of order.”

  He fumbled out his keys as they approached his building’s entrance. She wanted to ask him why everything had to be locked, like a treasure box, but his face was dead white now.

  She dragged him to the elevator, puzzled out the buttons. They had come down, so now they would go up. It pleased her enormously when the doors opened.

  “Four,” he managed. “Push four. If we have to call 911, I’m going to leave it to you to explain that I’ve been clawed by a Bok demon.”

  Ignoring him, and regretting that she couldn’t fully appreciate the ride this time, she dragged him out when the doors opened again. She took the keys from him, selected the proper one, and unlocked his door.

  “You don’t miss a trick, do you? You’d make a damn good PI.”

  She merely booted the door closed behind them, then bending, lifted him onto her shoulder.

  “Honey.” His voice slurred. “This is so sudden.”

  She laid him facedown on the bed, peeled off his ruined jacket, then tore away what was left of his shirt.

  His breath hissed through his teeth at the bright burn of pain. “Can you be a little more rough, Nurse Ratched? I live for pain.”

  “Quiet now.” The wounds were deeper than she’d thought. Four ugly grooves and one jagged puncture. The blood that had started to clot flowed freely again. “This must first be cleansed. How do I fetch water?”

  “Tap. Bathroom tap. The sink. Damn it. The white bowl—ah, the taller one,” he added as he got an image of her scooping water out of his toilet. “Turn the handle.”

  She found the bathing room, and the sink. And was delighted when water gushed out. She soaked a towel and carried it sopping wet into the bedroom. She felt his body shudder when she laid it over his back.

  He fought well, she thought again as she cleaned the wounds. And was stalwart in his pain. He had more than the strength of a warrior; he had the heart of one too. She remembered how his hand had whipped up and closed around the hilt of the sword she’d tossed him.

  A good team, she decided. She’d never found a partner she could admire, respect, and desire.

  She retrieved her supply bag, reached in for the vial of healing powder that all warriors carried. Her fingers brushed over the cloth Mav had wrapped around her hand.

  Lips pursed, Kadra studied her own unmarked palm. Perhaps some of the healer’s powers were still in the cloth. Quickly, she made a paste from powder and water.

  “This will sting,” she told him. “I’m sorry for it.”

  “Sting” was a mild word for the blaze that erupted under his skin when she spread the medication over his wounds. His hands fisted in the spread, his body jerked in protest.

  “Only a moment,” she murmured, wrenched by his pain. “It eats any infection.”

  “Does it chew through flesh while it’s at it?” He spit the words out through gritted teeth.

  “No, but it feels that way. It is no shame to scream.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” But he swore instead, softly, steadily, viciously, and earned more of the slayer’s respect.

  When the paste began to turn from sickly yellow to white, she breathed a sigh of relief. The infection was dying. Over the smeared wounds, she lay the thin healing cloth.

  “If there is any magic in my blood,” she whispered, “let it help him. Sleep now, Harper the valiant.” She brushed her fingers through his hair. “Sleep and heal.”

  He dreamed, strange, colorful dreams. Battles and blood. Storms and swords. Kadra, with her war cry echoing through dark, dank tunnels. The king of demons feasting on flesh in the shadows.

  And he himself delivering the killing blow that sent green blood gushing.

  In dreams he knew her body, the feel of those luscious curves under his hand, the taste of her skin, the sound of her moan. He saw her rising over him, warrior, goddess, woman.

  He felt, real as life, the warm press of her lips on his.

  And woke aching for her.

  He sat up, instinctively reaching for the back of his shoulder. He found nothing, no wound, no break in the skin, no scar.

  Had it all been a dream after all? One wild booze-induced dream starring the most magnificent woman ever created?

  The idea that she was only in his mind depressed him brutally. What were a few Bok demons between friends, he thought as he pushed himself out of bed, when you had a Kadra in your life?

  Was the only woman who’d ever stirred him on every level just a product of his imagination? Of wishful thinking? If he could only fall in love in dreams, why the hell did he have to wake up?

  Back to reality, Doyle, he told himself, then took a step toward the bedroom door and nearly tripped over his leather jacket.

  He scooped it up, fingers rushing over the battered material. Nothing, nothing in his life had ever delighted him more than seeing those bloodstained rips.

  He tossed it aside and bolted for the door.

  She’d changed back into her own clothes. And was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her nose all but pressed to the television screen, wh
ere the Yankees were taking on the Tigers.

  “I like this battle,” she said without turning around. “The warriors in the white are beating the warriors in the gray by three runs. They are better with the clubs.”

  “Girl of my dreams,” Harper said aloud. “She likes baseball.”

  “There were other images in the box.” And each had startled and fascinated. “But this is my favorite.”

  “Okay, that does it. We have to get married.”

  She turned then, smiled at him. His color was back, and that relieved her. His eyes were clear, and held more than recovered health. The lust in them aroused her. “You healed well.”

  “I healed just dandy.”

  “I hunted among your stores,” she told him. “You have little, but I like this food and drink.” She gestured toward the bag of sour-cream-and-onion potato chips and the bottle of Coors.

  “You’re perfect. It’s just a little scary.”

  “We must eat. Fighting requires fuel.”

  “Yeah, we’ll eat. We’ll order some pizza.”

  He looked hungry as well, she noted. But not for food. She rose smoothly. Her blood was already warm for him. “I’m pleased you are well.”

  “Yeah. I’m feeling real healthy just now. You can tell me how you managed that later.”

  “You do not wish to talk at this time.” She nodded, stepped toward him. Then she circled around him to check his shoulder—and to admire his form. When she stopped face-to-face again, her eyes were level with his. “Do you wish to join your body to mine?”

  He blinked once, slow as an owl. “Is that a trick question?”

  “You have desire for me.”

  Charmed, perplexed, he dipped his hands in his pockets. “Is that all it takes?”

  “No.” She was never as sure of herself as a female as she was as a slayer. But this time, with him, she felt sure. “But I have desire for you as well. It is a heat in my belly, a burn in my blood. I want to join with you.”

  “I wanted you before I even met you,” he told her.

  “This is like a poem.” And softened her under the skin. “You are well named. I cannot speak as cleverly, so I will say we have time for this and for food before we hunt again. And that our minds and bodies will be stronger for appeasing both appetites.”

  On those long, tantalizing legs, she walked past him into the bedroom.

  Worlds, he thought as he followed her, were about to collide.

  “Whoa. Wait. Hold on.” She’d already stripped off her top, and was pulling off her boots. “What’s the rush?”

  She looked up, a crease between her brows. “Are you ready to sport?”

  “Yeah. But we could take a minute to…” He stared at her, golden skin, naked breasts. “What am I saying?” He scooped her off her feet and made her laugh by tossing her on the bed.

  She rolled, came up on her haunches. Saliva pooled in his mouth as she grinned at him. “You have energy. Good. Strip,” she ordered. “We will wrestle first.”

  “You wanna wrestle?” He unbuttoned his jeans.

  “It is stimulating,” she began, then lowered her gaze. “You seem to be very stimulated already. I admire your body, baby.” It pleased her to use one of his terms of affection. “I want to touch it.”

  “Are you sure you’re not a dream, brought on by one too many bourbons and bumps?”

  “I am real.” Watching him, she stroked her hands over her breasts, cupped them. “Touch me.”

  When he came forward, reached, she rolled away laughing. And crooked her finger at him.

  He dived.

  She obviously took her wrestling seriously—he was pinned in under five seconds. “Two out of three,” he said and put himself in the game.

  They tumbled over the bed, hands gripping, sliding, legs scissoring. Bodies straining. He wasn’t sure if he pinned her by skill or because she’d allowed it. He didn’t give a damn. Not when she was sprawled under him, her hair spread out, her eyes hot and green.

  “Let’s call it a draw,” he suggested, lowering his head.

  Her hand shot out, wedged between them. “There can be no mouth on mouth. This is not permitted.”

  “Kisses are illegal in your world?”

  “A kiss is a gift.” Now it was she who was breathless, from the press of his body, from the knowledge that his lips were nearly upon hers. “One given in promise between those who mate.”

  “I had mating in mind.”

  “No, joining. Joining is…sport. Mating is for life.”

  He wanted that mouth, as much as he wanted to breathe. And he wanted her to give it to him. “In this world a kiss is a sign of trust, affection, love, friendship. All manner of things. When a man and a woman join here, a kiss is a part of the union. A pleasurable part. You’ve never kissed a man?”

  “I’ve made no promise to a man with my lips.”

  Make one to me, he thought. “Let me show you the way it’s done in my world.” He brushed his lips over her cheek. “Let me have your mouth, Kadra.”

  The hand separating them began to tremble. “I can take no lifemate.” She felt his breath on her lips, warm, seductive. “It is not permitted for a slayer in my world.”

  “This is here. This is now.” He closed his hand over the one she still held to his heart. “Let me be the first. Let me be the only.”

  She could have resisted. She had the strength, and though she could feel it melting, she still had the will. But his lips were so lovely, so soft against her skin. The glide of them was like all the promises that could never be given.

  And her own lips yearned.

  His world, she thought as she yielded. She was in his world now.

  Their lips met, silkily. And her breath rushed out in shock at the sensation. The intimacy, the sweet flavor, the smooth slide of tongue against tongue were more potent than any brew she had ever sipped.

  With one drink, she was drunk on him.

  “Again,” she demanded, and dragged him down by the hair until mouth ravaged mouth.

  He had thought a kiss a simple thing, just another part of the mating dance. But with her he was whirled into the glory of it. He sank deep into her, and deeper still, until the taste of her was a craving in his belly.

  I’ve waited for you, she thought, bowing her body to his—a body that ached for his hands. How could I have waited for you when I didn’t know you existed? How could I have needed you when you were never there?

  But when his hands moved over her, she knew it was true. All the passion that was in her blood, all the passion newly discovered, she gave to him.

  She was a fantasy come to life. All curves and sleek skin. Urgent hands and avid mouth. She raged beneath him, demanding more even as he gave. She was a feast who commanded him to feed.

  Now when they wrestled, their breath was ragged and their skin damp. The mouth that had conquered hers rushed everywhere, tasted all of her.

  When she crested, it was like a wave rising up inside her, spilling out on a throaty cry and pouring into him.

  She rose above him, as she had in dreams. Woman, warrior, lover. She took him into her, closed around him, and throwing her head back, rode.

  Joined, he thought dimly as his blood pounded. Everything inside him was joined with her.

  He reared up, banding his arms around her, fusing his mouth to hers as they took each other over the brink.

  6

  NO JOINING HAD ever been so intense or so pleasurable. None had caused her to feel this mysterious sensation that was beyond the physical. Nor to find herself both conquered and victorious.

  Bards spoke of such unions, but she had never believed the words were more than romantic delusion.

  And they were joined still, she realized. Wrapped tight, fused like two links in one chain. This was more than sport, she thought. She didn’t wish it to end.

  She rubbed her lips together, experimenting. His taste was still there—his flesh, yes—but it was more. His mouth, the intimacy of the ki
ss that had been like…feeding each other. She hadn’t known such matters could have such heat, and yet be tender.

  She had never known tenderness, nor had she believed she required it.

  Small wonder that in the world she knew, a mouth kiss was reserved for lifemates and was part of the sacred vows that stretched for all time.

  If he lived in her world, or she in his, could there have been a lifetime between them?

  Thinking it brought such a pang, such a wrench of longing. She was a slayer, she reminded herself, and he a seeker. They could walk the same path only until their battle was won. Then they, like their worlds, would stand apart.

  But until their time was ended, she could have what she could take.

  “I like the kissing,” she said, sliding her hands into his hair as she eased back to see his face. “I would like to do more if there’s an opportunity to join again.”

  “Kissing isn’t just for joining.” Still lost in her, still steeped in the first heady brew of love, he brushed his lips across hers.

  “What else? Teach me.”

  At the idea of tutoring her, his pulse kicked again. “At times like this, after making love—”

  “Making love.” Following his lead, she leaned in to rub her lips over his. “I like this expression.”

  “Sometimes, after, while a couple is still tuned to each other, they kiss to show how much pleasure they were given. It might be long and lazy, like this.”

  He drew her in again on a slow, gentle glide that brought a purr of approval to her throat. Soft, so soft, deep without demand. Sweet as a maiden’s dream.

  “Yes,” she sighed. “Again.”

  “Wait. Sometimes, when passions have been roused and people are still caught in that last edge of the storm of them, the tone of the kiss reflects that. Like this.”

  He caught her to him, close and hard, and his mouth was like a fever on hers. Now she groaned and wrapped around him like rope. He felt the thrill of her on his skin, in his blood, down to the pit of his stomach.

  “You make me want.” Her voice was thick now, and her heart galloped as if she’d raced to the pinnacle of the Stone Mountains. “In ways I have never wanted.”