Fearless

by Lauren Gilley

  He withdrew and she thought she must have done something wrong, that he was displeased…but then he took hold of her hips and pulled her to the edge of the counter, until his hips were wedged between her thighs and his cold belt buckle was against her belly. And through their clothes, his erection was against the throbbing place that craved its touch.

  It shocked her a little. She gasped and her hips moved. She wanted so much more.

  “Come on.” There was impatience in his voice as he slid his hands around and scooped her up, clutching her ass.

  Ava dutifully wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist and clung to him as he carried her. Through the kitchen, the living room, down the hall, his long legs took them to her room in a matter of strides. Ava nuzzled her face into his throat – he smelled like Gillette shaving cream and cigarettes and the autumn outdoors – and caught a blur of her familiar, personal space: the bed, fluffy and inviting and waiting for them, her paintings and her laundry hamper and the wash of pale light through the open blinds.

  Mercy set her down on the end of the bed, and he kissed her, passing his tongue into her mouth, scraping at her bottom lip with his teeth. She was lightheaded when he pulled back, her lips swollen and her eyelids heavy. He was a drug, this man, and she was more than happy to OD at this point.

  The look he gave her before he stood was loaded with more of that supreme intensity from the kitchen. “Get naked,” he said, and shrugged out of his jacket, letting it hit the floor.

  She didn’t want prettier words than those. She pulled the shirt off her shoulders, skimmed off her leggings, her panties, unclasped her bra, all in a feverish daze, aware of Mercy shucking his clothes, but not seeing it clearly in her own haste.

  When she finished tossing her bra onto her dresser, Mercy was suddenly on her, his mouth finding hers as he eased her back to lie across the bed, climbing up over her. The mattress dipped dramatically under his weight. His knee slid between hers and she opened her legs, giving him space to settle between.

  It was all so spectacularly new for her: the roughness of the hair on his legs, the thick satin of his skin, the sense of absolute surrender as all six-feet-five-inches of his grand height covered her with the elegance and savagery of a panther. And all their comfortable familiarity vaporized. Because this wasn’t just the two of them anymore, but the intentions that lay between them, and that both frightened and excited her.

  Mercy pulled back, bracing up above her on his arms. She wanted to touch his biceps, and she realized she could, passing her hands up the hard bundles of muscle, tracing the ridged veins that laced them, as her eyes followed, up the thick column of his throat to his face. His features were harsh, but his eyes large and soft, a glittering shade of amber in the incoming shafts of afternoon light.

  “Are you afraid?” he asked, his voice a low, Cajun-heavy purr she’d only heard once or twice.

  She wanted to remember the sight of him this way, with his hair failing across his forehead and the tattoos on his left arm glimmering. She wanted to memorize the sculpted contours of his chest and neck and arms suspended above her.

  She wasn’t afraid. She was a jumble of so many thing, but afraid? No. She would never be afraid of him.

  “No.”

  “Shut your eyes, fillette.”

  She did, and then she felt his hand on her. She felt the mattress dip beside her, felt him settle in right next to her. Her arm was pressed to the hard wall of his chest. His knees touched her calf. And he was breathing right in her ear, the rhythm increasing, breath by breath, as he began a trail at her throat and moved downward.

  He palmed her breasts, one and then the other, squeezing, shaping them. He traced her nipples with his fingertips until they were pebbled and aching.

  Ava tried to roll toward him – she wanted her hands on him – but he held her gently down with his hand on her sternum.

  “No,” he said in her ear. “And eyes shut, remember?”

  Gooseflesh erupted across every inch of her skin and she felt him smiling against her face.

  Down he moved, tracing the delicate lines of her ribs. Across her belly in unhurried strokes that left her trembling and made her wet.

  Then he reached boldly between her legs and covered her sex with his hand.

  She did roll toward him then, burying her hot face in his chest, flushed and breathless and unable to keep still.

  “Poor little thing,” he murmured against her forehead. “I know, I know.”

  He stroked her until she was slippery, and she bit down hard on her lip when he thumbed her clit with a staggering delicacy, given the size of his hands. Then he entered her with a single finger. He stretched her and tested her. He worked her, in and out, again and again, and it was painful, but the tight spiral of fire in her belly was downright crippling.

  “Here, kiss me,” he said, and when she did, his tongue came into her mouth and it mimicked the thrusting of his finger.

  On her tidy white comforter, in the bold daylight, Mercy brought her to orgasm, and she twisted against him, her sex clenching around his finger, the pleasure bursting through her in warm waves.

  Mercy withdrew his hand and rolled her onto her back, covering her body with his own as she was still coming down.

  “You ready, fillette?” He spread her thighs with his palms and settled over her. He kissed her throat and she felt something against her wet sex: his cock, as he aligned them.

  Her eyes didn’t want to stay open. She was deliciously warm and satiated. “Hey, Merc?” She passed her hands around behind his neck and down between his heavy shoulder blades, feeling the tension in his spine.

  She felt the first pressure.

  She tasted the salty skin of his cheek.

  “I never asked – not in all these years,” she murmured. “What does fillette mean?”

  She felt his entire body gather, a great wave of energy moving through him.

  “Little girl. It means little girl.”

  And then he entered her fully on one fatal thrust, and her whole world was pain.

  Sixteen

  Five Years Ago

  “Ava. Hey. Hey, hey, hey. Shit.” Mercy wiped at her tears with the pad of his thumb. “Why didn’t you – shit.”

  “No. It’s fine.” Ava laid her hands along his face and tried to get hold of herself. “I’m fine.” She managed a watery smile. “Fine.”

  But she could feel the warm blood on her thighs, and it still hurt so badly she could sob.

  The first plunge had been hideously painful. It felt like he ripped her apart. Felt like he drove her all the way down through the mattress. He was too big for her – he didn’t fit. And of course she should have known that. He was a big man, in all aspects. And all that magic physical compatibility she’d imagined – it had been just that, imagination. Because he was too big for her.

  But she’d wanted to be with him, had wanted to return the pleasure he’d given her. She’d wanted him inside her, even if it destroyed her, and so she’d sunk her teeth in his shoulder to keep from screaming, and she’d cried silently as he’d sought release in her body, murmuring in her ear how tight she was and how good she felt to him, praising and encouraging. And it hadn’t been terrible. No, it had been wonderful, in so many ways, because he was her first and he’d loved her, truly loved her, and he’d shuddered when he’d come, and he’d been so very deep inside her, even if the pain was blinding.

  He’d pulled back, finally, and he’d seen her tears, the lines of pain on her face, and his concern and shame had been precious.

  He flopped to his side and pulled her into him, bundling her close. His big hand at the back of her head held her against his shoulder.

  “I shoulda thought of that,” he said. “I didn’t mean–”

  “I know you didn’t,” she rushed to assure. “I’m fine. I wanted this.” But when she closed her eyes, the tears slid down her cheeks and she couldn’t keep them in check this time.

  Mercy hel
d her, silent and understanding, his hand sweeping up and down her back, soothing her as he traced aimless patterns across her bare skin. When her breathing had evened out, he eased away and rolled from the bed.

  Exhausted and lightheaded, Ava lay on her side, watching him, as the sunlight haloed around his massive shoulders, his Roman-coin profile. Denied the chance before, Ava looked her fill, now in the quiet aftermath, fascinated by the unperfected musculature of his abs, his legs; the tan lines and innumerable little scars. If she’d seen his cock before, she would have been more properly afraid. It was smeared with blood, so were his thighs. Her blood.

  She sighed against the comforter and let the fatigue take her, drifting in a pre-sleep fog.

  Mercy returned a moment later, wearing his jeans, with a warm damp towel from the bathroom for her tender, bloodied sex. He cleaned her with a delicate touch, without a word, and retrieved her clothes from the floor, set them on the bed beside her.

  “We’ll need to get your quilt in the wash ASAP,” he said as he picked up his shirt and pulled it over his head. “It’s white, so you can use bleach. Come on, I’ll help you.”

  She dressed, feeling slightly dizzy, and more than a little puzzled by his growing sense of urgency. Mercy stripped off her stained comforter and walked it across the hall, stuffed it down into the washing machine.

  “Where’s the detergent?”

  “Here.” She shooed him away and added the Tide and a cap of bleach herself, watching him from the corner of her eye. “Mercy–”

  “You should shower.” He was bouncy, anxious-like, looking everywhere but at her.

  “Merc.”

  “Wash your hair, too. Your mom’s smart. I wouldn’t put it past her to smell me on you.”

  “Mercy.”

  He finally looked at her, and she saw the naked regret in his face before he hid it behind his collected club mask. “What?” he asked. He had his jacket and cut in one hand, the other braced on the door to the laundry closet. “I should get going. You need help with anything? You’ve got this covered?” A gesture to the washing machine.

  Ava felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. She started to shake, and tried desperately to hide it. “Yeah.” She lifted her chin. “I do.”

  Regret – he regretted sleeping with her. And now, all he could think about was getting caught.

  She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of crying; didn’t want him to see her crumble. So she turned her head away as her eyes clouded with tears.

  “Take a shower,” he reminded. “And some aspirin…if you’re hurting.” The air stirred as he leaned in close to her. The touch of his lips to her hair was devastating. “Come lock the door after I leave,” and then he was walking away from her, his heavy tread carrying him to the kitchen.

  She listened to the door open and close. Listened to the birds twittering beyond her window in the trees. Listened to the wind sighing in the eaves and the traffic rumbling past on their sleepy street. She listened to Mercy’s Dyna start with a growl and back from the drive, and then she curled over the open washing machine, put her face in her hands and cried.

  “Knock-knock,” Maggie called as she rapped against the open patio door and stepped out onto the flagstones.

  Carina Stephens sat at a wrought iron table, in a cushioned chair, her head hanging limp from her neck, so low her nose was in danger of plunging into her artichoke dip, hand wrapped loosely around a stemless glass full to the brim with white wine. The bottle of imported Sauvignon Blanc stood at her elbow, uncorked. Her cream sheathe dress was what Bonita would have described as muy elegante.

  At Maggie’s knock, Carina lifted her head with a startled jerk, blinking wildly as she swiveled around, searching for the intruder. Her sleek blonde bob had been mussed with her almost-dive into the dip and her beauty queen makeup would have sent Maggie’s mother into orgasmic fits of delight: pageant-grade cosmetics at their finest.

  “Sorry,” Maggie said in her faux-sunny voice, striding out onto the patio. “The housekeeper said you were back here and that I should just come on back.”

  The housekeeper, a poor beleaguered Latina woman with stress grooves around her mouth, had tried to bar Maggie from the front door with a broom. It was amazing what the words “Lean Dogs” could do for a gal in a pinch. Broom down, welcome mat rolled out.

  The patio was a manmade feat of flagstone brilliance, with outdoor fireplace, waterfall-topped koi pond to one side, and a border of gardener-maintained flowers and crepe myrtles. From this vantage point, you could see the grand sweep of the back yard, the pool, the putting green. Wind played in several sets of big bell chimes and ruffled the edges of outdoor pillows on the furniture.

  Carina squinted at Maggie a long moment, her painted mouth pulled back at the corners in a truly ugly grimace.

  “Maggie,” she offered with a fake smile as she pulled out the chair beside Carina and sat. “Maggie Teague. From Dartmoor over on Industrial. Our kids go to school together.”

  Carina, never a brainchild, fought the wine a moment, and then her eyes locked onto Maggie. “Dartmoor…You’re married to one of those bikers…” Her eyes flipped wide. “Your daughter…” And then the animal anger crashed through her.

  She pushed her chair back. “Your daughter was there when my Mason was–”

  “Your Mason,” Maggie said sweetly, “had a bit of a bad reaction, didn’t he?” As Carina tried to rise, Maggie reached over and patted the back of her manicured hand. “I don’t think you’re steady enough for that. Here.” She fished in her purse for a travel packet of Bayer. “Aspirin?”

  Carina narrowed her mascara-heavy eyes.

  “How’s Mason doing?” Maggie asked, the picture of concern. “I went by the hospital and they said they’d moved him to a private room, and that you’d come home to get some rest.”

  Carina glanced at her wine, and then back. “I’m very tired.”

  “I’m sure.” Maggie could imagine Ghost rolling his eyes at her cheerful tone. “God, I just hate it when one of my babies is in the hospital. It’s exhausting.”

  Carina gave her head a little shake, and then scowled, like she was upset that she’d let the wine get the best of her. Maggie could see her refocusing, throwing her meager brain cells into this moment with wild abandon. “Your daughter–”

  “She saw the whole thing! I was amazed when she told me. Can you imagine someone selling dangerous drugs like that here in Knoxville?”

  When the other woman only stared, Maggie pressed on. “I was absolutely aghast” – ha, Ghost would have loved that – “when Ava told me about the whole thing. I even heard a child in the next county died from taking it.”

  Carina’s hand flew to her throat, nearly spilling her wine. “Died?”

  “And the police – what are they going to do?” Maggie made a frustrated gesture to the air. “They have no leads and no theories. Useless, like always.”

  Carina, more than half-tanked, struggled visibly between her natural contempt for anyone of Maggie’s social standing, and her desperate need for a sympathetic ear. One of the household staff had been sitting vigil over little Mason at the hospital. “The Missus is at home,” the girl had said, her disgust thinly veiled. “Said the smell of the hospital was making her lightheaded.” Maggie had shared a knowing look with the poor maid. She knew Carina’s type: the country club mothers for whom a child was just another merit badge on the Girl Scout vest of life, who turned to the bottle the moment their “precious darlings” needed anything more than a patented proud smile. Carina wasn’t worried about Mason, Maggie knew – after all, the doctors had said he was out of the woods as far as the whole dying thing went – but was worried about her social standing now that her son had almost killed himself with a party drug.

  It was the reputation that mattered. It was the reputation Maggie planned on exploiting.

  “My car got broken into last month, and they never caught the bastard,” Carina said with a scowl. “Useless.” She
nodded. “You’re right.”

  Maggie kept her smile to herself. The alcohol was sliding things in her direction; on a sober day – which was rare – the queen of the Stephens household would have called her a whore and tossed her out on the street. Now she was getting agreement.

  “Well, here’s why I came by,” Maggie said, leaning in closer, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. She briefly lamented her refusal to join drama club in high school; she was damn good at this. “My husband, while not as powerful as yours, I know” – little nod from Carina – “he still has a certain standing in the community. His club has a bit of a reputation for controlling the unsavory elements around here.

  “Just a few weeks ago,” she continued, “the club helped Harold Winn catch the peeping tom who was spying on his daughter. The sicko was in cuffs by the end of the night.”

  Carina’s brows jumped.

  “So I wanted to assure you that Kenny and his boys” – Kenny! she’d exclaimed when Ghost had finally told her his real name after three weeks of sleeping tangled on his old futon. Your name’s Kenny! – “they’re taking this business with your son very seriously. They’re turning over all the right rocks and asking all the hard questions. They will hand deliver this dealer to the precinct steps, I can promise you.”

  Carina’s bloodshot eyes widened behind a glossy sheen of tears. “They can do that?”

  Maggie offered her a reassuring smile. “They do that all the time. Trust me: all the club boys have families. They’re dying to get hold of this creep, and people will talk to them who won’t talk to the police. It’s amazing what you can do when you aren’t scaring the life outta people with a badge and a gun.”

  Carina stared at her a long, unblinking moment, then dissolved into tears. “Oh, thank you! Thank you! My friend Melissa, she was so wrong about you.”

  Maggie felt her smile turn brittle. “Most people are.”