by Holley Trent
That grin of his—this was all so damned funny to him!
She growled. “Dammit, pay attention. It’s too late to eat. I’ve gotta shower again because I’m sweaty.” She clenched again at the thought and her legs nearly gave out beneath her.
Jesus!
“And then we’re gonna go to the airport,” she said. “Maybe grab some shitty fast food after we get our tickets and check in. I don’t want to miss that last flight out, so behave yourself, animal.”
“You’re so cute when you pout.” His feet were on the floor now, and he poised himself to stand, still wearing that evil grin as he sat brazenly with his legs open, his cock standing at attention.
Yes, sir, she wanted to say, but she swallowed down the words and wore what she hoped was her look of authority. She didn’t have much practice with it. “I’m going to go in this bathroom and shower.”
“Mmm.”
“Alone, Charles, and I’m gonna lock the door to make sure that happens.”
Now he pouted, but it was as phony as a three-dollar bill. Even with that full bottom lip stuck out, he looked like sex on two legs.
“And while I shower, you’re gonna clean up the kitchen and pack your bag so that as soon as I walk out of this bathroom, you can go shower off the sex.”
“But what if I like the sex?”
“That’s—”
The sight of his tanned fingers wrapped around his shaft, sliding up and down, over the head and to the base, stole her words.
“That’s what?” he crooned.
“That’s … uh.” She swallowed and closed her eyes. Unscramble, brain, damn you. What was she complaining about? Oh. “That’s your prerogative,” she said, sounding more in command than she actually felt. The idea of him wearing her scent was actually doing as much for her as the threat of his tongue down below had. She crossed her legs at the ankles again and tried to concentrate as she patted the door behind her for the knob. Oh God, yes, that gorgeous man wanting her scent on him? A reminder of how he’d taken her hard and rough, and how she’d liked it?
Who the hell was she, all of a sudden?
She cringed, and stepped into the bathroom with relief. Before closing the door, she said through the crack, “But I’d still suggest you shower. Might be a long night and being clean is nice.”
“If you say so, my love.”
She pushed the door in and shouted, “I do say—”
Wait, his what?
She turned the water on yet again and rolled her eyes as she realized it. Sarcasm. Duh. That was what it was. Asshole had better be ready in thirty minutes, or she was leaving without him.
• • •
By the grace of who-knew-whom/what, they snagged the last two seats on a flight leg to Houston that connected to a flight to Raleigh-Durham. The seats were on different ends of the plane, but what mattered most was that they were on the plane. They regrouped briefly in Houston, only to make a mad dash to catch their quick connection.
Marion hardly had time to re-center herself from the turbulent flight that had her eyes watering more than once. If it weren’t for pinching herself on the delicate skin of her bicep as a painful distraction, she would have really cried. What would her seatmate think about that? She certainly didn’t want to explain to some stranger that she’d never been on a plane before and that she was certain she was going to die tonight from the experience.
On the second flight, the ticketing agent managed to get them a bit closer. They had two aisle seats, though one row apart. That was a little better, especially since she sat behind Charles and was able to watch his reactions to the plane’s jerky motions. Or rather, his lack of reaction. He was completely unfazed, so she took some comfort in that. If he wasn’t worried, she wouldn’t worry either. At least, not as much.
When they finally touched down at RDU in the wee hours of the morning, she was the sort of wired that verged on insanity. She’d need to sleep soon, or else get to somewhere that wasn’t thousands of miles off the ground and sit down for a while.
“We can collect our baggage and rent a car,” Charles said, guiding her toward the terminal end with his arm wrapped around hers.
She sighed. “Rent a car? What for?”
“Doesn’t make sense for me to fly into Wilmington from here. We’re really going closer to Jacksonville, and that’s just a few hours drive from here.”
“Oh.” She stopped in her tracks and hooked her thumb back toward the ticketing counter. “Then maybe I should go ahead and fly out of here. I’ll probably have more options, right?”
Some dark expression flitted across his face for a moment, but whatever he was thinking quickly receded and his usual pleasant mien returned. He got her walking again. “You’ve got plenty of time, right? And you don’t even know where you’re going. Come on down to the coast with me and get some sleep. We’ll leave you alone while you rest up. Then, tomorrow, you can figure out what you want to do.”
“Tomorrow, huh?” Sleeping in a real bed did sound nice. She’d missed out on that at Charles’s place, because what they’d been doing there was far too exerting to be classified as sleep.
Maybe she could sprawl out in comfy pajamas and sleep and until her eyes crusted over. That sounded nice.
“Okay, tomorrow. I need to get on my computer so I can do some research.”
He patted the hand she had rested on his forearm. “Not a problem,” he said, voice light now.
Once they’d strapped themselves into the luxury rental SUV—which, in Marion’s opinion, seemed excessive for two people and two bags—she settled low in the heated leather seat and knocked her sunglasses down from the top of her head to her nose. “Hope you don’t mind if I close my eyes for a while.”
“Not at all. Rest up.” He eased the vehicle onto the highway and snaked one hand over the center console to rest on her thigh.
She did that clench and giggle again, and hated herself for it. That had to stop, and soon, if she could figure out how.
“Clarissa will probably want to feed you when we arrive, so—”
“Feed me?”
“Uh …” He drew his hand back and wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel. His grip was so tight, his knuckles were white.
Marion was about to snap her fingers and ask if her presence was really all that distracting to his thought processes, when he loosened his grip and shrugged.
“She feeds everyone. It’s kind of her thing.”
“Should you call her and let her know we’re on the way?”
His jaw clenched and that viselike grip returned.
“Careful, there, Popeye. You don’t want to pop the leather.” She reached across the center console and gave his upper thigh a playful squeeze.
He tensed under her touch, his posture straightening even more in his seat, and his eyes widened.
She laughed as her hand eased closer to this hip. “What’s wrong? Suddenly shy?”
“I bet you’re the kind of woman who enjoys tossing rocks at wasp nests.”
“No, I’m an animal lover.”
This was just too damn entertaining. She’d never known she had it in her to be a tease. She’d never had the practice or the inclination before now. Flirting was fun! Maybe next she’d buy herself a tube of bubblegum pink lip gloss and a polka-dot peplum skirt.
“Well, you seem to have an obvious indifference for us beasts unfortunate enough to possess sentience.”
“What’s wrong, Chucky? Limited self-control?” She let her voice drop into a low rumble at the end, and when he turned his face away from the road, she winked.
His jaw ground side to side for several beats, then with a deft flick of his left hand, he activated the turn signal. When the SUV angled toward the exit ramp, she perked up. She’d read enough road signs in her day to know they were nowhere near their final destination.
“What are you doing?”
“Teaching you about cause and effect.”
“Huh?”
&nbs
p; His eyes flitted down to the hand resting very near his crotch, then back to the road. “Cause and effect. You annoy the wasps long enough, pretty soon one is going to land right on your pretty ass and sting it. Perhaps you need a demonstration.”
He really was pulling off the highway.
She drew her hand away and straightened up. “Wait. Just what did you have in mind?”
He flicked a glance up to the rearview mirror. “What do you think?”
“I’m pretty sure what you have in mind doesn’t mesh with my preferred kinks.”
“Are you saying you’re going to behave?” His voice had taken on a lilting quality, but she could tell it wasn’t meant to put her at ease. It was a dare.
“I’m not into exhibitionism, jerk.”
They were almost near the point of no return in the exit lane. “Nor am I.”
“Umm …” Maybe this was the point in their relationship where she should really consider protective measures, but she didn’t really want to. She wanted to know what he had in mind for her, and whatever it was, she was about eighty percent sure she’d enjoy it. She didn’t get the vibe that he’d hurt her; at least, not in a way she didn’t like. Still, she’d known him a day. They should probably slow things down a bit. “Maybe you can just drop me off at a gas station and I’ll make my way back to the airport on my own.”
“Are you insane?”
“I was just about to ask you the same thing.”
He growled and wrenched the steering wheel left, putting them back into the flow of traffic. “Behave.”
She harrumphed.
“I’m trying to be a nice guy for you, which is quite contrary to my nature, Marion. I’m really trying, but you seem to enjoy being terrible.”
“Terrible? Me? You’re the guy who just admitted in pretty plain language that he’s a misanthrope.”
“More like a lone wolf,” he mumbled.
“What? What’s that about a wolf? Are you going to tell me your true nature is furry and growls a lot? That would explain some things, wild man.” She slapped her hands over her mouth to stifle the laugh that worked its way up her gullet. Laughing probably wouldn’t help the situation. Wait—maybe she was the one who was a little nuts.
She pondered that a moment while rubbing her chin. Was she?
Yeah, probably. That shouldn’t have been a revelation.
They rode in silence for a while, and the next time she looked at Charles, his jaw was tight, his brow furrowed.
She stared out her window, watching the countryside fly by. Seemed like a nice place, what she’d seen of it so far. It was a comfortable sort of place, imparting her with a feeling she couldn’t describe. Usually she visited places and felt a sense of ambivalence because she felt no attachment to them. This place, though, seemed different. The Southern charm had smacked her on the nose the moment she’d stepped off that tin can of a plane back at RDU. The lilting accents from even the smallest of the children had made her grin as they passed a coffee stand. And what had made her smile outright was seeing a young man, college age probably, waiting at his gate wearing a fine navy blue pea coat, madras plaid shorts, and leather flip-flops. At first, the seeming lack of coordination had made her cock her head and squint, but the more she thought about it, the more sense it made.
He was dressed for where he was going, rather than where he was. Southerners were a sensible bunch.
The next time she glanced over at Charles, his expression had relaxed and his shoulders had fallen back into their former low position.
Good. He couldn’t have been too frustrated, then. She laid her head against the window and closed her eyes, thinking it’d be just for a moment. Just long enough that things didn’t look so fuzzy.
But when she opened them again, they were there.
CHAPTER NINE
He hated to wake her, and it wasn’t just because she looked like an angel with her lips slightly parted, eyelids fluttering as if she were watching some movie play behind her eyelids. He needed a moment to not only prepare himself for what was about to be the end of a short, sweet affair he’d never known he wanted so much, but also to warn the people inside the house that little Marion was out of the loop. Did he have five more minutes? Time for more kisses, more gentle caresses?
He didn’t care that he’d lied. Now that they’d arrived, the only apprehension he felt was at the fact that in a matter of a day or two, he’d be cut off from any sort of intimacy with the woman who was born to be his. He’d committed far worse sins in the past than telling little white lies.
No, he didn’t have five minutes.
He sighed. The curtains in the small house’s living room shifted and a hand withdrew from the window. Someone was awake and had seen them. He’d create even more suspicion if he dallied. He was a lot of things, but tentative generally wasn’t one of them.
Managing not to jar her, he slipped from the driver’s seat onto the gravel driveway beside Ariel’s sedan, and pushed the door closed without slamming it. He climbed the porch stairs, turning back to look into the SUV, and found Marion’s head still propped against the window.
When he tried the door, it was unlocked. He stepped into the cozy living room of the tiny house to find a shirtless Claude sitting in the middle of the sofa, warming his fingers around a coffee mug. His dark, curly hair stood up at odd angles around his head, and his violet eyes were bleary. Perhaps violet wasn’t quite accurate. Sometimes his eyes were as blue as Pop’s, and other times they were cherry red. The red was a gift from his maman. Depending on what magic was closest to the surface, they took on the hue of one parent or the other—or the appearance of both at once.
Judging by the wadded-up covers around him, his low-slung pajama pants, and bare feet, he’d spent the night.
If Pop were to find out, he’d shit brimstone. John, Ariel, and Clarissa were supposed to be off-limits to them, but Claude and Charles had sort of a tacit understanding that this was the closest thing to family they had. Yes, being there was a risky thing for them and their hosts, but they tried to take precautions as much as they could.
“Where is everyone?” he asked his big brother, leaving the front door open and pulling the storm door.
Claude set down his coffee, stretched his arms high over his head, and grimaced at the click of his vertebrae. Cambions were practically indestructible, so if there was anything wrong with Claude’s back, it was a temporary discomfort likely caused by Clarissa’s geriatric sofa.
Charles squinted at the old floral-print thing and rubbed his chin. I should buy her a new one.
“Ariel’s getting ready for work,” Claude said, crooking a thumb toward the former sharecropper house’s sole bathroom. “John is still asleep. Clarissa is—”
“Right here.”
Clarissa strode from the kitchen, wiping one hand on the bib of an apron that read, Brunettes do it better! and handed Charles a cup of coffee.
The apron had been funnier a year ago when her hair had been gray, but she’d gotten into that tussle with Pop last year. He’d meant to make Clarissa his whore and gave her some years back in preparation for taking her, but she’d had a trick up her sleeve.
Well, a borrowed athame—a ceremonial knife—actually. He’d let her off the hook after she’d freed him from his stony state, but she got to keep the youth.
Charles closed his eyes and inhaled the heady aroma of his java before taking one small but satisfying sip. The woman made a damn good cup of coffee.
“Any news?” she asked, wringing the bottom hem of the apron between her hands and shifting her weight from one house shoe to the other.
Charles chuckled. Clarissa was a creature of habit. Although on the outside, the pretty woman didn’t look much older than thirty, she’d still kept up most of her old habits from before Pop had given her back thirty-some years. When she did die, she’d probably be the patron saint of muumuus. They all thought it was hilarious, but the good news was Ariel had talked her grandmother into upgrading he
r hairstyle from the tight granny curls she’d gotten used to. She’d said the grandmother looked like a Monchichi, minus the freckles. Clarissa had grumbled a lot about it, but the next time she went to the salon, she’d come back with a simple, short bob.
Clarissa’s expression was so expectant—so anxious for a woman renowned for her calm as much as for her pies—that Charles hated to leave her on the hook. But he had to make her understand that—
The door creaked open and Marion, cringing, scanned the room. “Hello, hi, how are ya? Sorry, I should have gone at the airport, but I’ve really gotta go. Where’s your bathroom?” Her grin was so tenuous that under different circumstances, Charles would have laughed.
Clarissa, seemingly stupefied, stared at the younger woman agog, as still as the statue she’d once turned Pop into.
“Clarissa?” Claude said from the couch.
She looked toward him, apparently unseeing for a moment, and then her head swiveled back to her granddaughter.
She knew. There was no way she couldn’t have known.
Charles whispered, “May our guest use the restroom?”
Clarissa’s mouth opened, closed, and she shook herself like a dog ridding itself of water before spinning on the heel of her slipper and moving around the coffee table toward the hallway.
She banged on the door. “Ariel! Ariel, come out, girl. You gotta come out.”
“If you’ve gotta pee, go ahead,” Ariel called out from the shower.
A door in the hallway creaked, and from John’s deep voice came, “What’s wrong?”
Charles heard her whispered response. “It’s her. Marion.”
Marion quirked up an eyebrow. Clarissa’s behavior would have certainly seemed odd to her.
John didn’t respond, as anything he would have said could have given his complicity away, but the next thing Charles saw was his blond-haired brother at the end of the hallway, letting himself into the bathroom. “Sweet pea?” he queried inside before he closed the door.
