Spiral of Bliss: The Complete Boxed Set

by Nina Lane

  I was glad when he spanked me again. The sting distracted me, brought me back to the present. Away from the approaching earthquakes and storms. I tightened my fists on the bedspread.

  “Spread your legs,” he said.

  I did. Another clap of thunder shook the walls. My breath burned my chest. I heard the rasp of his zipper. I wanted to turn and look, to drink in the sight of his thick erection, the brilliant blaze of tattoos over his muscled shoulder, the smoky look in his dark eyes.

  His discarded sweatshirt lay crumpled on the bed. I grabbed it and lowered my face into it. The shirt smelled like Archer—sweat, sawdust, wind, and rain.

  I closed my eyes. The bed dipped as he climbed onto the mattress behind me. I was open, unhidden.

  He slid a finger into me. My whole body tingled in response.

  “You want my cock here?” he asked, his voice husky.

  Jesus. His voice alone could make me come. I nodded. Heat washed over me from the inside out. My heart throbbed. And as much as I wanted it, wanted him, I flinched when the hard knob of his cock pressed against my entrance. In this position, so exposed, all I could do was take him. Nothing else.

  He stilled. His breath sawed through the air above me. I pictured him behind me, all hot skin and hard muscles, one hand curled around his shaft, the other hand gripping my ass.

  “Take it,” he murmured. “Then I’ll come on your pretty ass.”

  Heat surged through me. I couldn’t believe how his raw talk could ratchet my urgency so high, so fast. I pressed my face harder into the sweatshirt and reached between my spread legs.

  Archer’s hand clamped around my wrist. “No. Not yet.”

  With a moan of frustration, I pulled my hand away and grasped the bedspread. He eased his cock into me. Impossibly big. A cry stuck in my throat. He stopped again, rubbing his hands over my lower back, then around my torso and up to my breasts. My breath shortened as he rolled my nipples between his fingers. Sparks shot to my core.

  “Take me,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  He pressed his hand between my shoulder blades, urging my upper body down, which pushed my rear up higher. Anxiety twisted through me when he started pushing into me again. I felt myself stretching to accommodate him, felt the heavy pulsing of his shaft, the slow glide of every thick inch.

  I squirmed, twisting beneath him. He gripped my hips to still me and pushed in farther. My legs trembled.

  I couldn’t do it. Fear snaked through me. It wasn’t that I’d never done it like this before. I had, many times. But never with him. Never with a man who could break me apart and put me back together in the same breath. Never with a man who had lightning in his eyes, a man who made earthquakes tremble in my blood.

  He stopped again, half embedded inside me, his hair-roughened thighs against mine. I pressed his crumpled sweatshirt to my face.

  “You want more?” His voice was hoarse.

  I bit my lip. Tasted blood.

  “I want more,” I whispered.

  “How?”

  “Rough. I want more, and I want it rough.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Say it.”

  “I surrender.”

  I had just enough time to close my fingers on the bedspread again, to brace myself, before he surged into me with one hard thrust.

  He groaned. “Oh, sweet fuck.”

  The impact jarred me to the core, pushed me forward, closer to the edge of the endless abyss. He didn’t stop, not this time, only pulled back and plunged in again, his hands gripping my ass, his hips slamming against mine.

  My body burned. I put one hand on the wall in front of me, tried to match his movements but couldn’t. All I could do was take him. Take his repeated hard thrusts, the dig of his fingers into my skin, the slap of his flesh against mine. He spanked me again, a sting that intensified the sensations swirling through me.

  It lasted for hours. It lasted for minutes. I lost all track of time. I arched my body and fell into the storm only he could create. He clutched my waist, turned my sweat-slick body around. I spread my legs and hooked them around his hips, letting him surge into me again, raking my gaze over his damp chest. His tattoos shifted with every flex of his hard muscles, the pattern like a beautiful, living creature sliding across his skin.

  He came over me, overcame me, his body hot and hard as he crushed his mouth to mine. I wound my arms around him, slid my hand over the glossy, shifting wing on his shoulder, dug my fingernails into his smooth back.

  Tension unleashed inside me. I pushed upward to meet his heavy thrusts, needing him deeper, as deep as he could go. His teeth scraped my neck, my breasts. We rocked and collided and crashed, again and again.

  I shattered what felt like a thousand times, shuddering and writhing beneath him, then on top of him when he rolled onto his back to let me ride him, then again with him plunging into me from behind. Still he demanded more, his voice a rough whisper pouring into my ear, lighting fires in my blood.

  His rough hand scraped my back, fisted in my hair, and tugged. My body arched like a bow, tense and quivering. Endless moans broke from my throat with every surge of his cock into me. I ached all over by the time he spilled into me with a deep groan, his body collapsing on top of mine, his breath scorching my neck.

  Gasping, I took the weight of him, absorbed the feeling of his sweaty, muscular chest heaving against my back. I took a few deep breaths and swallowed hard.

  Archer rolled off me and onto his back. He flung his arm across his face. Rain splashed against the window. Lightning flashed.

  I curled onto my side, still feeling as if he were throbbing inside me. My heart raced. He pressed his hand to my hair.

  “Okay?” His voice was gravelly.

  I nodded. Though I was spent, my veins hummed with energy, the last burst of exhilaration before the crash. The bed shifted as Archer moved, but aside from his hand on my hair, he didn’t touch me.

  Again, I was grateful. I needed some space. It was strange how he sensed exactly what I needed or didn’t need. What I wanted or didn’t want.

  The pressure of his hand increased slightly. I closed my eyes as the crash pulled me under and thunder broke the sky.

  He was still sleeping when I woke. Wet dawn light seeped through the curtained windows, the rain having slowed to a drizzle. I got up slowly and went into the bathroom to brush my teeth.

  I was sore everywhere, but oh god, did it feel good. It was the sweet, aching relief of knowing I could still withstand being pushed to the edge. That I still loved it. That I wanted more.

  I took a shower, pulled on a clean shirt and panties, and left the bathroom. There was a microwave in a little nook by the wall, and I scrounged around in my bag for packets of instant coffee. I stuck two cardboard cups of water in the microwave. As I waited for them to heat, I saw Archer’s worn notebook sitting on the nightstand.

  I eyed it warily, as if it were a time bomb. What the hell was he writing in there? It wasn’t his black book or his diary, for lord’s sake. It certainly wasn’t a book of poetry. A guy who hadn’t liked school wouldn’t spend his time writing poetry or stories.

  As tempted as I was to open the book, I turned when the microwave beeped. I made the coffee and returned to the bed, giving Archer a nudge with my knee.

  “Wake up. I brought you coffee. Don’t expect this to happen again.”

  He rolled over and yawned. “You mean the tornado or the incredibly hot fucking or you bringing me coffee?”

  A tingle of heat washed through me, along with an undeniable pleasure that he’d found our fucking to be incredibly hot. Not that I’d had any doubts about that last night, especially with both of us so revved up.

  “The coffee.” I handed him a cup and climbed onto the bed.

  As he lowered his head to ta
ke a sip, I took advantage of his distraction to let my gaze wander over his perfect, muscled body, the rumpled mess of his thick hair, the planes of his face, his jaw dusted with whiskers.

  He glanced up and caught me staring. I cleared my throat and gestured to his cup.

  “Instant coffee is all I have,” I said. “Sorry. I know it tastes like dirt.”

  Archer shrugged. “Well, it was ground.”

  I laughed. A genuine amusement filled me, in marked contrast to the intensity of the previous night. He grinned and put his cup on the side table. He reached out to trail his fingers over my bare leg to the bottom of my foot.

  “Know any bad jokes?” he asked.

  “Probably. Some of my grad students are as juvenile as you are.”

  He grabbed my ankle to keep my foot still so he could tickle it. I yelped and poked him in the shoulder until he released me.

  “What does a wicked chicken lay?” I asked as he resumed skimming his fingers over my bare leg.

  “No idea.”

  “Deviled eggs.”

  “Pretty bad,” he agreed. “What does Archer West lay?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Kelsey March.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” He pressed his lips to the top arch of my foot. “Hard and well.”

  My body surged at the memory. “Indeed.”

  He shot me a satisfied, very male smile.

  Too much. Everything about him was too much. He was too big, too beautiful, too dangerous, too goddamned cute.

  I hid my sudden disconcertion by pulling my leg away from him.

  “Go dress,” I said. “We need to get on the road again. There’s a front moving north of here, which is good for us since we might catch another storm on the way back home.”

  My heart suddenly clenched a little. I didn’t like the idea of going home after this insanely exhilarating time alone with Archer. I wanted to stay, to chase storms, and have wild, mind-blowing sex—with spanking, no less. I wanted to kiss him in thunderstorms and feel the heat in his eyes when he looked at me.

  I didn’t want to go back to classrooms and my cramped little office, to the pressure of my tenure review and departmental bureaucracy. The very things I’d worked so hard for.

  “Damn, woman.” Archer ran his fingers across my toes. “You have perfect feet. I need to study them more closely in those heels you wear.”

  “Oh, god. You have a foot fetish?”

  “I do now.” He stroked his forefinger over my instep, making me twitch in reaction.

  Though I was thoroughly enjoying his attention and touch, I didn’t want him to know how ticklish I was. I pulled my foot away from him and tucked it underneath me. I reached out to rub the shifting wing on his upper arm. His skin was so warm and taut.

  “I haven’t studied your tattoos closely either,” I remarked. “They’re beautiful.”

  They were, too. Intricate and incredibly detailed, the wing spread from his right shoulder down to wrap around his biceps, the multi-colored feathers thick, the vanes holding them together both strong and delicate. The top of the wing curved over his shoulder into a rich pattern of flowers and silhouettes of two birds in flight. A cursive script flowed beneath them.

  I peered at the letters, tracing them with my finger. Fear is the mind-killer.

  “Wow,” I said. “What’s that from?”

  “Frank Herbert’s Dune.” He touched the tattoo. “I read the novel years ago. I remembered that line, especially when I was trying to get clean and stay out of trouble. I was scared all the time.”

  A shadow fell over me at the reminder of his past. I couldn’t imagine him being scared of anything.

  I glided my fingers over the pattern of flowers and two birds. His souvenirs of life.

  “Is that when you got the tattoo?” I asked. “When you were in rehab?”

  He nodded. “The quote, yeah. I had the wing done when I was twenty. Can’t remember why. Guess I just thought it was cool.”

  “No.” I slid my forefinger over the feathers, almost feeling their combined strength and softness. “It was about freedom. Flying.”

  He shrugged, studying me. “Why don’t you have any tattoos? Tough chick like you?”

  “I don’t know.” I brought my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. “I always wanted one, but I never knew what to get. Then when I started thinking about grad school, tattoos didn’t seem to fit with academics. Plus, they’re pretty permanent.”

  “Not like blue hair, right?”

  I nudged him with my foot again. “Go get dressed, or I’m driving.”

  He shoved to his feet with a groan. “Can’t have that, now.”

  After he went into the bathroom, I finished getting ready. I didn’t want to like this intimacy and silly teasing, but I did. Even if I couldn’t admit that I did, my heart was doing this crazy floating thing, which seemed to be lifting all the weight from me. I couldn’t ignore or suppress the feeling. I didn’t want to.

  And of course that scared the crap out of me. I could take Archer’s heat and intensity, the challenges he issued, the sheer male power of him.

  It was the other stuff I didn’t know what to do with. His laughter and warmth, the way he repaired a garden fence for my mother, his habit of opening doors for me, the fact that he’d cooked bacon after an insanely hot night. His almost casual use of the word love in reference to me.

  Especially that.

  And everything combined into one handsome, sexy man. It was far more than I’d bargained for. And I was beginning to think it was much more than I could take.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ARCHER

  KELSEY WAS PRICKLY AND IRRITABLE MOST of the drive back to Mirror Lake. She snapped at me for leaving candy wrappers on the floor of the van, grumbled about her lack of sleep, and bitched about the classes she had to teach tomorrow.

  Because I knew exactly what her problem was, I let her complain. She’d been thrown off, catapulted outside the safe, little comfort zone she’d built for herself and tossed into the path of a tornado.

  Now there was the adrenaline crash. And everything else. For one, she hadn’t expected me to get along with her mother. Hadn’t expected her mother to like me—not a rough guy with a lousy past and no future to speak of. She hadn’t expected to love the risks we’d taken, and she didn’t know how to deal with it.

  I didn’t, either. I liked jumping dirt bikes, driving too fast, fighting. I’d spent most of my life doing risky, sometimes illegal things. But nothing compared to facing down a tornado with a storm girl and winning.

  When we got back to Kelsey’s house, I helped her unload her stuff and drove the van back to the university. She needed time alone to decompress. So did I.

  I went to the Meteorology department to leave the van keys for Colton. As I approached the building, a young, skinny guy wearing a wrinkled suit came through the front door. He hurried down the steps, glanced at me distractedly, and stopped.

  “Oh, hey,” he said. “You’re Kelsey’s… uh, hitman.”

  “Hitman?” It took me a second to remember this kid had been there the day I saw Kelsey in the quad. She’d snapped at both of us.

  “Right,” I said. “Who are you?”

  “Peter Danforth. I took some undergrad classes with Kelsey.”

  He stuck out his hand. I shook it and started toward the building again.

  “Colton just told me Kelsey went out to chase a storm,” Peter said, coming up beside me as if I wanted to have a conversation. “Did you go with her?”

  “Yeah.” I slanted him a glance. “Why?”

  “It just surprised everyone, you know? She’s always been so against going out on her own. She structured her role in the Spiral Project around the idea that she would do everything but work in the field. She’d just sit at a computer and assimilate the data.”r />
  An image of Kelsey in a cramped office rose in my head, alongside a memory of her burning with excitement and adrenaline during the chase.

  My chest tightened.

  “Whatever she does, she’ll do it well,” I told Peter.

  “So did you guys see anything?” Peter asked. “Colton said you did.”

  “Yeah, she sent him the video. She got some great footage of a tornado.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “A field in eastern Kansas.” I pulled open the building door. “You can ask her about it.”

  “I will, thanks. Good seeing you again.”

  I nodded and went inside. I left Colton’s keys in his departmental mailbox before returning to the Butterfly House. After unpacking and showering, I dug my notebook out of my duffel.

  I leafed through the pages, then sat down and did some more drawings. Not until my mother had sent me all my stuff in a cardboard box did I remember I’d spent a lot of my school days drawing in the margins of notebooks. And everything else—math papers, spelling tests, and science reports. Drawing was always easy.

  Around dinnertime, I texted Kelsey and told her I was coming over. When I arrived, she let me in without a word. Much as I loved the scotch-and-honey sound of her voice, I also liked the faintly annoyed look she gave me, her blue eyes sharp with that regal, take-no-prisoners expression. The one that had made me want to capture her.

  “I’m working,” she said, gesturing to the kitchen. “Go get something to eat or drink, if you want.”

  I tortured myself a little by watching her pick up a few folders from a chair. Her incredible breasts curved the front of her shirt, and jeans hugged her perfect ass. Long legs. Shiny hair. She was all woman. All mine.

  Mine.

  The word flared in my mind. I’d never had anything that was really mine. Even my family hadn’t been mine. But Kelsey… I would never think of her any other way.

  My fists clenched. But after I left town, she’d be a free agent again. And though I’d told her we could have a hell of a good time together while I was here—and we were, more than I’d ever imagined possible—the thought of her with another guy made me want to slam my fists against a brick wall. Repeatedly.