by Nina Lane
“Flynn, I’m already…” I fist one hand in his hair, my chest heaving.
He makes a muffled noise and presses his tongue into my slit. “Do it.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Need unspools. He licks, sucks, thrusts… then one final swipe of his tongue across my clit, and the world shatters into bright, blinding colors. I cry out, trembling and shaking as he holds my thighs open and works the final sensations from my body.
He rises to standing, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction, and presses a kiss to my mouth. I moan, my blood quickening at the flavor of my own body. Tingling all over, I run my hands up his abdomen, reveling in the heat of his chest, the strain lacing his muscles. I press my palm to his groin and trace the thick ridge of his erection.
His breath expels on a rush of need. I unfasten his jeans and tug them down along with his boxers. I could live for a thousand years and never tire of the sight of his big cock rising from his groin, the head damp with moisture and shaft pulsing. I lick my lips, lean forward, and take him into my mouth.
“Oh, shit, Eve…” He presses his hands to my head.
He’s all warm, salty male, his cock throbbing. I stroke my tongue from base to tip, then slacken my throat muscles when he pushes forward and thrusts. Coiled energy tenses his body. He digs his fingers into my scalp.
“Turn around,” he whispers. “On your knees.”
My heart thumps. I ease away from him and turn, bracing my hands against the back of the sofa, my knees digging into the cushions. A sudden intense vulnerability washes over me. As if sensing it, Flynn strokes his hand over my upturned ass, rubbing it with gentle circles.
I glance at him over my shoulder. My breath catches at the hot, possessive, needy look in his eyes. He grabs the back collar of his T-shirt and yanks it over his head, giving me a breathtaking view of his naked chest, his muscles leashed with urgency.
He makes a gesture with his forefinger, indicating I should turn back around. I do, lowering my head to my folded arms. My whole body slackens and yields. He slides his hand between my legs, pushing them wider apart. Cool air brushes against my exposed folds. My nipples chafe against the cushion. I shiver.
He slips his finger into my damp pussy, tickling my sensitive clit, probing my opening. His breathing increases. There’s a rustling noise, the opening of a condom packet, and then his sheathed cock rubs against my slit.
My blood flames. I press my forehead to my folded arms, biting my lip on a moan. I’m starting to sweat from a combination of excitement and more than a little anxiety. Much as I love the feel of him inside me, he’s awfully big and this position is…
He holds my hips. “What’s wrong?”
“Um.” I blow out a breath and turn my head, craning to see him over my shoulder again. “I don’t think it’s going to fit.”
He laughs. Christ, he’s a sight—all muscular, sweaty male, tense with restraint, his eyes glazed as he teases his cock over my pussy. Though I’m slick and oh-so ready, the hard tip feels impossibly big.
“I assure you…” he strokes his hand over my lower back, “…it will definitely fit.”
But he doesn’t move, not until my body starts to relax. He reaches beneath me, splaying his fingers over my clit as he presses forward. I moan and arch into his hand. Nervous as I am, my veins sizzle with heat.
He takes his time fondling me, the slow massage easing my trepidation. I rock my hips backward.
“Oh, hurry,” I whisper. “I can’t believe the things you do to me.”
With a grunt, he eases into me. So big. I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing my muscles to slacken. Every nerve ending flares to life as my body opens to take his thick cock, each millimeter an excruciatingly delicious invasion. Dizziness washes over me. My heart throbs.
Flynn pauses, his hands digging into my ass. His breath saws through the air. “You okay?”
I nod, pulling in a heavy gasp. Sweat drips down my neck, between my breasts. Slowly, I thrust my hips back a little, and he sinks into me farther. My inner walls flex and grip his shaft.
“Fuck.” He groans, grabbing my hips to stop me from moving. “Keep doing that and I’ll come before I even get all the way inside you.”
I drag in a breath, wiping a trickle of perspiration from my forehead. God in heaven, his shaft is pulsing, each heavy throb echoing the beat of my heart. I arch my back and shift again, opening my legs wider. He slides in like a key fitting into a well-oiled lock, filling me and stretching me beyond what I thought was possible.
“Okay?” Strain laces his voice.
“Yes,” I gasp, bracing my hands on the sofa arm. “Fuck me.”
He draws back and pushes forward, the intense friction driving my need higher with every stroke. I let him set the rhythm before I start pushing back to meet him. Twinges of pain shoot through me at first as my body struggles to accept the new position, but the discomfort soon melts into a fog of pure sensation—his cock thrusting in and out of me, my ass slamming against his flat belly, his big hands gripping my waist.
A strange disbelief floods my mind, the razor-sharp edge between reality and my explicit imagination. Am I actually here? Is this happening? Is he real?
Everything about him certainly feels real, especially the deep plunge of his shaft into me, stimulating me in all the right places. He fists one hand in my hair, easing my head up, arching my back to deepen the penetration.
Arousal clenches my lower body, centering in my aching core. He slides his hand under me again, expertly working the slippery little knot of my clit. A whirlpool of excitement builds, draining me of thought, submerging me in feeling.
“God…” I squeeze my eyes shut. He fills me again and again, pushing me ever closer to the edge. “So deep. Flynn, I’m going to… oh!”
Bliss crashes through me, sending me into a frenzy of quivering sensation. He groans, gripping my ass and thrusting into me so hard the world seems to tilt on its axis. My body flames, awash in pleasure.
I choke out a cry, clenching my pussy around his shaft the instant before he pulls out of me. Behind my closed eyelids I see him stroking his cock, his muscular, sweaty chest heaving, his face flushed with pleasure. A string of curses rips from his throat the instant before he comes, the thick spray shooting all the way up my back.
Gasping for breath, I fall back onto the sofa, every muscle limp, my whole body sated. A shadow darkens the air. I open my eyes.
Flynn is above me, his corded arms caging me in, his hands planted on either side of the cushions as he holds his weight off me. His gray eyes are still hot, his angular features damp with sweat.
He kisses my forehead and shifts to wrap me in his arms. I press my face to his heaving chest. His heart hammers, the sound filling my blood, my soul, every part of me.
He lowers his lips to my ear and brushes my hair away from my face.
“If I could love anyone,” he whispers, “it would be you.”
My breath catches. I lift my head to look at him. “You can love anyone you want.”
A faint smile curves his mouth, but his eyes darken with regret. “I wish it were that easy.”
An ache squeezes my heart. I want to tell him it is that easy, but we both know it’s not. Love can be hard, painful, dangerous. And yet we’ll brave enchanted forests, search for elusive golden eggs, confront dragons… all for the privilege of both loving and being loved in return. It’s just that extraordinary.
So why doesn’t he want it as much as I do?
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Flynn leaves for New York after the weekend. I fill my time with enough work and preparation for the city council meeting that I don’t spend too much time missing him.
It doesn’t feel right to be at the lighthouse without him, so I stick to my schedule of eight to four, then head out for my increasingly cold coastal jog. Brief snow flurries whip through the air. The mid-November sunlight is already long gone by the time I return to Ramshackle Manor.
Two days into Flynn’s absence,
I set a pile of Italian fairy tale books on the shelf and dust off my hands. I’ve unpacked almost all the boxes, and the shelves are now filled with books—anthologies, criticisms, picture books, compilations, monographs.
While I still have a number of paintings to catalog, the sight of the near-empty workroom is both satisfying and a bit unsettling. Once I finish organizing the collection… the job is finished. What happens then?
I push that thought out of my mind and focus on the database. I’ll cross that bridge later and hope there are no trolls living under it.
My phone buzzes with an unfamiliar number. Instinctive fear grips me. The last number I hadn’t recognized had been David. Then there was the odd silent call, which was also a 408 area code. I’d blocked both of those numbers, but…
No. I will not be afraid anymore.
I answer the call. My heart pounds. “Hello?”
“Is this Eve Perrin?” I don’t recognize the male voice.
“Yes.”
“Ah, Dr. Perrin, I’m glad to reach you. I’ve been having some trouble with your number. This is Dr. Andrew Gregory, the chair of the Department of Art and Art History at Santa Clara University.”
“Oh, hello.” Relief eases my anxiety. “Have you called before?”
“Last week, but something went wrong with the signal. Do you have a moment to talk?”
“Yes.” I expel a silent breath, my shoulders relaxing. “What can I do for you, Dr. Gregory?”
“Andy, please. We received your application for our interim professor position next spring, along with your paper about the artist Maria Wood. We were impressed by both your research and credentials.”
“Thank you.” My heart starts beating again, though from excitement rather than fear.
“Are you available to come out for an interview?” Andy asks. “Mid-December before our winter break, if at all possible. We’d like for you to see the campus and meet the rest of the faculty. Ideally we’ll also arrange for you to give a lecture on a topic of your choosing so you can interact with the students.”
I press a hand to my chest. My heart is racing now, flooding me with both hope and a sudden, strange anxiety.
“Dr. Perrin?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m here. Thank you so much. I’d love to come out for an interview.”
“And you’re available the week of December twelfth?”
“Yes. Any time.”
“Great. I’ll have our admin give you a call to set up the details, if that’s all right? Once we firm up a date, I’ll get the lecture organized. If you could speak about the Maria Wood drawing, our students will be enthralled.”
“I’d love to. Thank you so much for your interest.”
“Thank you for yours. We’ll look forward to seeing you soon.”
I end the call and sit in shock for a minute. All the time I’ve spend applying for positions and working on my paper, I’ve been hoping for this exact call.
Excitement bolts through me. I pick up my phone to call my mother, then hammer out a quick email instead. I don’t want to talk to her or subject myself to whatever cutting remark she’ll make.
A job interview. Across the country again, back in California. What will Flynn say?
I stand and run my trembling hands over my skirt. I wish he were here, but he won’t be back from New York until tomorrow. He’d left me his hotel information and his agent’s cell phone if I need to reach him, but I’ll wait to tell him in person.
Instead I call Graham. His wife Mary picks up.
“Eve, he’s gone to the office and forgotten his phone.” She laughs, and I can almost see her shaking her head. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“I just wanted to tell him I have a job interview offer. Santa Clara University.”
“Really? How wonderful. You’ll be back in our neck of the woods.”
“Yes. As soon as I have the dates settled, I’ll let you know. I’d love to see you both again. Maybe I can take you out to dinner?”
“That would be lovely. I’ll let Graham know, if he doesn’t already.”
I blink. “How would he… oh, he didn’t call them on my behalf, did he?”
“I don’t know, Eve. He’s always going on about you, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he reached out.”
Though I don’t love the idea of Graham interceding after he’s already done so much for me, it would be just like him to try and help me.
“Could you ask him to call me, please?” I tell Mary.
“Certainly. Have a good evening, and congratulations.”
I end the call, hoping I’ve actually garnered interest for my credentials rather than Graham’s intervention.
I start back toward the bookshelves when a movement out the window catches my eye. With the weather changing to a mixture of rain and early snow, the number of people coming to the lighthouse has dwindled, but a woman is walking up the pathway from the parking lot. A black umbrella shelters her from the flurries, and she’s wearing a black flared coat.
Normally I wouldn’t pay much attention, but there’s something oddly familiar about her. Have I seen her in town or—
Allegra King.
Shocked, I back away from the window, but not before she looks up and sees me through the glass. We gaze at each other for an instant. She starts toward the front door. The bell rings. Having no choice, I hurry through the kitchen to answer it.
“Eve?” She peers at me from underneath the umbrella.
“Yes.” I’m unaccountably nervous. “I’m sorry, Flynn isn’t here at the moment.”
“Too bad.” Disappointment etches her face for an instant before shifting to resolve. “But never mind. I’m here to see you. I stopped at your house, but you weren’t home. Given what I’ve heard from my son, I suspected you might be here.”
“Oh.” Fighting a blush, I step aside, holding the door open. “Please come in. Would you like to sit down?”
“I would.”
I take her coat and umbrella. She crosses to sit on the wing-backed chair in the front room and sets her large Chanel handbag down. She’s an incredibly lovely woman in her mid-fifties with silver-streaked dark hair cut in a wavy sweep past her ears. Her beauty is evident in the elegant lines of her face, her bright blue eyes, her graceful hands.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs. King.”
“Call me Allegra.” She encloses my hand in both of hers. “And likewise.”
“Can I offer you a cup of tea?”
“Tea?” She arches an elegant eyebrow. “I’m not an eighty-year-old British dowager, for heaven’s sake. Neither are you, by the look of things. Don’t you have anything stronger?”
“Flynn has a bottle of Glenlivet in the cabinet. I’m sure he won’t mind if we have a glass.”
“That’s more like it.” She waves an imperious hand.
I hurry to pour the scotch, then hand one glass to Allegra and sit on the sofa with mine. Shadows smudge the area beneath her eyes, and the lines of weariness around her mouth are more evident now that I’m closer to her. Recalling her health issues, my heart clenches. My memories of Max’s illness are still vivid.
“Where is Flynn?” she asks.
“He had to go out of town. He’ll be back tomorrow evening.”
Regret compresses her lips. “I haven’t seen him in years.”
“I’m sure he’ll be sorry he missed you.”
She eyes me shrewdly. “You’re his lover.”
The blunt comment causes a heated flush to spread over my face. I take a swallow of scotch to avoid having to respond.
“I’ve always been fond of him.” Allegra’s lips curve into a slight, musing smile. “Bit of an oddball, but that’s what makes him so appealing. And he’s the one person in this town who’s always been good about minding his own business.”
Does she know about Flynn’s conflict with her son? It’s not my place to ask. She doesn’t appear to hold anything against Flynn, in any case.
; “He speaks highly of you,” I say. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“And I you.” She settles back in the chair and glances at her watch. “I can’t stay long. I’d have paid you a visit sooner, but getting away from my fussing husband and son isn’t easy these days. They both went off this afternoon to work on some sort of acquisition deal, so I took the opportunity to escape.”
Though the word escape rings strangely in my ears, I nod. “I heard you were ill recently. I hope things are improving?”
“More or less.” She gestures to her chest. “Previously undiagnosed heart issue. Ever since I had three stents put in, William and Jeremy have had a tendency to treat me like an old lady. As if I need constant care and don’t know better. I swear they expect me to take up crocheting. It’s a bit annoying.”
I smile faintly. “I can imagine.”
She sets her glass on a table and reaches for her handbag. “My son told me you’d stopped by the house recently to find out about a certain Victorian artist.”
“Maria Wood, yes.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to talk with you then.” She opens the bag and takes out an old, leather-bound book. “But I hope you’ll find this useful.”
My heart shifts, sudden anticipation striking me. She hands me the book. Despite the worn edges and loose pages, the cover has a strikingly intricate design, a black background embellished with crisscrossing red curves coming together in the center like a drop of blood.
Hands shaking, I turn to the first page: The Book of Fairy Tales, compiled and illustrated by Maria Wood. Lyons and Steele, San Francisco, 1868.
My breath catches. I turn to the first illustration, a detailed drawing of a prince, a demonesque twist on his face, approaching a supposedly sleeping woman whose hand conceals a knife. On the reverse side, the prince lies crumpled on the floor while the princess, only her hand visible at the frame, strides from the room.
I leaf through the pages. All of the tales are illustrated in a similar fashion, graphically depicting sexual violence with a vengeful aftermath. I look at Allegra.
