"Don't play dumb. You know exactly how to use this face." I trail a wet finger down his cheek and along his jaw. His eyes heat suddenly, his smile disappearing.
"None of them meant a damn thing to me," he says. "They were distractions. Sweet girls—smart, too, most of them—and we had fun. But I was always thinking of you."
Maybe I should be pissed that he's been using random women to distract himself, to get off. Maybe I should be grossed out that this guy has been picturing me when he was inside other women's bodies. Maybe I should slap him and head back to the beach. But those women were adults. Willing and eager participants, from what I could see.
After what Jeremy did last night, the thought of men and their lust should sicken me. But there's such a stark difference between Jeremy's clumsy, alcohol-fueled groping and the beautiful man standing in the sea, telling me that he has loved me in silence, at a distance, for over a year.
"You never tried to steal me away from Jeremy," I say, so low that he leans forward to catch the words before the surf steals them away.
"I thought about it. But he was my friend, and you two seemed happy."
"We were, for a while. Until he started drinking more, and wouldn't stop."
"I didn't know."
Jeremy's name has shattered the moment, creeping between us like a seeping corpse dredged from the waves. I want to drive him away, out of my head. I want nothing but beauty in my mind, and pleasure, and sweet things.
I'm shoulder-deep in the waves, and Oakland is a good ten inches taller than me. The surf licks at his sculpted chest, foaming at the base of his pecs, around his biceps. I reach out and lay my hand on the smooth curved muscle of his arm, sliding my fingers up to his shoulder. And then I pull myself through the water, until all of me is pressed against him—my bikini-clad breasts, my bare stomach, the thin triangle of fabric between my legs. I tug his head down, toward mine, and I kiss him.
His lips are cool and wet and salty. But he doesn't respond to my kiss, except to push me away, exclaiming, "Marilyn, no. You've just been through a trauma, and you're not thinking straight. You need to process what happened."
"Maybe this is me processing."
Pain shoots through his eyes. "I don't want to be your therapy."
"Are you sure?" I move closer again, sliding my hand down his stomach under the waves. Down, and down, until I find the hardness I knew would be there. His breath hisses through his teeth, and I smile. "I think you could use a little therapy yourself."
"Stop," he says, and my brain flashes back to last night, when I told Jeremy to stop and he didn't. I jerk my hand away.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I thought you wanted me."
His answer is a fierce rumble through his chest and throat—a low, animalistic growl that a human shouldn't be able to make. "Are you kidding? Of course I want you. I've wanted you for months. But I want to be more than a way for you to forget him."
"I think maybe you already are."
"Well, until you're sure—" He arcs away from me, his gorgeous body curving as he dives into the waves and swims away from me as fast as he can.
"Oh, hell no." I catch my lip in my teeth and throw myself into the ocean, swimming after him. I know what I want now—what I've wanted for longer than I realized, I think. By some crazy twist of fate, he wants me too, and I'm not about to let him push me away or change his mind. He thinks he's doing this for me, giving me space and time. I don't need time—I've been over Jeremy for months. And I don't need space. I need him tight against me, not just to erase the memory of Jeremy's body, but because I think my skin, my nerves, my everything has been aching for him always.
So I follow him, stroke after stroke. The setting sun gleams, a rippling orange-gold river across the sea. The sky in the west is darkening, washed with heavy blue.
We're swimming past the point, until the pile of rocks there hides the beach house and its strip of sand.
I'm tiring quickly. Oakland must have muscles of iron, and he's going far, far out into the ocean.
A wave catches me off guard, submerging me, and as I resurface, another strikes me full in the face before I can catch a breath. I let myself go for a second, following the sweep of the wave, and then I fight my way back up for air. A quick gasp is all I get before I'm under again.
Crap. I shouldn't have cried wolf earlier, with my little "maybe I'm drowning" stunt to get Oakland's attention. He won't take it seriously this time, won't come after me. I shouldn't have been idiot enough to follow him out here.
The world is swirling dark water, gurgling in my ears, pushing at every orifice, pressing for entrance. I pinch my lips and roll with the current, trying to ride it until I can break free. But my muscles are weary from everything, everything, and they're constricting, tighter, tighter. I flail wildly, all strategy forgotten in my desperation to get out, to break the surface. I'm not even sure which way the surface is.
Something brushes my leg, and I snatch at it blindly, not even caring what it is. It's a thick, strong arm, and it tows me through the water, out of the grip of the current. At last my head breaks into blessed thin air, clear and welcoming. I choke and gasp, shaking the water from my eyes, half-propped on Oakland's shoulder.
"Are you suicidal?" he says in my ear. "Or was this another ploy to get my attention?"
I can't answer him. I need air more than I need his understanding.
He sighs. "Come on."
He drags me through the surf to the spit of land with the pile of rocks. My fingers scrabble at them weakly, and my arms feel about as useful as a couple of spaghetti noodles. Oakland climbs up himself, hooks his hands into my armpits, and hoists me up beside him. I lean back, my head propped on a lump of rock, and I stare into the darkening sky and breathe deeply of the sea air. I feel vibrantly, painfully alive.
"That's twice now you've saved me," I say. It's a test. Because of course, the first time he "saved" me in the ocean, I was pretending, so it doesn't count. But if it really was him in another form last night, then he saved me from Jeremy too.
His profile is shadowed against the peach-colored wash of the sky. "I guess you'll have to pay me back somehow."
A non-committal answer that doesn't confirm my suspicions. "Next time you're in danger, give me a call, and I'll come save you," I tell him, hooking my arm through his. I worm my fingers into his hand, tracing the creases of his palm lightly with my nails. When a shiver runs over him, I smile. "Chilly?"
"Something like that." His voice is rough.
I angle my head so my mouth brushes his ear. "Oakland, I followed you to tell you something important. What happened with Jeremy was horrible, and it will probably bother me for a long time. But that doesn't mean I have to deny myself the things I want. And it doesn't make you my security blanket, or my therapist, or my rebound. There's something special here, between you and me. I'm just sorry I didn't realize it sooner."
His breath turns ragged as I whisper into his ear, but he still doesn't move.
I slip my hand from his and lay my palm against his cheek, turning his face toward mine. For a second I'm startled by how bright his eyes are, in spite of the gathering darkness.
My lips hover over his, my nose brushing his cheek, skin barely whispering against skin in an unbearable dance.
"Oakland," I breathe. "Kiss me."
His hand catches the back of my head, tangling in my hair, and he closes the space between us. His kiss is an exquisite agony of wanting, and a tingling, burning surge of desire shoots straight to my core. His mouth captures mine again and again. He licks my lips, the ridges of my teeth, traces swirling circles over my tongue with his until I whimper into his mouth and he moans back.
I swing across his lap, bucking unashamedly to bring my hips tighter to his, arching against him. He kisses me again, open and forceful, plunging his tongue inside me and withdrawing it just as quickly—in and out, a pulsing invasion that turns me desperate to have that attention focused somewhere else.
I reach
for him, tugging at the band of his swim trunks—but he snares my wrist in one powerful hand. "No, Marilyn. Not yet. Not here."
"Why the hell not?"
"I don't have protection."
"I've got that covered. As long as you don't have any diseases from your dalliances—"
He shakes his head. "I'm very careful."
But the thought of all the women he's slept with cools me off a little. My reason is returning. I can't do this with him, now, out in the open. I scan the horizon and the bit of beach I can see from our nest in the rocks. There's no one in sight. But still—what if this is another one-time thing for him? What if he's completely over me tomorrow? He said all those pretty things, told me how he has always wanted me—but what if he says that to all of the girls? What if he's lying? Men—they can't be trusted. Trust them, and they'll hurt you, over and over.
"Marilyn." He's very still under me. "What's wrong?"
"You were right," I say, trembling. "I can't do this. Not yet. I can't."
For a moment, panic flares through my entire body—the fear that, having come this far, he won't take no for an answer. That he'll call me a tease and claim that he has the right to me, after I've worked him into this state. I can feel how much he wants me. It's going to physically hurt if he denies himself.
When his large hands encircle my waist, I bite back a scream.
"Marilyn." His voice is low and soft. "Don't look so terrified. I would never, ever hurt you." He lifts me, gently, off his lap, and sets me back on the rock beside him. His biceps bulge gloriously as he does it, and for a split second I regret saying no.
But this act of his, more than anything else, convinces me.
He respects me. He loves me.
"We should go back," I whisper.
"Yeah. Give me a minute, okay?"
"Sure." I pull my knees up to my chest and set my chin on them. But my eyes keep sidling over to Oakland, as if he's a magnet, pulling my gaze. Again I notice the thin gold chain with the pendant in the shape of a puma—
Wait a second. A puma is the same thing as a panther, or a cougar. So—
I reach out and touch the pendant with one finger. "What's this?"
"Oh, that's nothing. A family thing, a kind of heirloom. My dad gave it to me, because I'm the oldest." His hand closes around it. If he had a shirt on, I'm pretty sure he'd tuck it away, out of sight.
"Does it have a special meaning?"
He turns, his eyes analyzing mine. My heart pounds hard against my lungs.
"I suppose you could say it's my spirit animal," Oakland says slowly. "Why do you ask?"
I can barely draw a deep enough breath to speak the words. "Do you know anything about that mountain lion last night? The one that attacked Jeremy?"
"What exactly are you asking me? If I trained an attack panther and set it loose on your ex?" He sneers, but I can see the alarm under the veneer of ridicule; and it gives me the courage to speak.
"No," I say. "A trained animal wouldn't have listened to me when I asked it not to bite off Jeremy's dick. Only a creature with thought and self-awareness would be capable of that kind of restraint."
He opens his mouth and closes it again, staring out at the dark ocean. His hands grip his knees, white-knuckled.
"I'm not an idiot, Oakland. Did you think I wouldn't figure it out?"
He sucks in a short, sharp breath and says tersely, "And what, exactly, do you think you have figured out?"
If I say it aloud, and I'm wrong, he'll think I'm completely psycho. He'll run, fast and far, away from the girl who believes in weird, crazy paranormal shit. But in spite of how utterly ridiculous it sounds in my head, I know in my gut that I'm right.
"You're some kind of were-panther, aren't you?" Yeah, that sounded even dumber than I thought it would.
"Shifter," he says.
And with that single word, my world shatters and reassembles itself in a different shape—a frightening shape full of deep, dark cracks and unsettling possibilities.
"Shifter," I repeat, my heart throbbing harder.
"It was stupid to turn last night. I could have stopped him in this form. But I was so angry I couldn't help it. The cat just took over." The sentences fall from his lips, one after another, an avalanche of truths, and I grasp at each one, trying to absorb it all.
"You can turn into a panther. A mountain lion." I say it slowly, carefully.
"Yes."
"Show me."
"Right now?"
"Yes."
He glances around, as if desperate for an excuse not to. But it's dark now, and the strips of beach we can see on either side of the point are empty. No boats, no one within view. We're alone out here on this spit of rocky land.
"I'll have to take these off." He tucks his thumbs into his swim trunks. "Otherwise the magic will shred them."
"So do you, like, have to rearrange your bones and go through some painful process to get there? If it hurts, you don't have to do it." My hands are shaking. "Is it—are you safe to be around in that form?"
"I'm still me when I'm the mountain lion," he says. "No reason to be afraid." He rises, turning his back and pulling down his swim trunks. He has a perfectly shaped backside, and strong thighs—and then his entire form shivers and turns transparent for an instant. When he solidifies again, he's the sleek, tawny panther I saw last night.
His fur shimmers faintly silver in the glow of the rising crescent moon. His face is noble, solemn, with a white muzzle, a triangular pink nose, and black-rimmed eyes that glow an alien emerald-green. He drapes himself over the rocks with a quiet huff, his massive front paw just inches from my bare thigh.
"Oh, god," I whisper.
His ears, tufted inside with soft white fur, twitch at the sound of my voice. He shifts, laying his paw directly on my thigh. It's so huge.
Gingerly I stroke the furred toes. "You have claws, right?"
In answer he stretches out his front paw, spreading the pads wide, and the claws that tore Jeremy open slide out—dark, curved, and wickedly sharp. He's careful not to let them touch my skin.
Emboldened, I stroke the top of his head, the groove running between his ears, and the contours of his beautiful feline face. "You're gorgeous," I whisper. "Did I tell you I'm secretly a cat person?"
His body rumbles, soft and deep, in response. I slide my arm over his shoulders, hugging the thick furred neck. When he's in this form, touching him is comforting, not titillating. He's like a big stuffed animal, or a very large pet—if pets had six-inch claws and weighed more than I do. He yawns, his lips pulling back to reveal vicious, powerful jaws. He could take my arm in those jaws and snap the bone in half easily. I draw my arm away, and his head turns, his green eyes searching mine, asking a question I don't understand.
And then his shape ripples and morphs, and he's Oakland again, perched on the rock beside me and splendidly naked. My eyes dart down and then snap up again. Yes, that's a good piece of equipment to have. Good Lord. I'm liquefying again at the sight of him.
Oakland snatches his swim trunks and holds them over himself. "Well? Were you scared?"
"A little. And I'm wondering if I've been dreaming all this. It's too crazy. I have questions, lots of questions."
"I promise to answer, but first we should go back to the house. They'll be worried about us, especially after last night's events."
Last night. With a shock I realize that I forgot about Jeremy's crushing weight, and his sickening breath, and his thick groping fingers—I forgot all of it, for the past twenty minutes or so. And that, in itself, is a gift so precious I'm tempted to cry.
-9-
Safe
Laura and Carynne are frantic when we return, and Cliff claims he was about to go out and search the ocean for our bodies.
"So if you weren't drowning, what were you doing all that time?" Carynne wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.
Laura smacks her arm, looking horrified. She turns immense blue eyes to me. "Marilyn, girl talk. Now. B
edroom."
They drag me into our room and shut the door.
"Mari, please tell me you didn't sleep with him," Laura says soberly.
"No. But why the hell shouldn't I?"
"Girl, what you went through last night—you—you shouldn't—"
"So because Jeremy tried to stick his thing in me uninvited, I should deny myself what I want?" My voice is higher, thinner than I'd like.
"That's not what we're saying," Carynne interjects. "We're just making sure you're really okay. Oakland didn't—I mean, he didn't pressure you, did he?"
I sigh, sinking onto my bunk. "If anything, it was the other way around."
"Really?" Carynne's eyes light with interest, but Laura twists her fingers together, round and round, over and over.
"Yeah, he's a freaking gentleman." I flick a bit of string off the blanket.
"He's certainly different." Laura's voice is tight, strained.
I narrow my eyes at her. "How do you mean?"
She turns away, moving to the window to fiddle with the curtains. "Mari, have you talked to your mom about all this yet?"
"No." I am dreading that conversation. My mother is a chronic worrier and has warned me about the dangers of molestation since I was in kindergarten. It's a wonder I didn't run screaming from every man I saw. When I tell her what Jeremy almost did, she won't take it well; in fact, think it will bother her more than it does me. Or maybe I'm really afraid that telling her about it will make it more raw and real. That it will make me care. That she'll shatter the wall of careless calm that I've been maintaining all day.
I don't want to be wrecked. I want to move on, as if it didn't happen. "I'm not calling her right now, okay? Let's go out and get dinner. Maybe I'll call her after that."
Carynne opens the door and bounces out, announcing the plan to the guys; but Laura holds me back.
"I called the hospital to check on Jeremy," she says. "He's stable, and the doctors say he should pull through with just a few scars, no permanent damage. His parents are there—his mom was hysterical, Mari. She doesn't want to believe he did anything wrong. She said there must have been a miscommunication between you two. And she said they're talking to Animal Control, having people look for the animal that hurt him."
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