But I won't crush it. I would never. I'm going to tuck it close to mine and protect it and treasure it—
Oakland comes back to the bed and puts his hands on me, and I stop breathing.
His broad palms smooth my sides, running from my stomach upward, under the thin shirt. My left arm is pinned in place under my breasts by the sling, but he works around it, devoting his attention to the right breast, which is much more accessible. My skin prickles with pleasure, and I fight the urge to arch my back, because that kind of movement would definitely hurt.
Instead, I reach for him with my right hand, tracing the lines of his shoulder, his curved bicep, his corded forearm. I capture his hand for a minute so I can admire his strong fingers and kiss each one. When I release his hand, he relocates it to a lower point of interest and smothers my ensuing gasp with a swift kiss.
"That's it," he whispers. "Tell me when I've got the right spot."
Those fingertips of his are performing the most thrilling dance. I squirm, gasping, my eyes fluttering shut.
Suddenly the heat of him disappears, and I open my eyes, alarmed.
"Shh," he soothes me, tugging down my shorts and underwear and tossing them aside. And then, before I can speak, he's back to that thrilling dance—but not with his fingers this time.
My fingers curl, clutching the sheet. My burnt toes curl too, but I force myself to ignore the chafing and focus instead on the slow surge of pleasure rising with every delicate swirl of Oakland's tongue. Every stroke grows more intense, until a shimmering tidal wave of ecstasy crashes over me, glittery aftershocks rippling through my body. I reach for him desperately and he's there, braced over me, his body lightly pressed against mine as I grip him and shiver through the eddies of the pleasure.
I shift under him, moving my legs, opening the way. "Now," I whisper, and he obeys.
Having him inside me feels like coming home, like finding a missing piece of myself—like something more than sex, because it's us. For a second he's still, as if he's reveling in the connection as much as I am; and then he kisses me again, his lips sending fresh sparkles over my skin. He moves, carefully, gently, as if he's afraid of jarring my shoulder too much.
"Am I hurting you?" he asks, hoarse and strained.
"No," I tell him. "More."
He gives me more, a panting, primal rhythm. The world is black night and silver skin, liquid eyes and dark lashes, surging muscles under smooth skin glazed with a light sweat. I can smell him—the freshness of soap, his crisp cologne, and a rich male scent that sings to my deepest instincts. Before I know it I'm crystallizing and shattering again, rainbow light bursting from my core, flooding every inch of me.
He buries his face in my right shoulder, muffling his cry of pleasure against my flesh. And if a few teardrops gleam on my skin when he lifts his face again, it's nothing I would ever shame him for. Because I know how much I mean to him, and how deeply he treasures this moment between us. How long he has wanted this.
After a moment, he rolls onto his back beside me. The pain in my shoulder and feet has all but faded and I feel exquisitely relaxed. Blissful. Safe.
Oakland reaches over and traces a line from the hollow of my throat, down between my breasts, to my navel, and lower. My nerve endings flutter in response; it feels good, but I'm spent. I shift until I'm close to him, tucked right against his warm skin, with my head on his chest.
"Thank you for rescuing me." His voice thrums deep in his body, reverberating through my ear and cheekbone.
"You're welcome."
"I should clean up so we can sleep. You're tired."
"Okay. But come right back."
He returns in moments, stopping by the kitchenette for a glass of water, which he hands to me. A tiny act of thoughtfulness, for which my tired body is incredibly grateful.
We press together in the dark, under the sheets. I drift in and out of sleep, conscious of him, naked, beside me. When Jeremy and I first broke up, the thing I missed most, besides his humor and his companionship, was sleeping beside him on the nights we spent together. Just having another body in the bed with me is—nice. Reassuring, in a way I didn't realize I needed.
Finally my mind slows and settles, and I fall into a dreamless darkness.
-15-
The One
In the darkness, a voice echoes. "Marilyn."
There's an edge to the voice, a sharp line of panic.
I stir, murmuring curses. "Let me sleep."
"Marilyn, wake up." Large warm fingers prod the flesh of my shoulder.
I open my eyes. "What the hell is it?"
Oakland turns his phone toward me and I blink at it, trying to understand what it is and what I'm supposed to do. Okay. It's a text—no, a series of texts. Words. I can read words. I squint blearily, and he sighs, pulling it back and reading the text aloud.
" 'Good morning, sugar. Sleep well? I found your little protégé wandering around town near your apartment. She's quite the budding talent! Got a real 'spark' LOL. I've taken her under my wing. If you'd like to revisit our arrangement, we'll be at 45 Tanglewood Court. Love, Emily.' "
"What—what does it mean?" I rub my eyes.
"Emily has Laura."
"What? How?"
"I don't know." He rubs a hand over his face, pinches the bridge of his nose. "Laura must have left the cabin and come to Charlotte—although why, I don't know."
"I know why." I sit up slowly, wincing. "She's got a crush on you. Did she text you while you were on the job for Emily, or while you were locked up at the wildlife center?"
"Yeah, she texted a bunch of times. Obviously I couldn't reply."
"Did you text her back yesterday?"
"Well, no. I was kind of preoccupied with you." His apologetic smile warms my heart, but I shake my head at him anyway.
"Did you tell Laura where you were going when you left her at the cabin?" I ask. "Did you say anything about Emily?"
"No." He frowns in thought. "I did tell her I had to go do something so people I care about wouldn't get hurt."
"Oh, no." I roll my eyes. "So when Laura didn't hear from you, she got worried and came looking for you at your apartment. And Emily was there too."
Oakland leaps off the bed, still stark naked, and my stomach thrills at the sight of his beautiful body in the morning light. His skin is the most delicious shade of warm brown, and I want to stroke every inch of it. But there's no time for that—our mutual friend is in danger.
I rise from the bed, keeping my eyes fixed on the rippling muscles of his upper back. When he turns around, his eyes widen, and I remember that I'm still naked below the waist.
"Sorry." I scramble one-handed for my clothes, trying awkwardly to hook one leg into the panties and cover myself up.
"Stop. Stop." Oakland is chuckling. "Here." He kneels, holding the underwear for me to step into, his mouth on a level with the area he manipulated so masterfully last night. The gorgeous guy I just slept with is having to help me dress myself. There's my morning dose of abject humiliation. And I don't even have time to turn this into something sexy.
Sighing, I step into the panties, and then he helps me with a pair of shorts.
"Could you help me with—um, with the bra?" I ask tentatively.
His cheeks actually flush a little—surprising, considering all the women he's see naked. "Sure, I could help with that.
The sling comes off first, and then he gently eases the loose shirt over my arms and head. I stand bare before him, feeling unusually nervous, for me. "They're not as big as Marilyn Monroe's," I say, half-laughing. I meant it as a joke, but the words sound pathetic and insecure the second they're out of my mouth.
"They are perfect," Oakland says reverently, and I bite back another nervous laugh.
What is it with guys and boobs anyway? I will never understand the obsessive fascination with them. Oakland is definitely a boob guy. He's in a trance, apparently oblivious to the fact that he's supposed to be dressing me, and damn me, I love
it.
I want him to take me right now. And that probably makes me the world's worst friend—but I doubt that Emily would hurt Laura. Laura's ability is too rare to risk, and from the texts, Emily seems to understand that.
Ten minutes shouldn't make much of a difference.
I slink closer to Oakland, taking one of his hands in mine and moving it up to my chest. He inhales, green eyes dilating, and I lean up to kiss him.
"What are you doing?" he murmurs. "We don't have time for—"
My body collides with his, and I ignore the brief flare of pain in my shoulder. Maybe I'll regret this later, but right now—
His hands are everywhere, skimming my back, palming my breasts. When his fingers dip far below the band of my shorts and return wet, he locks eyes with me.
"What are you waiting for?" My voice is rough and wild, and he growls in response. He pushes down the clothes he just put on me, picks me up, and hitches my butt up onto the cold kitchen counter. I gasp once at the contact, and again at the suddenness of his entry. We're connected once more, woven together at the very center of ourselves, our hearts beating close, so close, separate by mere inches of skin and flesh and bone. The angle is different this time, and less exciting for me, but Oakland's experience with other girls is good for something, at least, because he sets his large hand against my hip, his thumb teasing and grazing in just the right spot.
Electricity spikes in my center, branching along my nervous system, and I'm momentarily blinded by the splintering thrill of it. The instant he feels me bursting inside, Oakland lets himself go—and this time he sets his open jaws against my right shoulder, his teeth delicately denting my skin—almost a bite, but not quite hard enough for that. It's incredibly erotic.
We collapse against each other, shuddering, gasping, holding on for dear life.
And then I realize what we just did—what I did, while my friend is God knows where dealing with a maniacal, blackmailing, thieving, pain-loving wielder.
"Oh hell." I push Oakland away. "What are we doing? We have to go. We have to—"
"I know. I know." He scrambles for paper towels, and we dress quickly to the soundtrack of my curses.
"Damn, damn, damn it! What is wrong with me? I'm the world's worst friend."
"It's my fault—I should have said no—" He's behind me, fastening my bra, so I can't see his face; but I hear the contrition in his voice.
"Oakland, please." I worm my way into the shirt he holds for me and tuck my arm into the sling again. "You're a red-blooded straight male, and a shifter. And there was a pair of rather nice boobs right in your face, so of course you couldn't think clearly. I'm not blaming you, okay? This one's on me." Wincing, I shove my feet into the big boots.
"Wait a second." He dodges in front of me. "Where do you think you're going?"
"I'm coming with you. To rescue Laura."
"The hell you are."
"Oh, yes I am." My eyes blaze into his, and he blazes right back.
"Marilyn, it's dangerous. And you're injured. You can't come. You'll only get hurt."
"I don't care. I'm coming."
"Don't be stupid. What can you do against someone like Emi—"
I grip his jaw tightly. I hope it hurts. "Don't ever call me stupid."
"I didn't. I said, 'don't be.' " He shakes me off. "And you have to admit that walking into Emily's trap with me, unarmed and unable to wield any kind of defensive magic, is kinda stupid."
"I don't care."
"Well, I do." His jaw flexes. "We just got together, Marilyn! I'm not letting Emily hurt you."
"And I refuse to let her hurt you." I stand as tall as I can. "You'd have to chain me to a chair to keep me from coming with you."
"That can be arranged." There's a dangerous glint in his eyes. Great. I was trying to make a statement of my devotion, not give him ideas.
"I'm not into the bondage thing," I say breathlessly, backing away in spite of myself as he advances.
"Aren't you?"
I bite my lip until pain flares. Of course Jeremy told Oakland about our sex life. They were close friends.
"Jeremy told you what I—what we used to do?" I can hardly form the words, but I have to know.
"He did. Often." Oakland's face is grim, and I realize, with a sudden pang, what it must have cost him to listen to those stories over and over.
"The rough stuff—it was just a way for me to get excited." I flush, looking away. "I couldn't—get there—with Jeremy unless we did a lot of crazy role-play and different scenarios."
"You didn't seem to have any trouble this morning, or last night," says Oakland gently.
"That's because it's you," I snap. "You're gorgeous, and magical, and you're—you. I've never felt this way about anyone, and I—"
He reaches for me, and the next second he has spun me around, my back to his chest and his arms pinning me gently in place. "Don't struggle," he breathes against my ear. "I don't want you to hurt yourself."
"Tricky bastard," I hiss.
"I will tie you up if I have to. But I'd rather you agree to not come with me, or follow me. Tying you up might do damage to that shoulder, and we don't want that, do we?"
"No." I relax in his arms. "You're right—I wouldn't be able to do anything against Emily. I'll stay here. But please promise me you'll be careful, okay? Really careful. And bring Laura back safely."
He hesitates, and then turns me back around to face him. His green eyes bore into mine. "And you promise to stay here? You won't follow me?"
"I won't. I swear."
His jaw drops. "You're lying to my face, aren't you?"
"Of course not, darling. Why would I ever lie to you?"
"You're going to follow me the minute I leave the building."
I smirk. "I most certainly will not. I'll stay right here like a good girl."
Oakland sighs. "What am I supposed to do with you? Are you really going to make me tie you up?"
"Let's get one thing straight," I tell him. "If I want to be tied up, I will ask for it. If you tie me up without my express permission, you and I are done. Over. I don't care how hot you are. I just got rid of one guy who laid hands on me without my consent, and I'm not doing that again—even if you think you're doing it to protect me. Got it?"
Soberly, he nods, his hands dropping to his sides. "I'm sorry."
"Good. Now let's stop wasting time and go get Laura." I snag two bananas from the counter and toss him one. "Breakfast."
He stares at the fruit. "Panthers prefer a big breakfast of bacon and sausage and eggs."
"Poor panther. You'll have to make do for now." I stand on my toes to kiss his cheek. "Let's go."
-16-
Just Like Fire
The address Emily gave us turns out to be a neglected-looking house on a desolate, overgrown corner, deep in the heart of one of Charlotte's older neighborhoods. The house is barely visible, thanks to a series of towering magnolias marching along the edge of the property.
Oakland parks a little way down the street and we walk cautiously toward the driveway on foot. But before we reach it, he pulls me aside, and we dart into the deep shadow beneath a magnolia's heavy boughs.
"We shouldn't walk straight in," he whispers. "Let's do a little reconnaissance first."
"Okay," I whisper back.
He slinks ahead of me, quiet as a cat, and I follow as silently as I can—which turns out to be not silently at all. Huge brown magnolia leaves crunch under my boots, and I keep bumping my head or shoulder on low-hanging branches. To his credit, Oakland doesn't throw me any exasperated looks, though I'm sure he's regretting not tying me to a chair.
When we've circled to the back of the house, he crouches behind some overgrown azaleas, and I do the same. He's peering up at the house, eyeing the dark windows. I can't see anything through that cloudy glass—just a reflection of leaves, clouds, and sky. The house's paint is peeling badly, some of it curling, revealing weather-eaten boards, and some of it dangling in ragged strips.
Mixed with the smell of damp earth and fall-blooming azaleas comes the faint odor of mildew and rottenness, probably from the house itself.
There's a kind of decayed beauty about the place that makes me want to paint it. But I shove the urge aside, because somewhere inside this dilapidated building, Laura is probably cringing while Emily threatens her with magical phantom pain. Or maybe Emily is already torturing her. My breathing quickens at the thought. Screw all this reconnaissance—we've got to get in there and help her.
Besides me, Oakland shifts. "Stop breathing like that."
"What? Why?"
He mutters the answer, so low I can barely hear it. "It's turning me on."
"My breathing is turning you on?"
"It's the way you're doing it. Stop it."
"Stop breathing?"
"Just—never mind. Wait here." He rises and moves away, but I catch his hand.
"What? No way! I'm coming too."
"Marilyn, I love you—but you're not the best at stealth." He smiles apologetically.
"Why the stealth? She knows we're coming anyway. We should just walk right in."
"She knows I'm coming. She doesn't know that I have you with me. I just want to get an idea of where they are in the house before we charge in through the front door."
"Wait." I narrow my eyes. "She doesn't expect me to be here—so why don't you go in the front door while I sneak in from the back? Maybe I can smuggle Laura out of here. Or smack Emily on the head with a big stick so we can all escape." The idea sounds good. In reality, I'm not sure I'd have the nerve to follow through. I hope I would, if my friends' safety depended on it.
Oakland returns to his crouching position, his forehead creased in thought. "That could work. But you'll have to be quiet, Marilyn, and careful. Emily could be working with someone else."
"We'll have to take that chance." I shift my weight, wincing as a twig cracks under my heel. "Sorry. I promise I can be stealthier once I get inside."
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