by Julie Kenner
“Pleasure,” he says, then moves his hands away from my sex toward my hips. He slides up, stroking my waist, my breasts, then leans in so that his mouth brushes my ear. “Tied up like this you can’t shift. You can’t move. You can’t escape the pleasure. You simply have to endure it, letting it fill you. Letting it become so potent it is almost pain. And then—my sweet Christina—you have to fight it back and swallow your own release.”
I whimper.
I actually, seriously whimper.
“Too much?” he asks. “Shall I go?”
I meet his eyes. “Don’t you dare.”
His gray eyes are as hard as steel and so full of desire that I am almost afraid of what will happen when he touches me again. Will either of us be able to hold back? And if we destroy the world, will we even care?
“Christina.”
There is pain in his voice, and when he closes his hands over my breasts—when he bites and licks and teases his way down my belly until his mouth closes hot and hard and demanding over my cunt—I cry out with him, because I want everything he has to give, and we are both being punished. We are both victims of the fuerie. We are both desperately craving something we can’t have and so wildness and passion is the only substitute for a dual explosion that—one day—I desperately hope we can share.
His tongue is inside me, and he is right—I have no defense against the onslaught of pleasure. And yet I have to defend myself. I have to fight these rising sensations even as I want more—so, so much more.
“Please,” I beg, shifting my hips so that he lifts his head to look at me. I tilt my head up so that I can meet his eyes. “I want you inside me. Please—please. If you can’t give me an orgasm, at least give me that.”
He cocks a single brow, and I think my heart skips a little. “Lover, if that will help you out, I am happy to oblige.”
I start to laugh, but it quickly turns to a moan as he slides up my body. He touches me all over, teasing with lips and fingers, his cock rubbing my skin as he moves his body so sweetly over my trapped form.
And then, oh yes, he is there. His cock thrusting inside me. Just a bit, just enough to make me crave more. To make me cry out with harsh demand, “Dammit, Mal, please, now. Please, just fuck me hard.”
He does.
Oh, sweet heaven, he thrusts inside me hard and fast, and I feel so wonderfully, fabulously full. “Yes,” I cry. “Oh, yes, please. I want to feel you explode inside me. Mal, please. Please let me feel you come. Now—oh, god, now before I get to close.”
“Christina—”
My name is a groan, and I cry out as he does. As his body tightens then releases, filling me up and taking me so close that I have to dig my fingers into his shoulders as a defense against the power that is rising within me.
“No.” I twist on the bed. “No, no, no.”
“Do you—”
“I’m okay.” My reply is a shout, and I breathe hard. I have this. I can do this. I can fight down this need. This power. This explosion.
And then, miraculously, I start to settle. I breathe deep and close my eyes, and as I do Mal moves off me. I feel his lips brush over mine, then the delicious pressure of his body against mine.
“I did it,” I say.
“You most certainly did.”
I open my eyes and turn my head toward him. “You did it, too.”
“Oh, yes,” he says playfully, then kisses me. “You are exceptional.” He sits up, then strokes his hands lazily over my arms. “Very exceptional.”
He unties the bands that hold me to the bed. He repeats the process with my ankles, then settles next to me as he continues to stroke me lightly. “Bothering you?”
“You’re very cruel,” I say as a small shiver cuts through me. “But I have to confess I like it.”
“Good to know.” He brushes his lips over mine. “I also know that you’re getting good at this. At keeping control. Holding back. We may have to step it up a notch. Truly test your boundaries.”
“Okay,” I say, and my voice comes out more breathy than I intend.
Mal’s smile is both knowing and indulgent. “Something on your mind? Something that you want?”
I think of how I’d imagined the sting of his palm against my ass. But I can’t bring myself to say it, and I don’t understand why.
I trust this man—I do. So why can’t I make the words come?
I don’t know, but what I do say is the truth as well. “Only you.” I snuggle close. “All I want is you.”
Chapter 9
‡
I wake with the sun, then creep out of bed and pad barefoot into the kitchen. I actually manage to make breakfast, which consists of finding frozen waffles in his freezer, toasting them, and pouring orange juice. I add a cup of coffee and call it a job well done.
I deliver it in bed and hope that he sees it for what it is—my way of saying that I love him, even though I can’t say that I love him. Because while the Christina part of me is hopelessly, desperately, passionately in love with this man, the Jaynie part of me has protected her heart for too long, and those three little words are among the most terrifying in the universe. Especially since we are moving so fast—even though thousands of years isn’t really fast at all.
His eyes open when I wave the coffee cup under his nose, and he smiles at me. “Nice way to wake up,” he says, then slides up in bed so that I can put the tray on his lap.
“I would have done it up bigger, but I figured you’d get a little miffed if I went outside without a bodyguard.” I may not like it, but I get it. The bad guys are after me, and that means I have to be careful. If nothing else, the nasty little attack and quite painful lashing across the chest taught me that.
“You figured right,” he says. “And this breakfast couldn’t be more perfect.”
For that matter, our entire morning couldn’t be more perfect. Mal has some work to catch up on, but he does it on his laptop while I study my lines. That’s one of the nice things about performing in a Shakespeare play; it’s very easy to find a copy of the script if you’ve left your pages behind.
When Mal’s frustration with his computer gets to be too much, he runs lines with me, with him taking the role of Romeo. The irony of the two of us reading the lines of the star-crossed lovers is definitely not lost on me, and I can only hope that our own romance doesn’t turn out to be a tragedy.
I’m about to say as much to him when my cell phone rings. The caller ID shows that it’s Eric, my director, and I take the call, only to be disappointed to learn that he has to go to LA for a few days, which means no rehearsals for the first half of this week. “But I want everyone off book when I get back. And check your email,” he adds. “My assistant’s going to be sending you a schedule. Come in during your assigned time and meet with Jefferson about your costume and Marisol about your make-up. Got it?”
“Got it,” I say, and when the call ends, I meet Mal’s eyes. “No rehearsal.”
“I heard. I think I should take you out for a proper date.”
“Really?”
“I told you, this is our time to get to know each other again.”
His words make me feel warm. Cozy. And a little bit cherished.
We end up having sushi nearby then taking a cab to the theater. The show is spectacular, and I force Mal to hang around the stage door afterwards. Not because I want to get the actors’ autographs, but because I just want to watch and imagine that one day that will be me.
Will it? Can it?
I turn to Mal, suddenly afraid. “I don’t want to give up acting.”
The weapon, the brotherhood, even Mal. They’re all pressing down on me. Claiming and controlling me in ways that I didn’t ask for and am not sure that I want. I feel bubbles of panic rise within me, and I reach out, clinging to Mal before the rising fear turns into something more dangerous.
I see the furrows on his brow as he looks at me with genuine confusion. “Why would you give it up?”
I am swept a
way by such a wave of relief that I laugh out loud. “I don’t know. I don’t—”
He pulls me close and kisses me hard. “I don’t want to change you, lover,” he says, gently cupping my face in his hand. “I want to save you.”
The words bring tears to my eyes. And though I know he is talking about the weapon, I can’t help but think that Mal is saving me in so many ways, because even though my world seems to be changing and shifting with every step I take, I have never in my life felt so steady.
And just like that, I realize that I have to tell him all of it.
“I’m scared,” I say.
He strokes my hair. “I know. But we’ll get the weapon out. We’ll get past this.”
“No. Not about the weapon. Well, yes,” I amend. “Of course I’m scared of the weapon, but that’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Then what?” he says gently.
I draw in a breath, then take his hand. We walk away from Times Square and the after-theater crowd. I have no destination in mind; I just need to move. “I feel like I’m living two lives. Jaynie. Christina.”
“You are,” he says. “This is all new, lover. It’s going to take some time to get used to. Callie’s making the adjustment,” he adds. “Maybe you should talk to her? And there are a few others—Anya in Prague. Daniel in Chicago.”
“It’s not the same.”
“No,” he agrees. “With Callie and the others, they have only part of the original essence, and it’s buried deep. Crew members we lost during the accident. You’re unique—you remain entirely you. And you have a number of your memories back, and the rest will return in time.”
“Yes,” I say. “But that’s not what I mean. Not entirely.” I draw in a breath. “My mother was insane. I mean that literally.”
He’s stopped walking, and now he’s watching my face. I don’t see surprise, and again I wonder how much the brotherhood has dug up on me. I don’t ask, though. No matter what he knows about my mother, he doesn’t know how her problems make me feel. How they scare me.
And so I continue on.
“She used to just check out. She’d have these periods that she called gray moments. And she’d tell me I had the devil inside me. It’s like on some level she knew the truth about me and she couldn’t handle it.”
“You don’t have the devil inside you.”
“No, but I do have the weapon. And I think I might have some of my mother inside me, too.”
He is still watching me, but he says nothing, and so I start walking again, because I just need to move. “I’m afraid I can’t handle it. That I’m as weak as she was. That reality—especially a reality as strange as this one—isn’t something I’m strong enough to handle.”
“You can,” he says.
“How do you know?”
He pulls me to a stop and brushes a kiss over my lips. “Because I’ve seen your strength, Jaynie Christina Hart. I’ve watched you process and handle and adjust to a new reality where a weaker woman would have simply melted down. And I know because if it ever truly does get to be too much for you, then you have my strength to draw on, too. And I promise you—together we can handle anything.”
“I—” I close my mouth, not sure what I wanted to say. Though that is a lie. I want to tell him I love him. But somehow I can’t get those particular words to come. I tell myself that’s okay. As Mal said, everything has been moving so fast. And it’s hard to reconcile the girl I used to be—a girl who wouldn’t even get close much less fall in love—with the woman who loves him.
So I say the only thing I can right now. I say, “Thank you.”
And when he smiles, I know that I’ve said the right thing.
We walk in comfortable silence for a few more blocks, then stop into a diner for late-night sandwiches and dessert and coffee. We end up talking and laughing until well past three in the morning, and when we finally roll back onto the street, Mal pulls out his cell phone.
“Who can you possibly be calling at three?”
“Dennis,” he says. “We’ll never get a cab at this hour.”
I cock my head. “And so you’re going to wake your driver? We can walk.”
He studies me for a moment, then focuses on the strappy sandals I’ve borrowed from Callie.
“What? I can handle it. Besides, it’s a fabulous night. And how often do we have the city almost all to ourselves?”
He nods in acquiescence then links his arm with mine. “You’ve convinced me,” he says as we set off.
I’m right about it being a pleasant night, and despite the hour, I’m not tired. Instead, I’m enjoying being with Mal. Hell, he energizes me even when he’s not pouring energy back into me.
I’m just about to tell him that we should make a habit of taking long walks back from the theater when Mal stops.
“What?” I ask, but the word is barely out of my mouth before I realize that his fire sword is out and extended.
And that there are a grand total of six fuerie on the sidewalk with us—and they have us completely surrounded.
Chapter 10
‡
“Down!”
Mal shouts the word even as he pushes me down with one hand. With the other, he lashes out with the fire sword, sending the blade of light swinging out in an arc around him.
I want to rise and help, but I am trapped. Terrified of these human-looking creatures who are looking at me. Lunging toward me. Kept away only by Mal’s fire sword and his determination.
Two of the fuerie burst forward, a third protected between them.
The third lashes out with its whip, and I cry out in fear, unable from my prone position to even get out of the way.
But in a heartbeat, Mal is in front of the whip, and I suck in air, knowing too well the pain that he will feel.
The weapon only slices his jacket, though, and I am still gasping with relief when he is back in attack mode, a wild thing of fight and motion. Strong and powerful, a man possessed. A man who has the strength to protect me, just as he promised.
It is all over in seconds, and as Mal thrusts his fire sword through the hearts of the fallen fuerie, I realize that I am shaking and crying.
“Hey,” he says soothingly as he crouches in front of me. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re fine.”
I shake my head, because it isn’t only fear that has me blubbering.
Mal doesn’t know that, though, and so he scoops me into his arms and carries me two blocks to a hotel where we are assured of getting a taxi.
I am still feeling numb when we enter his brownstone and he carries me up the steps to the den.
“It’s okay,” he says. “You’re safe. We’re safe.”
“No,” I say. “No, goddammit, no.” I shift in his arms, thrashing until he puts me down, then stares warily at me, as if I am something wild and about to attack.
Wise man, because that’s pretty much the way I feel.
“I used to be a warrior.” I practically spit the words. “I may not remember everything, but I remember that. I was a soldier, and I fought those creatures. That’s why I was on the mission in the first place.” The memories flood back over me even as I’m speaking, filling in the gaps in my memory. “Hell, I was on Liam’s squad. One of the elite fighters. I wasn’t a tech or support or in charge of goddamn requisitions. I was a fucking fighter.”
I run my fingers through my hair as I pace the room. “Now I can’t even get into it with them, because I’m the goddamn prize in the cereal box. Because if I fight I might lose control. Hell, I might turn into fucking Hiroshima.”
“Hey,” he says gently. “It’s okay.”
“The hell it is.” I’m standing by the wall, and I reach out and grab his collar and yank him toward me. “I don’t even know what I am anymore.”
For a moment, I think I see pain in his eyes, but I ignore it and burst forward, closing my mouth over his. Tasting him. Taking him.
With a violent motion, I shift our positions so that his back is
against the wall and I am pressed against him. I feel his hesitation, as if sex with the pissed off crazy woman might not be such a great idea, but I am relentless, my mouth on his, my tongue tasting him, my hands ripping his shirt open with such wild abandon that the buttons go flying.
“You’re still a fighter,” he tells me, which at the moment is appropriate since I am attacking him. “You’re just doing it differently now.”
“Shut up, Mal,” I demand. I don’t know if it’s fear from the attack or frustration from not being able to fight or lingering sexual frustration from my control sessions with Mal. But right then, the only thing in the world I care about is getting this man inside me. And I am relentless.
And thank god, so is he.
He grabs my ass and lifts me, and I hook my legs around his waist. He whips us around, so that now it is my back against the wall, and I am trapped between the hard plaster and the hard heat of his body.
With me stuck fast that way, he uses one hand to lower his fly, then shoves the skirt I borrowed from Callie up my thighs. I’m not wearing underwear, and when his fingers discover that fact, he practically growls.
“Fast,” I demand. “Hard and fast and now. Oh, please, now.”
He doesn’t disappoint, and he is inside me in seconds, deep and hard and wonderful. But it’s not enough. I want more. Need more. And so I take my arms from around his neck and grab his jacket to pull it off, wanting to get down to skin. Wanting to feel him hard and smooth against me.
And then my fingers touch the rip. The slice in his leather jacket from the fuerie’s whip.
I freeze. I just—freeze.
“Christina?”
I shake my head, realizing that this isn’t about being a warrior or being horny or wild or any of that.
This is fear.
Fear that I will lose this man.
Fear that this life that I have—that I have back—will be ripped away from me again.
Fear that I will lose everything I’ve finally grabbed onto.
And, yes, fear that I cannot stop this weapon that is now rising inside me. That I have foolishly triggered.