North of Need (Hearts of the Anemoi, #1)

by Laura Kaye

  She debated only for a moment. “I’m sure the fire’s out by now, so get in. It’ll be too cold out there.”

  He gaped. Rubbed his hand over his chest. “Uh—”

  “We’re adults. We can handle sleeping in the same bed.” She yanked back the covers and patted the far side of the mattress.

  He eyed the bed, then glanced back to her. “You’re sure?” She nodded and he rounded the foot of the wide bed. The lean muscles of his abdomen and back rippled as he moved. He slid into the bed with such grace and ease of movement. Reaching down, he grasped the thin white sheet and pulled it to mid-chest.

  “Don’t want the blankets?”

  “Nah, this is perfect.” Lying on his side, he smiled and burrowed into his pillow. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Megan murmured as she resettled on her side. facing him. She had to restrain herself from thinking of where Owen lay as “John’s side.” Damnit. She wasn’t betraying him, was she? No. Her mother was right. John would want her to be happy. Megan knew that was true. She huffed out a breath. For God’s sake, they were only sleeping together for a few hours, not walking down the aisle.

  Sharing her bed—feeling the dip of the mattress that said you weren’t alone, hearing the soft sound of another’s breath, knowing you could reach out and find the warmth and companionship of another person—it was all oddly nice. That it was this person, Owen, well, that was nice, too. She allowed her gaze to cross the bed. Good God, that one lonely bare shoulder was a monument to masculinity. The fist tucked under his chin brought the image of Michelangelo’s David to mind, with his big strong hand curled at his side. Who knew a man’s hands could be so appealing?

  “What?” he asked.

  Her eyes flashed up to his. “Nothing.”

  Sleepy humor played at his lips. It was so damn sexy. “Okay.”

  She shook her head against her pillow and closed her eyes.

  “Hey, Megan?”

  She peeked one lid open. “Hmm?”

  “Can we have ice cream for breakfast?”

  Her mouth curved into a grin. She couldn’t think of anyone, save maybe Kate, who could draw a smile from her so quickly. But he was just unexpectedly adorable. “Maybe. If you’re a good boy.” She cringed. Why the hell did she say that? Was she…flirting with him? Restraining a grimace, she chanced a look at him.

  His dark gaze shifted from playful to scorching. “And what would that entail?”

  Heat shot through her body, and unfamiliar desire pooled in her belly. Flustered, she kicked off the top cover. “Not asking questions like that, to start. Now go back to sleep. It’s too damn early to be awake.” She heaved a deep breath to calm her racing heart.

  “If you say so.” Even with his eyes closed, a smile continued to play around his lips.

  Once again, Megan had a hard time falling asleep. She longed for the deep, restorative sleep she’d had earlier in the night, but it eluded her. Then she suspected why. She debated. Chided herself. Minutes passed, her body stubbornly awake. Could it be so wrong to want a bit of comfort? Besides, she really needed to get more sleep if she was going to be able to sort all this out in the morning.

  Slowly, so as not to shake the bed, she scooted closer, closer, until she could grasp Owen’s hand where it stuck out from underneath the pillow. She rolled onto her stomach so she didn’t have to get too close, but found herself in the middle of the mattress before she could comfortably touch him again. She settled her palm over his palm, laced her thumb around his.

  His eyes flashed open. The same heat and intensity blazed out of them. He squeezed her hand, winked at her, then closed his now-satisfied eyes again.

  His acceptance of her touch and obvious enjoyment of it settled over her like the warmth of a freshly stoked fire after being out in the snow, all comforting and tantalizing where it soaked into cool skin. More than anything, his touch soothed her, grounded her. She slid off into an unusually restful sleep.

  She did dream, but this time not of Christmas night accidents that turned her life upside down. This time she dreamed of Owen. Running through a snowy field, his legs fast and agile despite the deep wind-blown drifts. His completely delighted face as he collapsed into the snow while she pummeled him with snow balls. Him building an igloo in her front yard. Them sitting together eating big bowls of dessert inside the ice-block house.

  Then, in that screwy way dreams veer off course, the mystery voice returned. Good idea, it said, inserting itself into her dream. Owen needs the snow. You must take care of him. You must choose him. Before the snow melts.

  Chapter Seven

  Megan awoke content and energized. God, sleep was a wonder drug. When had she last felt so good, so clear-headed, so light in her own skin?

  “Morning, again.”

  Her gaze flashed across the bed to find Owen staring at her. A blush stole across her cheeks, the heat of it all the more pronounced in the chilly air. “Morning. For real, this time.”

  In the light of day, she drank him in, first noticing the warm brown eye peeking out from where he was still buried in the pillow. Megan yearned to comb his hair off his face, to push back the shiny, black disarray of long, layered strands covering his forehead. The urge made her distinctly aware her hand remained curled around his. She didn’t want to release him, though, because she liked the feeling of being touched, of touching.

  She thought back to yesterday, of waking up to the utter aloneness of Christmas morning. Never could she have imagined how different this morning would be.

  “Is this a dream?” The words spilled from her mouth.

  Owen’s grip on her hand tightened, that lone dark eye trapped her with its serious intensity. “Waking up across from you is the stuff of which dreams are made. But, no.”

  Her heart skipped, took off at a sprint. She half expected a playful grin, an amused response. Instead, his solemnity brought her back to last night’s conversation. Owen wasn’t playing; her gut told her he was being honest. She held her breath and let it out with a question of equal earnestness. “Are you real?”

  “Yes.”

  Megan’s respiration joined her heart in the race. She swallowed thickly. “Am I going crazy?”

  “Of course not.” Concern shadowed his expression. “The situation is a little unusual, but you’re in your right mind.”

  She licked her lips. “And, what’s ‘the situation’?”

  “You and me.”

  Red lips curled around the words, drawing her gaze. Her mouth went dry. The urge to taste that full bottom lip ripped through her. “You and me,” she managed. She hoped he didn’t notice the breathy tremble of her voice.

  He nodded against his pillow. “You and me.”

  She chuffed out a laugh. “Still the master of the vague.”

  Owen shrugged a shoulder. Defined muscles bulged with the movement. “You really want me to spell it out?”

  Megan gulped. Did she? Was she ready to fully understand what was going on? Holding her breath, she said, “Yes.”

  “I’m here for you, Megan. Because of you. You need me—”

  “You don’t even know me.”

  His dark gaze bored into her. “Don’t I?”

  Tiny hairs raised all across her body. Owen had known her name, about her rough times. What else did he know? And how? Who was this mutual friend?

  Before she had a chance to think through a response, he spoke again. “I need you, too.”

  Pinpricks tingled across her scalp. “Why?” she whispered.

  “Because you’re the one who brought me here, who made me real. After a very long time.”

  Electricity sizzled in the air. She gasped for breath, sat up, and hugged her knees to stop the room from spinning. Her hand felt uncomfortably cold without the warmth of his grasp. “I don�
�t…I…” She shook her head.

  “I know.” He sat up next to her. “Hey, guess what time it is?”

  “What?” She chanced a glance his way.

  Owen smiled. “It’s time for more ice cream.”

  One beat passed. Then another. Finally, Megan chuckled. Ice cream. Tried. True. Real. Tangible. Not at all confusing or weird. She nodded, despite her brain’s inability to understand what the heck was happening. “Yeah, okay. Let’s have ice cream.”

  Without waiting for him to respond, she slipped out of bed, needing a break from the mystery. And from the lure of his lips, and that damned shoulder.

  When she shut the bathroom doors, she found herself in darkness. In the sunny morning brightness of the bedroom, she’d forgotten about the power outage. Her first job after getting dressed would be hand-to-hand combat with the generator. Why they hadn’t bought a push-button-start unit, she still didn’t understand. The hand-pull unit had been fifty dollars cheaper, and John wanted the full manly-man experience while they were up in the mountains. That’d been fine when he’d been here. Now, she had to fight the hand-pull, which was so much trouble she almost never bothered unless the need for power became urgent. It was. They wouldn’t have heat, lights, running water, or hot food without it.

  She wished the power would just come back on.

  In the meantime, she needed a flashlight by which to do her bathroom business. She felt her way to the door handle. Found it. When she pulled the door open, the lights were on.

  The Christmas tree. The recessed lighting in the kitchen, over the fireplace, in the foyer. The Mission-style lamp on the side table. The fridge rattled to life. A low hum precipitated the return of the heat, and she grinned as warmth blew against her back from the bathroom register.

  Unreasonable happiness gripped her as she returned to the bathroom. Could this day get any better? Positivity coursed through her, made her believe she could climb a mountain. The feeling was all the stronger for how long it had been since she’d last experienced anything like it.

  Still, she had good reason for a little cheer, a little positivity. The storm had passed. The sun shone brightly. The power returned in time to save her from wrenching her shoulder on the generator. She’d shared her bed with a beautiful man.

  She paused with the toothbrush halfway to her mouth. Three parts of her psyche played internal tug-o-war. The woman in her wanted. Knew that beautiful man would give her anything she asked. He was here for her, after all. Whatever that meant. The wife in her wanted to flee. She’d loved John. Some part of her would always love him. The widow in her struggled to make sense of it all, to wade through the need the woman’s feelings created, to stem the wife’s guilt and fear of betrayal.

  “Any words of wisdom this morning?” she asked the room, waited, then rolled her eyes. “Course not.” She popped the toothbrush in her mouth and finished freshening up, glad for the return of the hot water. She fussed at her hair, trying to get errant curls back in line. No way was she letting herself think about the fact she was putting considerably more time into her appearance than she had yesterday. The frostnip blared out from her cheek, still dark red and now scabbing. She groaned. Resisted scratching at it. Wished it would go away.

  Back in the bedroom, she found the bed empty. She stepped into slippers and her soft pink robe, then shuffled out to the kitchen. Owen was leaning against the counter, arms folded across his chest, waiting for her.

  Megan almost pouted at the reappearance of the black T-shirt covering his body, but a chuckle bubbled out at the sight of two bowls, two spoons, and four half gallons of ice cream lined up on the kitchen counter. “What do you want for breakfast?” she deadpanned.

  His brow furrowed. He looked from her to the ice cream and back. “I thought…”

  She patted his arm. All solid muscle. “Just teasing. Dig in.” God, he had the most amazing buoying effect on her emotions, her disposition.

  Owen’s expression brightened. He rubbed his hands together and ripped the lids off each carton.

  She chuckled at his enthusiasm and prepared some coffee. “Want some?”

  “Hmm?” He turned to look at what she was doing. “Oh. No. Thanks.”

  “I can’t wake up without coffee.” She set out a coffee mug, then leaned against the counter near him. “You having some of each again?”

  “Nope.” He scooped, then scooped again.

  Curious, she peered over his arm into the bowl. Mint chocolate chip and peach today. She smiled up at him.

  Sucking a bit of ice cream off one finger, he asked, “What?”

  Her breathing stuttered at the thought of tasting the sweet cream off his skin. “Nothing.”

  “No, tell me.” He stepped closer.

  She shook her head. “Why mint and peach?”

  He quirked a crooked smile. “Mint for fresh breath, peach because it’s breakfast. You know, fruit.”

  “I don’t think peach ice cream counts as fruit.”

  “What’s that right there?” He pointed to the hunks of frozen orange buried in the mounds of ice cream overflowing his bowl.

  “Peach, but—”

  “Nuh uh. No but. It’s peach. Case closed.” He lifted the bowl and took a big bite.

  When he started with the little moans again, she had to turn away.

  “What flavor can I get you?” he asked between bites.

  She glanced over her shoulder. Met his playful, satisfied gaze. His dark eyes peeked out between strands of black hair, waiting, expectant. She turned back to pouring a cup of coffee. “Peach. It’s breakfast, after all.”

  “Now you’re talking.”

  With a steamy cup of warmth in hand, she turned and found him holding a bowl out to her, the peach ice cream mounded up over the top. “Owen!”

  “What?” His face was all innocence.

  “I’ll never eat all that.”

  He grinned. “Sure you will.”

  “It’s breakfast.” She accepted the bowl, peered down into it. Four scoops!

  “I know. Most important meal of the day, isn’t that what they say?” He spooned some mint into his mouth and nudged her shoulder with his arm.

  “Ice cream’s not a meal.”

  He swallowed. “Says who? Tastes like a meal to me.” A bit of mint cream clung to his bottom lip.

  “You’re impossible.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I? Totally possible.”

  Butterflies took flight in her stomach. She wouldn’t win this. Didn’t want to, really. She rounded the counter and perched on a stool at the breakfast bar. He followed her lead and joined her.

  They gorged themselves on ice cream in relative silence. Well, she was silent. His small rapturous moans and groans echoed around the room. Jeez, if he took this much pleasure from a bowl of Edy’s, what kind of sounds would he make in bed?

  The hand holding her spoon froze halfway to her mouth and her cheeks went hot at the thought. Lost in her imagining and totally shocked by her body’s ability to leap there, she jumped when Owen’s fingers brushed her flaming cheekbone.

  §

  Owen stroked her uninjured cheek once, twice, then dropped his hand. “What caused this? It’s lovely.” Gods, her skin was so soft. He wanted to explore every inch of it.

  She squirmed under his gaze, shifted on her stool, stirred her ice cream. Fascinating. As he ate, he drank in each of her small movements, tried to decipher them. Her silence made him smile.

  With two final spoonfuls, his bowl emptied. He hummed in satisfaction as he pushed it away. Thought about how soon they might be able to have more. Turning in his chair, he surveyed the sky through the large front windows. “Looks like the storm passed.”

  “Yeah.”

  The fresh, clean snowfall called to him. “Want to go for a w
alk after breakfast?”

  She pushed her bowl away and swiveled toward him. “Sure, although I don’t know how much walking we’ll be able to do. Probably three feet of snow out there.”

  “Mmhmm.” He could take care of that. Grabbing his bowl, he rose and rounded the counter. “Any chance you have more clothes I could borrow? Maybe some boots, a coat?” The jeans he’d shown up in last night were still wet, and though he didn’t really need the layers, she’d expect him to wear something.

  “Well, yeah, but what are you—”

  “You get showered and dressed, and I’ll shovel a path. We’ll take it from there.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I like to shovel snow, actually. I’m at home in the snow.”

  “All right.” She hopped off the stool and stowed her empty bowl in the sink.

  Pleasure rippled through him at the thought she’d eaten the huge serving he’d prepared, that her mouth was filled with the same flavor as his own.

  “Come with me. I’ll show you what I have, and you can pick whatever you think will fit.” She led him back to the bedroom.

  He fell in love with the thin knit of her pink robe. Tied tight around her waist, it hugged her bottom. Her swaying hips held his gaze, taunted him. Everything about her appealed to him. Yet, his attraction was so much more than physical. In her grief and loneliness, Owen saw himself. Somehow, knowing she understood—no matter how much he hated her pain and ached to ease it—made his own easier to bear.

  He was so glad he’d been asked to come to her. So glad he’d agreed. The idea it might’ve been someone else sparked a ripple of dark power that shuddered down his spine. A lone gust of wind whipped around the house. He shook his head and focused on how right it felt to be with her. She was his. At least, he hoped she would be.

  In the bedroom, Megan yanked open the folding closet doors. Hesitated.

  Her awkward, halting movements concerned him, and he grappled with what to say. He hadn’t thought about her feelings when he’d asked to borrow more of John’s clothes.