“So, you’re taking a vacation from Caribbean living?”
“Something like that. I have given up my smuggling business and I am looking to increase my shipping operations. As such, I am moving to the United States.”
“Denver? You wanna manage your boats from landlocked Denver?”
“Somehow this sounds silly to everyone when I tell them. Is it crazy that I want to be near you?”
“Yes,” she said breathlessly, barely able to comprehend his words.
“Would you rather I settled somewhere else?”
Her first instinct was to yell no! She remembered every single moment spent with him, relived them constantly in her dreams. In her fantasies. And yet she couldn’t admit that to him, she couldn’t let him break her heart all over again. She was scarcely recovering from the last time they had parted.
“Where have you been, Ryker? Why haven’t you called me? Hell, I would have settled for a tweet.”
“I had to stay in Curaçao and complete my collaboration with the CIA. They had me smuggle more diamonds into Venezuela, followed by documents, and then operatives. And after this I had to stay for the investigations into what happened with Bernardo Baiz. I had to stay long enough to insure that his entire organization would be disbanded.”
“Baiz’s people have given up harassing you?”
“Sam Tollefsrud ultimately gave the case to the DEA and they swept in quickly considering the Colombian drug connections.”
“Good,” Jessica said, relieved that there wouldn’t be any retaliations. Then she thought of that vile woman. “What happened to her?”
“Tollefsrud? The last I have heard about her, she had been offered a desk job, a very unglamorous desk job at her headquarters. While her superiors appreciated that she eventually accomplished her mission, they were not especially fond of how she did it and how many people got hurt in the process. I have it on good authority that her prospects of advancement are limited.”
Even though Jessica knew it was morally wrong, she was thrilled about that woman’s comeuppance. Justice, even in small, petty measures was always welcome.
“Here, before I forget. This is for you.”
He produced a velvet box from his pocket and opened it. Inside was a beautiful chain that was just like the one her father had given her. It had a perfectly polished coal sphere but unlike the one she had lost this one was encrusted with a sizable diamond.
“It will not replace your father’s gift but I hope it will bring you solace.”
He took it from the box and gently put it her around her neck, clasping it blindly. She was mesmerized by both the jewel and his warm touch.
She snapped back to the present, to the man before her. The man she hadn’t seen in months. She said, “You didn’t answer my question before. You didn’t call.”
“Were you not with Greg?”
She shook her head. “No! He took me away that day but once we were back in the States I sent him packing. It’s…”
“It is what?”
“It’s you I wanted, Ryker.”
“Do not tell me this, not now after all these months of anguish.”
She looked into his eyes, his face a mask of regret and sadness. She took a step closer.
“Are you telling me we’ve been apart because of a bad sitcom misunderstanding?”
“Are you telling me you still want me, Jessica?”
It was his turn to take a step forward. His hands sought out hers and she offered no resistance. She swallowed hard as his searing fingers intertwined with hers. She wondered if she should make him suffer, to play the kind of games that would give satisfaction to her bruised ego.
However, her instincts were singing a different tune. She could be cruel and speak lies but he would see through her. The desire mounting within her would betray her. Besides, they were past pretending. She had to expose her soul to him.
“Every day without you has been hell, Ryker. I can’t take it anymore.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, unable to conceal the worry and hope in his voice.
“Touch me, torment me, torture me, I don’t care but take me!”
She had barely finished the sentence when he took her into his arms, pressing his mouth against hers and kissing her with all his might. Her heart swelling with love, she responded in kind, losing herself in his embrace and making up for lost time.
Before she knew it, he was taking her to the end of the room, pinning her against the bar. She couldn’t breathe, she needed air. But she needed him more! She tightened her grip around his neck and let his demanding hands wander all over her. He fumbled with her clothes and she did the same with his.
She released his hardness but it was no match for her own arousal. The evening was a dream, his presence a miracle. While his mouth was on hers, he found her opening and sheathed himself wholly until her eyes spun back from sheer bliss.
“Oh Ryker…”
Their coupling was fast and feverish, and yet it was the single best moment of Jessica’s life. She was making him this excited and this in turn triggered her own libidinous floodgates. She saw stars and exploded with unending pleasure right as he did. They floated together in a haze of happiness, connected like no other humans could ever be.
She remained just as she was once they had consumed their love and Ryker still held her tight, his interest in her not waning one bit. If anything, the way his eyes shimmered in the dim light told her everything she needed to know about his feelings.
“I love you, Jessica Densley,” he whispered between kisses. “I hopelessly love you.”
“It’s not hopeless because I love you too. So very much!”
These words would change her life forever, she was certain of it. For the first time in years, she had someone in her life. She was no longer alone, no longer isolated. She had found the second half of her soul and together they would soar. She was again his captive.
The captive of his heart.
THE END
About The Author
Angelina Spears thrives on crafting stories that will take readers on a wild ride, emotional and physical. Having discovered her love of writing at a young age, she is never as happy as when she makes characters fall into imminent danger while dealing with romantic turmoils.
There are days when her writing is fast and hard against the washing machine but mostly she prefers candlelight and soft music by the fireplace. Champagne and strawberries, anyone? She divides her time between the cold north and sunny southern shores.
You can visit her at AngelinaSpears.com
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Plus-size secretary Merrin Rexford is flying down to Florida to help her quirky grandmother recover from surgery. She's looking forward to catching up on her reading but at the last minute a man sits next to her. It wouldn't be so disastrous if he wasn't so handsome.
...If he wasn't trying to seduce her!
There's something about Grayson Holmes, about his demanding voice, his subtle charm that she can't resist. So unused to these games, Merrin finds herself playing along and finding incredible pleasure.
She's afraid the plane will eventually land and dash her hopes for happiness, but little does she know Grayson is already making plans to see her again. Making plans to have her submit to his every desire.
BURN
By Dawn Steele
WET
She is cold, wet, hungry, and miserable.
She huddles by the brownstone walls of the tenement building, her arms wrapped around her thin body as the New York City rain pelts down and sideways, and the wind whips and howls through the street. Wet leaves and sodden debris scuttle past her. Her jacket is soaked through. The material is hardly enough to keep her warm in the dipping temperature.
Her thigh muscles ache from having run so fast. She is now in an unfamiliar part of town, not that New York City is familiar to her. She has just gotten off the bus at Port Authority, and her firs
t day here has been shot to hell.
She has no idea where she has ended up. All she wants is to get out of the rain and cold.
But she has no more money, courtesy of those street thugs back there. She has no wallet and no spare change. Her cellphone too has been stolen. Her stomach hurts something awful. It’s her gastritis, acting up again. She has to eat something soon or keel over with heartburn.
She sees an alcove with a doorway and huddles under its meager shade. The rain angles in and pelts her, so its sanctuary is not much comfort. But at least she can rest here and gather her energy, or what’s left of it.
Her knees buckle with fatigue. She slides down against the wall and sits there on the wet ground. Her head droops. She’s tired. So tired.
She has hardly had any sleep during the bus ride. But her nerves are fraught with anxiety, and every time she closes her eyes, she imagines someone will come for her if she isn’t on the alert. Someone will close his hand over her shoulder and say:
“What have you done now, Abby Holt? You are in so, so much trouble.”
She sits up, startled, and then realizes it is just a daydream. She relaxes – as much as someone can relax while being exposed to this weather. Finally, she dozes off, unable to fight sleep. She has been fighting too much lately and her body is screaming at her to rest.
“Miss?” says a male voice in her dreams. “Miss, are you all right?”
She jerks herself awake again and opens her bleary eyes. Her body shivers violently.
A man is standing there at the doorway, staring intently down at her. In the dark, he is silhouetted by the streetlamps beyond. His yellow parka glistens with raindrops. He is very tall, and his shadow covers her huddled body like a shroud.
“Sorry,” she says, trying to stand up. Her legs feel frozen.
“Are you all right?”
No, she isn’t all right.
“Y-yes,” she says. An awful cramp assails her lower limbs, and her stomach squeaks out another burning protest.
“You don’t look all right.” The man’s voice is deep, and yet it sounds young. She reckons he may be a student or something. “Would you like to come in while I call you a cab? You’re freezing.”
“No thanks. I’ll be going off soon.”
She tries to stand up again, but falls to the ground in a heap.
“Shit,” he says.
Her mind is in a semi-glazed fugue as she feels his arms scooping her up. His parka is damp and shiny, but his body warmth still permeates through the layers of clothing to heat up her skin. She wants to say “No” again, but she is too tired. She can feel his breath on her hair, and he smells of good, clean water.
She lets him carry her in his arms through the door, which opens to reveal a brightly lit hallway. She vaguely takes in her surroundings – a stairway, bannisters, cream walls – as he carries her up and up and up. Then she closes her heavy eyelids again and surrenders her fate to him.
*
The apartment lounge is warm. This is the first thing she notices as her chilled skin begins to flush with the sudden change of temperature. She is seated on a battered brown couch with a slash sticky tape covering one armrest.
The man who has carried her inside sheds his wet parka.
“You want to take off your wet clothes? You’re going to catch pneumonia this way,” he says.
In the ceiling light, she has a good look at him – a really good look at him for the first time.
He is a young man of about twenty . . . twenty-one, thereabouts. Handsome. No, he is much more than handsome. In fact, he is someone she might describe as extraordinarily beautiful.
He has large eyes that are mud-green in the yellow light. They swirl enchantingly with highlights of other colors: blue, red, gold, purple. His hair is chestnut brown and slightly shaggy. He is lean and very tall. His fine boned features are not perfect, but they lend his face a startling contrast of sharply delineated lines that are very arresting to gaze upon. His is a face that you would look at twice and linger, studying every nuance on it with great scrutiny.
He wears a simple white T-shirt and jeans underneath his parka. His hair is wet at his forelocks but dry at the back and sides as a result of his parka’s hood.
Shaking off her bedazzlement, she takes in the rest of her surroundings. The apartment has large glass windows that are currently dark with night, but would have allowed in plenty of light during the day. There are no curtains. Outside, the rain patters on, the drops of water lit by the golden haloes of the street lamps.
Scattered everywhere are canvasses and easels and paint pots and brushes. Some of the canvasses are half-completed. They swirl with colors and impressions of half-scenes. A pungent smell of turpentine permeates the air, causing her nose to twitch slightly. The floor is linoleum, and covered with a large plastic tarp.
There does not appear to be much furniture, except for a single white table and two mismatched chairs near a tiny kitchenette where a kettle, a small refrigerator and a smaller stove reside.
The man comes over and bends down to peer at her face.
“You don’t look too good,” he pronounces with concern. “I’ll call a doctor.”
“No,” she says quickly. “No doctors. I’m all right. I’m just a little tired.”
“I have a robe if you want to dry your clothes. You can borrow one of my T-shirts as well. The bathroom is over there.” He points to a half-open door. “You really need to get out of those clothes.”
“All right,” she says in a small voice.
He pauses, as if contemplating something. “Don’t worry. I’m not dangerous or anything. I’m not going to touch you. I just want to help. My name is Devon. What’s yours?”
“Abby,” she says in a daze.
It’s a reflex. Was that so wise? Perhaps she shouldn’t have given him her real name. But she will be out of here soon, and it won’t matter. She hopes.
“Come with me, Abby. I’ll get you some clothes. Can you walk? Are you on . . . something?” His green eyes are dubious again. Perhaps he is afraid she would OD right in his apartment.
“No, I’m not on anything. I’m just hungry.”
“When is the last time you ate?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Wait here.”
He vanishes into a room which she presumes is the bedroom, and returns a minute later with a T-shirt and a pair of baggy shorts.
“I don’t know if these will fit you, but you can try them on,” he says.
“Thanks.”
She takes them. He eyes her expectantly as she stands on her feet, wobbling slightly. He catches hold of her arms before she can teeter and fall.
“You are not well,” he says. “I will call a doctor. There’s one at the twenty-four hour clinic two blocks down.”
“No,” she says forcefully. “No doctors. I’m all right. I just need to lie down for a while.”
“You can lie down on my bed. Come.”
He shepherds her slowly with her arm draped around his shoulders to the one bedroom beyond the lounge. As with the lounge, the bedroom is spartan and uncluttered. The walls are done in white, but there is evidence of mold on the ceiling. A double bed is set against the unadorned wall. He gingerly lays her on this.
She falls weakly upon the mattress. The bedclothes are a faded off-white and worn with repeated washings.
“Abby,” he says gently, “I’m going to take off your clothes, OK? I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to get you warm.”
“OK,” she mumbles. He’s so afraid to appear improper that she allows herself a secret smile. Of all the good Samaritans she ended up with, he could have been much, much worse.
She allows him to tug her sodden jacket off her arms, and then her T-shirt above her head. She wears a thin white bra underneath.
“Oh my God, you’re hurt,” he exclaims, as she knew he would.
“It’s nothing. Just a flesh wound.”
Her thin arms are covered with
old scratches and yellowing bruises. And on her palms are healing weals, which are just beginning to form scar tissue. The pain from the burns has faded into a nondescript numbness that make her hands feel like cotton balls.
“Did someone hurt you?” he demands.
“N-no.”
“Abby, are you running away from someone? Something?”
“No,” she says stubbornly.
If only it were that easy. If only he knew the truth . . . then he wouldn’t look at her in quite the same way he is gazing at her now – with total concern and outrage that someone has done this to her.
He pauses to compose himself, and then he proceeds to unbutton her jeans. She is very aware of his large, warm hands as they hook her jeans downward and off her thin legs. Her panties match her brassiere, and he covers her with his blanket, never taking his eyes off her face.
She wishes she weren’t quite so thin and unattractive in the presence of this beautiful boy, who clearly does not find her sexually alluring. But sex should be the last thing on her mind, she tells herself. Her survival should be paramount.
“I was mugged,” she offers as an explanation. It is the truth. Well, part of it anyway.
“When? Where?”
“A couple of hours ago. They took my purse.”
She remembers the three thugs who accosted her near Port Authority. They slammed her against a wall in a back alley and took her purse. She didn’t put up a fight. But the bruises did not come from their rough dealings, merely her current woebegone helplessness. And then the rain came and washed everything away.
“We should go to the police,” he says.
She shakes her head and lowers her eyes. She doesn’t want to look at him. She is too ashamed.
He sits by the bedside for a long, long while, complex emotions flitting across his face. Then he says, “I’m going to make you a sandwich. Then I’ll have to go out again. Will you be all right here on your own?”
He’s hesitant. Perhaps he thinks she may steal something while he’s away. And why not? She is a total stranger and he doesn’t know her from Adam.
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