by Lauren Esker
Once Avery was safely outside, Jack played back the message. He was unprepared for the effect of hearing her voice—alive, safe, and well. His heart tripped over like a thirteen-year-old kid with a crush.
"Jack?" Casey's voice said. She sounded hesitant. "I'm sorry, I hope this isn't a bad time. Look, I'm kind of ... in the neighborhood, I guess, and I wondered if you might want to ... no, you know, this is stupid." And she hung up, with a very final click.
Chapter Twenty-One
I'll give you the address of his condo if you promise not to go all creepy stalker on his ass, Avery had said.
Casey wondered just where, exactly, Avery considered the creepy stalker line to be—and if she'd crossed it already.
She was sitting on a bench in a small waterfront park some five or six blocks from Jack's condo. It was still difficult to figure out how she'd ended up here, or why. She had spent most of the day on a series of increasingly frustrating errands, trying to reconstruct the destroyed building blocks of her life. Wrestling her crutches in and out of taxicabs, and on and off buses, she'd visited the DMV, the bank, the social security office, and so forth.
Having the cab driver run her by the address Avery had given her was a treat to herself after an exhausting, irritating, and expensive afternoon. She just wanted to see what the condo looked like and where it was, on the grounds that you could learn a lot about a person by seeing where they lived. It turned out to be a secure building not too far from downtown and close to the ocean. Somehow she would have figured Jack for the top floor of a seedy converted warehouse or something similar, but this was a nice, newly refurbished building; there was even attached parking. It reminded her, in fact, of the sort of building where she and Wendy had lived while they were able to benefit from Wendy's software-developer salary, before Casey had to move to a much more run-down part of town after losing her roommate.
And this made her teeter on the edge of tears again. Ever since breaking down in the kitchen yesterday, she'd been a weepy mess, to her own annoyance. Her emotions were all over the place—sometimes it was a flare of violent anger; sometimes she burst into tears at something she absolutely should have gotten angry about instead; sometimes it was a fit of laughter at something that should have made her cry.
If this was the alternative, she missed the dispassionate calm she'd managed to achieve in the hospital.
And she wasn't sure if it was all part of the emotional roller coaster that she'd been on since yesterday, but suddenly she was sick to death of dancing around, and perhaps more to the point, having Jack dance around what had happened between them on the island.
"Let me out here," she told the cab driver.
But then she lost her nerve. After a long while of staring up at the building, she crutched down to the rocky strip of what passed for beach here, and ended up on a park bench because she'd run out of energy to walk on the crutches anymore. And there she sat, staring out at the rolling waves. In dull contrast to yesterday's vibrant blue sky, today there was a matte wall of gray clouds, not quite raining, but flattening the light and leeching the color out of everything.
"Screw this," she said aloud, garnering her a disapproving look from a woman with a stroller and a small dog on a leash. She got out her phone and pulled up Avery's text to get Jack's number.
But he didn't answer. She left a message that trailed off into nervous babbling, and hung up before she could embarrass herself further, wishing she could go back in time and erase the last minute or two from existence.
Maybe he's asleep.
Maybe he saw it was you and didn't want to answer.
Her phone rang, making her jump. She looked down.
JACK ROSS.
Swallowing, she put the phone to her ear. "Jack?"
"Hey." His voice was deep and rich, even robbed by the phone connection of some of its real-life vibrancy. And at the sound of it, something deep inside her, a tight knot she hadn't even been aware of, let go and relaxed. "It's good to hear from you."
"You too," she said, and realized she was grinning—grinning like a fool, sitting on this park bench with no one around to notice or care. "I hope this isn't a bad time to call."
"This is a great time to call. Did you say you were in the neighborhood?"
"Yeah, I'm kind of ... right down the street, actually." Then it hit her that she shouldn't have any way of knowing where he lived. Now she probably did sound like a stalker. "I got your address from Avery. I mean, he gave it to me. I didn't ask. And your phone number too."
Jack laughed. The warm sound did pleasant things to her insides. "Avery doesn't usually wingman me quite this badly, but I gotta say, I'm glad he did." His voice went serious. "I should have called to see how you were doing, Casey. I'm sorry I didn't."
"It's all right," she said, curled around that warm glow of pleasure in her chest. "How are you doing?"
"Healing up okay. You?"
"Me too." Right now, she wasn't feeling any pain at all. Right now, she felt like she could fly.
Jack hesitated, as if he was screwing up his courage, and then he said, "You want to come up? There's food."
"Ooh. You had me at 'food'."
"Let me know when you're downstairs. I'll buzz you in."
***
By the time she crutched to his building, she was sweaty and out of breath. Way to make the best possible impression, McClaren. She didn't even have a hairbrush with her.
She tried to smooth her hair down with her hands, then gave up. He'd seen her under much worse circumstances than this. Feeling like a kid on her first date, she pushed the buzzer for Jack's condo.
The door popped open and she crutched in before she could loose her nerve.
The building had a rather nice lobby that made her nervous—This isn't going to be someplace terribly upscale, is it? Because Jack really didn't seem like that kind of guy. But away from the lobby it was more like any apartment building, with narrow carpeted corridors and rows of doors with numbers on them. She tapped on the appropriate one.
Jack opened the door. She'd completely forgotten that he wore glasses. They were trim wire frames that complimented the faint dusting of gray just starting to show at his temples. On the island she'd thought him in his mid-30s; now she revised that upward to age forty or so.
A very well-kept forty.
She'd had ample time, on the island, to appreciate his muscular and broad-shouldered physique, but she'd been too busy trying not to die to actually notice it, most of the time.
Now she was noticing. Boy, was she noticing. He was wearing a T-shirt and sweat pants, and the shirt in particular showed off his shoulders and chest very nicely. A little of his grizzly tattoo showed beneath the right sleeve; the tat was now marred with a fresh gash through it where the lions had torn him up, healing to a twisted purple line.
There was also a pleasant masculine smell, a little spicy. It was another thing she seemed to have registered subconsciously on the island without quite sorting it into her conscious brain, because it was familiar and nice. Something about it excited her in a way she couldn't quite explain.
After they'd stared at each other for a moment, Jack smiled, crinkling the corners of his eyes. The twin cuts in the corners of his mouth, where he'd slashed them chewing through the speedboat's mooring rope, had healed to fine pinkish traces.
"C'mon in," he said.
She crutched inside. His condo was small but tidy, without the sort of mess she stereotypically would have expected from a bachelor pad. The kitchen and living room were united in an open plan, with only an island countertop separating them. Sliding glass doors led out onto a patio with a barbecue grill and deck chair.
Avery was on the couch, but he pulled himself up when he saw her, using his cane.
"We have burgers," Jack said. "Courtesy of Avery."
"Who is just leaving, actually. Sorry I can't stay." Avery gave her another of his warm smiles, lighting up his solemn face. "Nice to see you again, Casey."
He slipped pas
t her, out the door.
"You too!" she called after him, and then, to Jack, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to chase off your friend."
Jack snorted, opening the paper bag on the counter. "I think he thinks we'd rather be alone."
"Would we?" she asked, her heart beating a little faster.
Jack smiled lopsidedly. "Maybe. Depends on what you want."
He smelled so good. She crutched a bit closer.
"Go on, sit," Jack said. "I'll bring these over to you."
Sitting wasn't exactly what she wanted to do most, but she did need to get off her feet. She flopped onto the couch and laid the crutches beside it with a sigh.
Jack brought over two plates, each with a pair of burgers on them, unwrapped. "Do you like Coke? It's basically that or water."
"Either is fine."
He fetched the drinks and, after the briefest of hesitations, sat next to her on the couch. She couldn't help being acutely aware of the heat of his body, his intense proximity. Which was silly, she thought, because they'd been in nonstop, 24/7 physical contact on the island, and they hadn't done more than kiss.
But that only heightened the anticipation. She knew his naked body as intimately as she knew her own, and yet she hadn't done more than casually touch it. She'd never drawn out the gasps and groans that she'd heard in her fantasies, had never touched the large, uncut penis nestled between his legs, had never been swept up in his arms or felt that long, muscular body shudder in pleasure ...
She swallowed.
"Burgers okay?" Jack asked.
"Uh, yeah." She'd barely touched hers. She made herself pick it up and take a bite, which she swallowed without tasting.
Jack reached for his glass of water; his arm brushed hers, making the hair stand on end. He had, she couldn't help noticing, settled onto her left side, the side where he'd been handcuffed to her.
"How's your wrist?" he asked, and she realized she'd left her hand resting on her knee. The healing scrapes and bruises girdling her wrist were clearly visible.
"It's all right. Getting better." She opened her hand and held it up to show him.
Jack took it lightly in his right one. Casey tensed automatically and then relaxed as he turned her hand over, examining her injuries. The bruises had faded to light yellow and violet, and the scrapes had healed to new, pink skin.
The touch of his hand on hers made her heart beat faster.
He lifted her hand to his mouth, and brushed very lightly across the tender new skin with his lips. She let out a faint, involuntary gasp.
Jack kissed the back of her hand, the fingers, then turned it over and kissed her palm. When he looked up, his heart was in his eyes.
"You came back," he said.
"You wanted me back," she whispered.
And she leaned forward at the same time he did, both of them moving together, closing the distance between them and meeting in the middle. When his lips met hers, it felt like coming home.
They started with gentle licks and nibbles, his teeth closing lightly on her lower lip, her tongue brushing the corner of his mouth. And then his mouth closed on hers, and the heat that had been simmering between them flared into suddenly, almost uncontrollable lust.
She kissed him like a drowning woman given air; she kissed him like he'd just pulled her from a fire, like his kiss was the lifeblood that sustained her.
For two years she'd struggled to feel nothing. She'd hidden herself behind walls made of vengeance, and she'd reshaped herself into a tool to penetrate her enemies' defenses. The last person she had dared to love had been Wendy, and that had been torn away from her. She'd never been a strongly emotional person in any case, but ever since Wendy's disappearance she had locked herself down. She had ruthlessly shut away her loneliness and hidden her tears; she'd fought to excise the parts of herself that yearned for a connection to others, and when they wouldn't be severed, she had buried them in scar tissue instead.
And now all that pent-up emotion burst from her, a tidal wave of feeling that swept her away. She kissed Jack and kissed him; her hands came up to touch his torso, his face. She had to keep touching him because she could hardly believe this was real, that he was real.
Jack pulled back and looked at her with eyes filled with affection and desire, a silent question in them: Go forward?
For answer, she carefully lifted off his glasses, leaving his face bare without them. Casey laid them on the coffee table without looking. "I wouldn't want them to get smudged."
"No," he breathed, and cupped her face in his hands. "Good thinking."
And he bent his head to kiss her face all over—her forehead, her cheeks, the soft skin at the corners of her eyes. Jack kissed his way along her cheek, across her jaw, to the tender skin behind her ear and down the side of her neck. She shivered at each touch, and when he kissed and nibbled at her ear, she buried her face in his neck and breathed in the spicy, masculine smell of him.
They hadn't even taken off their clothes yet, hadn't touched anywhere below the waist, but her body burned for want of him. Desire filled her; desperate need for him shook her to the core.
"Jack," she whispered, and he stilled with his mouth open on her neck. "Jack, I want—"
She had tried so hard not to want. Not to need.
"—I need. You."
"Me too," he whispered, and followed it up with a trail of searing kisses across her neck and over her shoulder, pulling down the collar of her shirt to touch the skin there.
Casey unbuttoned her shirt and let it fall open, exposing her bra-clad breasts. She'd expected to feel self-conscious—she was always a little nervous when her boyfriends first undressed her, not sure how they'd react to a body that was not exactly a size four. But there was none of that for her now. Of course not; he'd seen it all, every imperfection and stretch mark and the little rolls over her hips. And he didn't care. He wanted her—she could feel it in his touch, could see it in his eyes when he looked up at her.
He cupped his hands over hers, and then took over the task of undressing her, slipping her shirt over her shoulders and kissing each shoulder as he did it. He unsnapped her bra and slid the straps down.
Her breasts came free, the nipples hard and erect with the desire surging inside her.
Jack cupped them in his big hands. She couldn't help noticing how perfectly they fit there, as if his hands were made to hold her. He flicked his tongue across one of her nipples and an electric jolt shot through her groin.
"Jack," she gasped. Now he was playing with the other nipple, running his thumb across it while he swirled his tongue across the first. "Jack, I—I think unless we want to end up having sex on this couch, maybe we should get somewhere a little more ... horizontal?"
"You're right." He grinned suddenly, a quick flash of a smile. "Should I put on some Avril Lavigne?"
"You jerk! I'm not making love to Avril Lavigne."
"I don't know. I think she's a very underrated artist."
As he spoke, he put one arm around her bare back, the other under her knees, and rose carefully, holding her in a bridal carry.
"Jack!" She threw her arm around his neck, feeling the muscles bunched there as he supported her weight. She hadn't realized he was so strong. "Be careful! Don't hurt yourself."
"I won't do anything that hurts. Trust me." He kissed her ear and whispered into it, "Unless you want me to."
He carried her across the living room and into the bedroom. This room was dominated by a huge bed, with the covers rucked over to one side. Here was a little more of the bachelor-pad clutter she'd been expecting—clothes heaped on the floor of the open closet, a bunch of crumpled-up gauze pads stuffed into a trash bag by the door.
"Sorry about the mess," Jack said. He used one foot to shove a pair of underwear under the bed.
"I don't care about the mess. You should see my place. I'm impressed by the bed, though," she added as he laid her on it, moving somewhat stiffly despite what he'd said earlier.
"I'm a big guy.
I like my space."
Lying on her back, Casey unbuttoned her jeans. "I hope you don't mind sharing a little of that space."
"With company this gorgeous, how could I object?"
He undressed with care, and Casey lay on the bed and watched him. First the T-shirt came off, revealing the broad shoulders and muscular chest she'd surreptitiously admired on the island—laced, now, with the purplish marks of healing claw wounds. He was still bandaged with gauze in places. Looking carefully, she could discern the scratches she'd left on his chest during her panic attack, now almost healed to invisibility.
"Should we compare scars?" Jack asked, seeing her looking. His eyes crinkled at the corners.
"I think you're healing faster than me," Casey complained. "I'm not even off those stupid crutches."
"Different shifters heal at different rates. Doc Lafitte has a theory that the more often you get hurt, the faster you heal."
He pushed down his jeans and underwear. His legs were less scarred than the rest of him, except for a swathe of bandaging where Rory had bitten him. Casey's eyes traveled up his legs, and lingered on his long, hardening cock.
Jack opened a drawer in the nightstand. "Regular condoms okay with you?"
"As opposed to what?"
"Flavored. Ribbed."
"You have all of that in there?" She pushed herself up to see. "How much sex do you have?"
This produced a blush that, with his shirt off, she could see went down his neck to his chest as well. "It's not a different girl in every port, if that's what you're thinking. I've sown my wild oats, I won't deny that, but, well ... I'm looking for something longer-term now."
"Are you?" she asked softly.
"I am."
He sat on the edge of the bed and opened the packet with his teeth. "So," he said. "You planning to take anything else off? Want some help?"
Casey lifted up her hips and pushed her jeans down, working them carefully over her bandaged leg. Her underwear was next, followed by socks. She smiled at the way Jack's eyes roamed appreciatively over her naked body. He touched her ankle, traced the ball of his thumb around the little rose tattoo.