Anew: Book One: Awakened

by Litton, Josie

  “Maybe we need another experiment,” he says.

  To my embarrassment, he has my immediate attention. “What kind of…experiment?”

  The swiftness with which he responds tells me he’s been giving this some thought. “Instead of my telling you that you can’t come, you make up your mind that you won’t. I’ll try my best to persuade you otherwise, purely in the interest of scientific inquiry. But if your will is strong enough--”

  His smile, more of a leer really, is an invitation to a contest we both know I can’t win.

  I snort and try to swat his hand away at the same time I marvel at his resiliency. “All we’d demonstrate is that where you’re concerned, my body overrules my mind.”

  He looks so smugly pleased that I feel compelled to right the balance. On a sudden impulse, I say, “I have a better idea. Why don’t we find out what I really want?”

  Belatedly, I remember that he spent five years in the Special Forces. His instincts for danger, or at least potential trouble, must be finely honed and his methods for dealing with either are likely to be ruthless.

  Without taking his eyes from me, he asks, “How would we do that?”

  Before I can reconsider, I take hold of my courage and say, “You’re always in control. What if I was, instead?”

  In a heartbeat, his expression runs the gamut from surprise and wariness to a pleasure so feral that his eyes blaze. A low growl rises from deep in his throat.

  I am more than a little intimidated yet at the same time emboldened. Such is the contradictory nature of my response to this man, drawn to him irresistibly and at the same time afraid that in his thrall I will have no existence of my own.

  Words rush from me. “I want to touch you…all of you…in my own way at my own pace. I want to discover you.” Leaping from daring to recklessness, I add, “Purely in the interest of scientific inquiry.”

  Ian takes a deep, shuddering breath and lets it out slowly. His body shifts on top of mine, widening the spread of my legs.

  He strokes my lower lip, tugging gently, and says, “I don’t do that…giving up control, I mean. At least, I haven’t. But you--” His eyes narrow speculatively. “You tempt me, Amelia--”

  He slides a hand under my blouse and cups my breast, his thumb making lazy circles over my nipple. At once, a bolt of pleasure lances through me. I want… I need-- My head arches back. Staring up at the wrought iron dome above the pavilion and at the braided ropes holding the bed in the air, I have a sudden flashing image of the golden cage in the Cabinet of Secret Delights, and myself suspended there waiting for--

  Abruptly, I remember where we are. I press my hands against his shoulders, pushing hard but with no effect. He’s heavier even than his long, lithe body would suggest and he’s pure muscle.

  “Ian, not here! The staff--”

  His mouth traces a line of fire down my throat as his hand reaches lower to pull up my skirt. Against my skin, he murmurs, “They’re very discreet.”

  Since the only one I’ve seen so far is Hodgkin, I can believe him but it doesn’t make any difference.

  “Are they also blind and deaf? Stop!”

  What happened to letting me take control? How did we get off that subject? It’s all well and good that I fantasized about being with him in the pavilion that first evening but that doesn’t mean I actually want to do it!

  He raises his head and every nerve ending in my body tingles. The molten heat in his eyes threatens to dissolve me. I try to close my legs but he won’t allow it. His long, skillful fingers slide under the edge of my panties, probing for and finding the lips of my sex, opening me to him--

  I am on the verge of forgetting all my inhibitions when the taut, carnal set of his face softens suddenly.

  “Shit!” He levers himself up on his elbows, looking dazed and more than a little disgusted with himself. Before he can say anything more, we both freeze at the sound of a throat being cleared nearby.

  From somewhere behind the pavilion, thankfully not in a position to view its occupants, Hodgkin says, “Your pardon, sir, but the party you wanted to speak with has called back again.”

  Ian lowers his forehead to the pillow beside me and takes a long, shuddering breath. In the next moment, he angles himself off my body. The sudden absence of his weight and touch leave me bereft. He pauses a moment beside the bed, scorching me with a look of pure sensual carnality, before striding off toward the main wing.

  Well! That was--

  I haven’t a clue what it was apart from being frustrating on multiple levels. Only the painful tightness in my chest reminds me to breathe. I should get up and do something but I can’t bring myself to disturb the lingering sense of his body on mine. It feels that rare and precious to me.

  Without wanting to dwell on how open and vulnerable I am to him, I go back to staring at the sky through the wrought iron lacing, trying to make sense of what just happened until I accept that I’m not going to be able to do so. I have no idea what was so compelling as to make him leave, or indeed if anything was. Perhaps he merely seized on the call as an excuse to get away from both the situation and me. My heart sinks at that thought but I have to acknowledge that it was probably best for both of us.

  I need a distraction, something to think about in this world other than Ian and how he makes me feel…want…yearn…need. My hands still ache from the long hours at the piano yesterday and the rest of my body continues to remind me that I overdid in the studio this morning, although I can’t manage to regret the results. Ian is likely to be in the library which makes this as good a time as any to explore more of the palazzo and its grounds.

  I leave the pavilion but not before entering a note into the link and putting it on the bed where Ian cannot fail to find it if he comes in search of me.

  Gone exploring. On the grounds! No need to send out the scary elite security (not goon) guys.

  Hoping that will keep him from worrying, I walk a little distance in the opposite direction from the palazzo. Stone steps lead down a gentle slope to a broad lawn. In the distance, I can see the tree line and beyond it the wilderness. But I’m more interested in the glint of late afternoon sun shining off the long expanse of a glass roof.

  Drawing closer, I realize that it belongs to a greenhouse. There’s no sign of anyone about but even so I hesitate before trying the door. It opens readily, releasing a puff of warm, moist air lush with a panoply of scents, some a little sweet, others tart with a hint of spice. But without the earthy, loamy smell that I would have expected.

  As soon as I enter, I realize that this is a working greenhouse, designed not for the display of beautiful plants but for the production of fresh fruits, vegetables, herbs, and greens, all grown hydroponically in nutrient solutions rather than soil. Wandering among the beds and hanging trellises, I quickly become so fascinated that I lose track of time.

  Nibbling on a cherry tomato plucked from a climbing vine, I watch the ladybugs at work in a bed of potato plants, on the prowl for other, harmful insects to snack on. The greenhouse is very quiet except for the hum of machinery mixing nutrients, pumping water and circulating air. I could pull up a chair, settle in and be perfectly content here at least for awhile, only stirring to graze when hunger moved me.

  Even better, I can imagine myself wandering about with a basket in hand, picking and choosing from the bounty. Yet I can’t help wondering why this place even exists. If Ian has a passion for gardening, he hasn’t revealed it yet.

  I’m still there, trying to puzzle it all out, when Hodgkin comes to tell me that dinner will be served in an hour.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

  I have no idea what mood I will find Ian in nor am I entirely certain of my own. The daring request I made in the pavilion and his vehement response are uppermost in my mind. But so are his swift withdrawal, and all the doubts and concerns that I have in general.

  Perhaps because of that, I take extra trouble with my appearance, debating what to wear before deciding on a short-sleeved dre
ss with a bodice of broad, tightly woven silk ribbons above a fitted waist and a flounced chiffon skirt that ends well above my knees.

  I pick it for the color, a pale yellow that reminds me of spring and makes me think of some of the furled blossoms on plants just coming into flower in the greenhouse. I leave my hair down but pull it back from my face with a comb on each side.

  Looking at myself in the mirror opposite the golden bed, I can’t help but notice that my eyes are shadowed and I am paler than usual. Distantly, I know that events are catching up with me but I have no more idea of what to do about that than I do about so much else.

  Going out the bedroom door in a pair of strappy heels higher than what I’ve worn before, I resolve to try to put those concerns aside at least for the moment. After waiting so long to live at all, I don’t want to miss savoring the present because I’m too pre-occupied worrying about the future.

  Ian is waiting in the gallery beside the garden. He looks as elegant as two nights before but to even more effect now that I understand the power of the perfectly sculpted body beneath the bespoke suit. As I approach, he’s speaking to someone on a link. He gives me a smile and an appreciative look as he wraps up the conversation.

  “And it will be ready when?” he asks. “Two days? Sooner would be better but the priority is to get it right.” He listens for a moment, then says, “Good. Let me know when it’s done.” Without waiting for a response, he ends the call and turns his full attention on me.

  A breeze blows off the garden, making me aware suddenly of just how much skin I’m showing. The dress really is short and the heels somehow make it feel even more so. Moreover, the woven ribbon bodice is a little tight, causing my breasts to swell above it. I’m beginning to wish that I’d brought a shawl but I reconsider when I see what is in his eyes. He desires me, as I do him. But beyond that, the sight of me alone gives him pleasure.

  Huskily, he says, “You look beautiful, Amelia, as always.”

  He leads me to the table and pulls out my chair for me. I sit, trying surreptitiously to tug my skirt down. Food appears, wine, candlelight, music plays somewhere nearby, torchères leap against the gathering darkness and braziers cast a glow of warmth across the gallery. I notice little of that; there is only Ian, the shape of his mouth, the timbre of his voice, his hand lying on the damask cloth near mine, the light in his eyes.

  “Not in the mood for steak tonight?” he asks.

  I look down at the food before me with surprise. It is partially eaten but I have no recollection of even tasting it.

  “It’s fine.” Tartly, I add, “At least we know that I’m able to feed myself.”

  His eyes are on my mouth. I shift a little uneasily as he says, “I wonder what else you’re capable of, Amelia.”

  I have no appetite, not for food. I want to touch him, feel him, possess him. The music surrounds us, a ballad of some sort, old and knowing, filled with yearning.

  “Talk to me,” I say. “Tell me about yourself.”

  He frowns, caught off balance. “What do you want to know?”

  Everything! But where to begin? I remember something he said the other night at dinner. “Why did you join the military when you were eighteen? That isn’t customary for the children of wealthy families, is it?”

  He hesitates and for a moment I think he isn’t going to answer but finally he says, “My father and I didn’t get along. I didn’t want the future he envisioned for me so I decided to make my own.”

  His tone suggests that he’s said all he will on the subject but I want more. “How did you go from enlisting to being in the Special Forces? You have to be chosen for that, don’t you?”

  Ian nods slowly. Weighing his words, he says, “I had…certain qualities that pointed me in that direction. They were noticed by the man who became my commanding officer. He recruited me into the S.F.”

  I can guess at some of those qualities--intelligence, determination, superb physical condition, a certain ruthless focus. But I suspect there were others, perhaps having to do with his need to always be in control of both himself and any situation.

  It occurs to me that for control to be so important to him, he must have experienced the loss of it at some time in his life. Which makes what I have asked him for all the more daring.

  Rather than dwell on that, I ask, “What prompted you to leave when you did?”

  Again, he hesitates. I can tell this isn’t easy for him and I marvel that he’s even willing to try.

  “My father died.” Pre-empting any expression of sympathy, he adds, “Driving a high-powered sports car off a cliff will do that to you. I had to come back to look after the family business. Besides, I’d gotten what I could out of where I was.”

  “What was that?” I ask softly, afraid to disrupt the mood of openness between us.

  Quietly, he says, “I learned control. Mainly of myself but when it’s necessary, of others.”

  I swallow with some difficulty but whether from fear or excitement I can’t say. Most likely both.

  “But it’s still a part of you, isn’t it?” I ask. “Those men you sent to find me, they aren’t just a normal security force.”

  He shrugs. “What’s normal in this world? If you’re asking whether they’re ex-Special Forces like me, yes, they are. But enough of that. Hodgkin mentioned that you found the greenhouse. What do you think of it?”

  The abrupt change of subject leaves me at a loss but only for a moment. “It’s remarkable. I had no idea that so much food could be grown so efficiently in such a relatively small space.”

  Ian nods. Clearly, this is something that matters to him. “The trick is scaling that up,” he says. “Much larger versions of that greenhouse are being used to improve food security where that still remains a major issue.”

  “You support those efforts?”

  “The foundation I set up does. It’s not a cure-all but at least some conflict could be eliminated if food could be produced more efficiently. We’ve had the technology to do that for a long time. The problem is getting it implemented in regions with corrupt governments, entrenched cultural practices, and the like.”

  I can’t help thinking that a world with less conflict would also be less in need of what he sells. Apparently that doesn’t concern Ian. This side of him, as a man genuinely trying to make a positive difference in the world, is new to me but it doesn’t come as a surprise. True, he pushed me painfully close to my limits in the spa but I still don’t have an impression of him as a man who is callous or cruel, only very deliberate and determined.

  I am still thinking about that when we finish dinner. The more I get to know Ian, the more reassured I am that my instinct to trust him comes not because of how I was imprinted but from my own growing confidence in the man he is.

  “Would you like a brandy?” he asks when Hodgkin has finished clearing.

  I shake my head. Honestly, all I really want is him. I can no longer avoid admitting, if only to myself, how deep that longing goes. I want to stand in his arms and feel the steady beat of his heart in rhythm with my own, to hear his laughter, to know what he thinks and feels, to ease his sorrows and bring him joy.

  Heaven help me. What I’m experiencing feels perilously close to how love is described. But surely that isn’t possible, not so quickly and perhaps not at all for me. I don’t even know if I am capable of such a depth and breadth of emotion. But how I long to find out!

  “In that case,” Ian says, “there’s something I’d like to show you.”

  He stands and holds out his hand. When I take it, he leads me into the shadows near the gallery, to a place where little light from the palazzo intrudes. His arm around my waist draws me close against his warmth. I feel the smooth fabric of his shirt and beneath it the taut, toned muscles of his chest and abdomen against the bodice of my dress.

  A tremor runs through me. In response, he tightens his hold. Long fingers slip under my chin, pressing lightly.

  “Look up,” he says.


  I do and a gasp escapes me. Streaks of light are falling across the sky, one after another in rapid succession.

  “The Lyrids meteor shower,” Ian says softly. “The dust of a comet that humans have been seeing and wondering at for thousands of years. Until a few centuries ago, whenever we saw something like this, we thought the stars were falling.”

  And we still wish on them as they leave the heavens and descend to earth. But I don’t say that to him. I’m afraid I’ll feel foolish. All the same, a wish forms in me, no less real for being held silently in my heart.

  All the pain and helplessness of how I came to be, the childhood I was denied, the years spent floating in emptiness will be redeemed if I can find within myself the capacity to love and be loved.

  “They’re beautiful,” I say, watching the streaks of cosmic dust, reminders of how vast and mysterious creation truly is.

  “Beautiful,” Ian agrees. He is looking not at the falling stars but at me. Softly, he says, “I’ve been remiss with you, Amelia. I didn’t let myself take into account how new everything is for you.” Is that tenderness I see in his gaze? “Every experience has been your first, hasn’t it? Every sound, every taste, every touch--”

  His hand strokes down my body, cupping my behind. “I’ve been selfish,” he says. “It’s time I made amends.”

  He draws back a little, gently clasps my face in both his hands, and looks into my eyes. The contact is so intense, so intimate that I forget to breathe.

  Softly, he asks, “Do you still want to discover what it’s like between us when you have control?”

  I am suddenly, unaccountably shy. After all, I did rather boldly proposition him only a few hours ago, not to mention my earlier behavior in the shower. But now, feeling the heat and power of his big, hard body against mine, my imagination fires wildly. Ian on the golden bed, my hands, my mouth free to savor him as he has me--

  I don’t doubt the sincerity of his regrets or that this is difficult for him. But longing overwhelms me, overriding all else. Heart pounding, I look up at him through the veil of my lashes and nod.