Shift (Hearts and Arrows Book 2)

by Staci Hart

  “You’re welcome.” He winked and turned to Kat. “So what’d you think about tonight?”

  Kat sipped her whiskey, thinking about Dillon’s lips. “It was … surprising.”

  “It’s weird, huh? I always say it’s one of those things you can’t quite explain until you see it.”

  “It was intense. The energy was just so much, overwhelming. And the moment when Boon hit Dillon … I don’t even know. I can’t believe he could just take that. And the way he moved — is it strange to say it was beautiful?”

  Owen chuckled. “No, I get that. It’s horribly, gracefully beautiful. A symphony of violence.”

  “I didn’t think I’d find it as exciting as I did.”

  “Yeah, well, Dillon is good at what he does,” Owen said as Dillon entered the room again. “Speak of the devil.” He picked up his drink and headed for the stairs. “Let’s go to the roof.”

  Dillon was first up the stairs, and Kat followed, but when they rounded the landing to take the next flight, Owen said, “Kiki, hang on. I forgot, I have a surprise for you.”

  Kat looked back and raised an eyebrow. Owen wrapped his hand around Kiki’s and urged her down the stairs with a none-too-innocent smile.

  “Don’t worry,” he said when he caught Kat’s expression. “We’ll be up in a few.”

  She narrowed her eyes but turned to follow Dillon up the stairs, and when she stepped onto the deck, she drew a breath.

  Low lights mounted on the beams of the railing around the roof illuminated the edges of the space with the softest of light, and the planks of the wooden flooring stretched from corner to corner. Floor pillows were spread around a low table in the middle, like the perfect place to read a book or drink a beer after a long day.

  But that wasn’t what she couldn’t stop staring at.

  It was the Brooklyn Bridge off in the distance, stretching away in arches of strings that looked like a loom, looked as if it were pliable, not made of steel and concrete. The river shone, the city climbing the sky in towers of lights to meet the stars.

  She hadn’t realized she’d walked all the way to the rail until Dillon joined her. She turned her face to his, her heart full of wonder.

  But he smiled, laying his hand — it was strong, sturdy, solid, real — on the small of her back.

  “Dillon, this place is amazing.”

  “Thanks,” he said, smirking. “Getting punched in the face on a regular basis has its perks.”

  “Not to be crass, but I had no idea you could make this kind of money.”

  He laughed at that. “I’m sure you don’t do so bad. Do you bet on yourself?”

  “Every time. I wondered the same about you.”

  “Every time.”

  He was looking at her like that again, like he was going to kiss her, and she looked back to the city.

  “So where’d you learn to fight like that?”

  Dillon turned, leaning on the railing next to her, gazing at the horizon. “My dad.”

  Her stomach flipped when she remembered too late what Kiki had told her. “Oh?” was all she could think to say.

  “Although that makes it sound like he taught me. Unless you count him whaling on me as teaching, in which case I had a formal education.”

  Kat was glad she’d already known so she could shake that off. “Mine taught me how to race and gave me a gun and a car when I turned sixteen. Violent beginnings all around, huh?”

  Dillon seemed relieved she hadn’t pressed the topic of his father or shown him pity. “You have a gun?” He gave her a look that edged incredulous.

  “Please tell me you’re not shocked. Is it all that shocking that I would own a gun and know how to use it?”

  He chuckled. “No, actually. Not at all.”

  “You have your fists to protect you in your line of work. In mine … there’s no way I could survive on brute strength. And in my line of work, when you’re a woman who wins, it’s not always taken well. Three cheers for the underdog.” She shrugged. “They always seem surprised, even the ones I’ve beaten more than once, like it was a fluke. You’d think I would have carved out a place for myself, and in some ways, I guess I have. But in others … well, there’s just no winning. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m cursed or something,” she said with a laugh and a sip of her drink.

  “Well, they’re fools if they can’t respect what you do.”

  She smiled.

  “So, do I even want to know what your dad does to keep you so well stocked in race cars and firearms?”

  “No, you probably don’t.”

  He laughed again, and she realized she’d heard him laugh more that night than she’d heard before.

  “I wanted to tell you again that I really am sorry about … well, about how I acted. At first, you know,” he rambled. “I’ve always looked out for Owen, and if I can save him pain, I’ll do whatever I have to. But I was wrong about Kiki. And I was wrong about you.”

  She looked down at her drink and back up at him. “I get that. Kiki just got out of a bad relationship. A really bad one. I wasn’t ready to see her with anyone else, but it wasn’t about me. It just took me a minute to realize.”

  He turned and leaned against the rail, putting his back to the city. “Seems we have more in common than either of us wanted to admit.”

  “Seems that way.”

  She turned too, resting her elbow on the rail, stepping closer, and he tucked her hair behind her ear, the smallest thing, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw. And then he reeled her in again, the space between them shrinking, her breath still and lips tingling.

  A car rumbled beneath them, and Dillon’s eyes went wide.

  “That’s my fucking car.”

  They shot down the stairs, passing the kitchen counter where Kat’s keys lay, and into the empty garage to confirm that Owen and Kiki were in fact gone. The two stared out into the alley in silence.

  “I think we’ve been ditched,” she said flatly.

  “It would seem.”

  She turned to face him, glancing sidelong at the door back into the house. “You know, I really should go,” she said. She didn’t mean it.

  Dillon took a step into her and cupped her neck, his thumbs on her cheeks and body nearly touching hers. She could feel him like the gap had been closed already.

  “Stay,” he breathed into her mouth.

  And she swallowed the word, the decision made.

  One shift. That was all it took.

  Their lips connected with a brush, then a crash, made a seam, opened up. His tongue slipped into her mouth at the same moment his fingers tightened, pulling her into him, pushing deeper into her. And she let him in with relief and surprise, with want she hadn’t realized fully, not until that kiss. The kiss. The kiss that would never end, just kept going on and on with roaming hands and bodies twisting around each other like ivy.

  His hands were in her hair, up and down her back, on her face, tilting it to give him more room, to let him in deeper, deeper still. The sound of her heart beating coupled with their breath in rhythm, from nose to cheek and back again. Because even their breaths had twisted together, as if the base, elemental pieces of them sought each other just as intently as the rest of them.

  He broke the kiss with the downward tilt of his chin, eyes closed, forehead against hers. She couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t say no, didn’t want to. Not anymore. Not now that he’d earned her respect and respected her in kind.

  Maybe he was strong enough for her. Maybe he could be the one to temper her.

  Maybe she could temper him, too.

  “Tell me you still want to leave,” he whispered, trailing the tip of his nose against the bridge of hers.

  But she couldn’t. She couldn’t say anything at all. So she kissed him instead.

  It was softer than she’d intended, more tender than she’d meant, telling him more than she wanted to say. It was an admission to more than he’d asked.

  He breathed her in, kissed her slo
wly, matched her. Accepted her admission and gave his own.

  The kiss never sped, but it deepened as kisses do, her body arching into his, his arching over hers, his lips — strong and demanding and knowing lips — moving with hers, telegraphing what he wanted, what he wished for.

  Her.

  He reached down to grab her and hitch her up, guiding her legs around his waist, the kiss continuing. Maybe it would go on forever, maybe she’d live there, in his arms and hands and mouth, until the end. His hands were on her ass, his chin lifted, her hair spilling around them like a curtain. He was so strong, she didn’t have to hang on. She cupped his jaw and kissed him on and on as he carried her inside, up the stairs, to his dark room.

  The world tipped on its side when he laid her in his bed and his hand moved up her thigh, hips pinning her, the weight of him against her heavy and right, and the kiss lived on and on.

  He was the one to break away again, the one to look down at her with heavy lids and swollen lips. She watched him as his eyes moved over her face, as his thumb brushed the curve of her bottom lip.

  He was a man of multitudes, of hardness and softness, of venom and tenderness. He was a man of power but not as powerful as he knew and more vulnerable than he’d admit. She knew this. She knew this because she was this.

  And when he met her eyes, he saw her. Not for what she showed him, but for what she didn’t.

  His name was a whisper on her lips, his hair silken strands between her twisting fingers as she pulled him down, meeting him halfway.

  Undressing her became his sole purpose, sliding his big hand into her leather jacket, lingering for a moment on her breast, holding the swell of it in his palm, his thumb grazing her nipple, tight and unconcealed by the thin lace of her bra or the loose cotton tank. He slipped the jacket off one shoulder, and she lifted up to sit — more kissing … God, the kissing — shrugging out of her jacket and moving her hands under his shit, feeling the hardness of his body, the ridges and valleys of his muscles.

  His fingers pushed the straps of her tank over the curves of her shoulders until it pooled around her waist. Next were her bra straps, first one, then the other. His eyes were on his hands as he pushed the lace aside, took her breast in his hand and felt the weight of it, admired the curve of it, lowered his lips to her nipple to take it into his mouth, to taste her.

  She watched him through lids nearly closed, legs around his waist, fingers in his hair.

  He moved up her body when he was through to kiss her again, though his hand stayed where it was. Her palms rested against his chest, skated down the hardness of his body and to the hem of his shirt and under, the softness of his skin against her fingertips like silk. The hiss through his teeth when she dipped her fingers into the band of his jeans was a sound she wanted to hear again and again.

  But before she could make him, he broke away and climbed off the end of the bed, reaching behind him to pull off his shirt before extending his hand.

  She took it, confused as he pulled her to stand at the foot of the bed, wondering why he wasn’t kissing her still, wondering why his shirt was gone and her hands weren’t on him.

  But when she slowed down her mind enough to meet his eyes and really look, she understood.

  Dillon stood before her, a man painted in shadows and moonlight with eyes heavy with worship and possession. One hand reached for her, brushing a strand of hair from her face, the tips of his fingers grazing her cheek so lightly, she wondered if she’d imagined it. Those fingers skimmed her shoulder, pushing her hair back so he could see her. They moved down her neck, across her collarbone, down and around the swell of her breast and between them to her heart that thumped wildly with anticipation.

  Every move was controlled, every motion a signature of his body on hers, as if to say, This is mine, all that I see, all that I touch.

  Her tank and bra hung around her ribs, and he hooked his fingers in them and pulled them over her head, her hair spilling over her naked shoulders and breasts. He knelt before her, his eyes following his hands as they skated down the curves of her body. And then his fingers moved to the button of her jeans, popping it open, and when he unzipped her pants with agonizing slowness, when he dragged her pants down the length of her long legs, it was all she could do not to drop to her knees so she could touch him. But it wasn’t her turn. Not yet.

  She’d get her chance.

  He looked up her body, the picture of calm, the picture of restraint, the picture of command and demand and acquiescence.

  Yes, he was a man of multitudes, and he would give himself to her just as readily as he would take her.

  Take me, take me, take me.

  And as if he’d heard her benediction, he did.

  His eyes moved down her body as his hands found her thighs, cupped her ass, squeezed. His lids closed, and his lips found the soft skin so low on her belly, low enough that she gasped at the contact. His hot mouth demanded her attention even more than his hands that kneaded and squeezed, more than his fingers that tugged her panties over the swell of her ass and down. That mouth took more flesh, his hand guiding her thigh to rest on his shoulder, his fingers spreading her open.

  Shallow breaths, the anticipation too much, her eyes knowing what they saw, her brain knowing what would happen, her hands in his hair, her heart tight, her core tight, so tight, and then there was nothing but his mouth closing over her center.

  She sucked in a breath with a snap of her lungs, hanging on, her leg on his shoulder flexing, holding him closer. A rumbling moan against her core, a whimpering moan from her lips, his hands on her ass again, pressing her against his mouth.

  It had been too long, so long. So long since she’d been wanted like this, been touched like this. Too soon, too soon she was too close, her body pulsing once, her hips rocking against him, not wanting to stop, but wishing she were full, wishing to be filled with him.

  She pulsed again.

  His lips disappeared, leaving her cold, leaving her aching.

  He stood, his eyes promising her he’d give her what she needed, his hands moving deftly to rid him of his jeans. And then his hands were in her hair, his lips on hers again, and the length of his body was against hers. And then he laid her down, kissing her as desperately as she was kissing him, breaking only to stretch for the nightstand in an arch of muscle as she panted, waiting.

  Another kiss, too brief, and then he was kneeling between her legs, eyes pinning her down as he ripped the packet open and gripped his shaft, rolling the condom on, stroking himself once, twice as she watched.

  He nestled between her thighs, nudging them open wider, pressing his crown against her slick center, lowering his lips to hers. Her hips rolled and arched, needing him, needing the weight of him. And when she whispered a plea, he took a breath that stopped hers and flexed his hips, filling her up.

  For a second — for one long, glorious second — neither of them moved other than the gentle motion of their brushing noses, of their sweeping lips, their bodies a seam. And when he moved, it was with power and grace, with resolve and release. He took from her what he wanted, but he gave himself to her. Give and take. Flex and release, wave after wave, rocking into her, until she let go, let herself go with a cry and a shudder, gripping his body with hers.

  Another pump of his hips, then another, and he came with a sound low in his throat and hands twisted in her hair hard enough to hurt, caged in his arms.

  Caged. And she didn’t want to escape.

  Perry fanned herself, cheeks pink, eyes on Kat and Dillon. “I love them. Absolutely love.” At seemingly nothing, she shot up in her seat. “Wait, did you just win?”

  Dita laughed from the couch next to her. “Oh no. One night won’t do it, but it would be a record if I won so quickly. It’s not love, not just yet.”

  Perry dropped back into the seat, folding her arms. “Well, nuts. Could you imagine the look on Ares’s face if you’d won just now?”

  “Yes, actually. I live for that look. It’s my f
avorite part of competing with him. Cherry on the sundae.”

  “Pretty sure I know what the ice cream is.”

  “I’m pretty sure you do too,” Dita said on a laugh.

  “Gods, when you two first got together, you were inseparable. Literally. Like those National Geographic specials on animals that mate for an inordinate amount of time.”

  “I couldn’t help myself. He took me by surprise in the best way.”

  “You’ve mentioned this.” Perry paused, watching Dita through the silence. “Have you been to Elysium?”

  Her smile faded. “No.”

  “Will you go back?”

  Dita sighed. If only. “I suppose I will at some point. But why waste my time? That argument was proof that things won’t be easily mended. Plus, it’s giving me an ulcer.”

  “You can’t get an ulcer,” Perry corrected.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do.” Another stretch of silence passed by. “And you’re not really alone, are you?”

  “I am, and I’m not,” Dita said, the words hollow in the middle. “It’s been a long time since Ares and I have been together. Ages.”

  “Seems to me like you’re making up for all that lost time. Horndoggies.”

  “Ha, ha. Three times in six days isn’t even close to the record.”

  Perry snorted. “How is he?”

  “Same as always, but …” She looked down at her nails. “Better. He’s softer, more open. Affectionate. And his admissions—” She sighed. “Something has changed, and I wonder what Adonis has to do with it. The rift between us benefits Ares, and he’s taking the opening. I think he’s playing for keeps.”

  “He always has where you’re concerned.”

  Dita met Perry’s eyes and asked quietly, suddenly, “Do you think Ares killed Adonis?”

  The question seemed to catch Perry off guard. “I don’t know. But it seems likely.”

  Dita swallowed her fears. “Apollo wouldn’t have gone so far. I don’t know how I know, but I do, and I think I always have. But there’s no proof. All I have is Apollo’s admission, and I’ve clung to it for thousands of years because it’s easier than the alternative.”