by Jamie Craig
“Remy…” Her name was a plea, cloaked in a whimper. His fingers were brushing against her hair again, getting tangled in the sweat-dampened tresses. “God, that feels amazing, Remy. You feel amazing…” His last word was nothing but a soft breath, as though he had lost the ability to speak.
It was enough. Shallow inhalations through her nose allowed her to suck down the rest of his cock, keeping him in her throat for long, heavy seconds. Then she began the slow glide back up the pulsing length, her tongue outlining every vein and every ridge until her lips caught on the head. Dipping her tongue into the slit, she savored the pre-come collecting there and breathed in the scent of sex clinging to his skin. Was that her? Did she smell like that? She couldn’t remember her senses being as attuned before as they were with Nathan. She tasted and smelled and heard and felt every little twitch and whisper from his body. And it only made her want him more.
“Remy…I can’t…” He sucked his breath in and gently tugged on her hair. “I don’t want to come. I want to fuck you.”
Sitting up, Nathan reached down and pulled her onto his lap, tangling his fingers in her hair as she straddled his legs. He barely gave her time to gasp for air before thrusting his tongue into her mouth, but Remy didn’t care. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, crushing her breasts to his chest, and she answered the demands his kisses made. It took only a slight shift to position his cock at her ready opening, and even less to bury him inside, dropping her weight onto his thighs until she felt his balls against her ass.
Both of them sighed at the same time.
“Okay.” Her brow rested against his while she adjusted to his thickness. “You were right. This is better.”
“Better,” Nathan breathed. “Much better.” He brushed her hair from her neck, drawing his mouth along her shoulder to the soft skin beneath her ear. He smoothed his hands down her back to cup her ass, guiding her into a slow rhythm.
His strong grip kept her spread as she began riding his cock again, leaving her more exposed and open than she had felt sprawled across him in the living room. Every slide scraped her pebbled nipples across his chest, and every stroke back down ground her clit into the coarse hair at the base of his shaft, and still she wanted more. More. More of him, more of his mouth, more of his cock.
Just more.
Gradually she picked up the pace, clenching hard enough to have Nathan groaning into her skin. “Like that?” she asked, and was shocked at how hoarse she sounded.
“Yes, yes, yes.”
The words fell heedless from his lips. His eyes were clouded, laying bare how close to the edge he was, and his hands tightened against her with almost bruising pressure. Remy thought he would have agreed to anything.
She was rapidly reaching the same pinnacle. The relentless pounding against her clit had her scrabbling not to collapse against him, every thrust sinking him deeper, harder, flooding her pussy anew. It would take so little to push him over, to feel him crashing with her when they came, but all she could do was forge ahead and try not to believe too much in the glimpses of emotion she kept catching in his eyes.
When it became too much to bear, she squeezed hers shut, seeking out his mouth instead of trying to make sense of what was probably nothing. Nathan responded like a starving man, attacking her with both tongue and teeth, and when she had to gulp for air, he forced her back for more.
Coming was almost a relief.
Remy clamped down around his cock as the shudders wracked through her slim frame, exploding bright and hot and so fierce she was sure she would have friction burns everywhere they touched. Somewhere she heard him say her name, but beyond the confines of her flesh, everything else seemed far away, too far to notice except for that which directly touched her. Cock, chest, hands, skin.
And that mouth. Back on hers.
She could drown in that mouth.
* * *
Kirsten hated Los Angeles. It was hot and smelly and, for as crowded as it was, everything moved at a snail crawl that made her want to scream in frustration. It didn’t help that she had discovered Remy’s escape had taken her not only across the country but also back in time. Seventy-five years might be a drop in the bucket in the history books, but for practical purposes, she might as well be in the Dark Ages. She was dealing with Neanderthals here. Sooner or later—and probably much, much sooner—she was going to shoot someone through the eye just for being stupid.
She hoped it was Remy Capra.
A day of searching had given her zero information on the mysterious British guy and his Mustang. Her original idea had been to get into the police computers and do a simple search with her parameters, but getting in had been her first stumbling block.
As a civic employee, she had been implanted with tracking chip technology for years, and while it gave her instant wireless access no matter where she went back in D.C, Kirsten learned almost immediately she didn’t have the same capability here. Incompatible technology, she decided. There were enough Internet cafés around to still let her online, but the second she saw the old-fashioned computer, complete with clunky keyboard and mouse, she knew she needed a new plan. She hadn’t had to deal with such antiquated interfaces since before starting school. The only way she knew to navigate computer files was by talking to the damn things.
And that was before she realized you had to pay to use the supposedly public access in the cafés. Her cashcard and Fedcred were as worthless here as beads and trinkets. What cash she had—she’d hocked her watch, an antique, as soon as she could—was for food and shelter, not to waste fucking around with dinosaur computers and their ridiculous programs.
She didn’t have time to wait for voice-activated interfaces to become the government standard. So if she couldn’t get in through the back door, that only left the front.
She made sure she showed up at the police station after the day shift had clocked out. Nights meant fewer people around to ask questions she might not be able to answer. If they were doing their jobs, they would be out on the streets. Darkness gave criminals comfort and the opportunity to take more risks.
With only her chip to prove she was a cop, and no way to scan it for another forty years, Kirsten had few options to get inside with a minimum of questions. She stuck with the tried and true, lying about being the head of a private security team from D.C. It was half true, anyway, and she knew enough of the lingo to be able to convince the weary officer on duty to let her talk to someone higher up. That was all she wanted.
Walking back and forth in the confines of an interrogation room, though, she wondered if she’d be able to sell her story without the benefit of red tape on her side.
Again, she cursed Remy’s name. None of this would have even been necessary if the bitch had just died with the rest of her gang.
She stopped pacing when the door opened and a man walked in. He was tall, much taller than she, with broad shoulders designed for football and long legs made for more carnal games. Short dark hair seemed even darker next to his tan skin, and the liquid eyes that met hers were eerily shrewd. Her mouth curved into an automatic smile. This one would be easy to manipulate and fun to boot.
“I’m Isaac McGuire.” He thrust his hand out in greeting. She took it and smiled even wider at the heat pouring off his skin. “They tell me you’re from D.C, right?”
Kirsten nodded. “I’m tracking a fugitive on the loose. My sources say she’s here. I need your help finding her.”
Chapter Seven
Nathan blinked the grit from his eyes and stretched, smiling at the slight, almost unfamiliar ache in his muscles. The vague smell of sweat and sex lingered in the room. Though the other side of the bed was empty, he hardened at the memories everything evoked.
By the time they had collapsed in exhaustion at some point in the early morning hours, Nathan had thought he would never be able to have sex again. Apparently, he just needed to rest for a few hours. He wanted to lure Remy back to bed, fold her body around his, and start where they lef
t off the night before.
Remy was probably in the kitchen, scavenging for food. She shouldn’t have to scavenge for food. He should go to the grocery store.
With the money he didn’t have.
Nathan didn’t allow that thought to dampen his good mood. He didn’t want anything to dampen his good mood. He wanted to squeeze every last drop of pleasure from it before the novelty wore off. Besides, he had enough cash left over from the day before to take her out for coffee.
Digging a pair of shorts and a T-shirt out of the dresser, Nathan reflected on what Remy was wearing. Or not wearing. If she wore the T-shirt from the day before, he might be forced to carry her back to bed. He might be forced to carry her back to bed, regardless.
He didn’t find Remy in the kitchen as he had expected, but sitting on the couch, one foot resting on the cushion, the other leg folded beneath her. The white T-shirt she stole from his dresser drawer was stretched tight across her breasts, and her long legs were bare. She was rolling something through her fingers. It looked like one of the coins she had given him, except larger. Whatever it was, it engrossed her and allowed him a few uninterrupted moments to study her.
Purple marks the shape of his mouth dotted her neck, and her lips were full and swollen. Her dark eyes were thoughtful but distant. She rubbed the back of her leg, and he noticed a light bruise the size of his thumb marring the soft whiteness of her thigh. Nathan knew his skin was marked as well, from her teeth and nails. He wanted to caress the bruises on her skin with his mouth, lick the sensitive marks.
He wandered into the kitchen and dumped the old coffee out of the pot. He wouldn’t be able to keep this from Isaac. The man had eyes after all, and they had done quite a number on each other. Of course, that meant he’d have to put up with Isaac’s lectures about not bringing crazy women home, and not thinking with his dick, and having safe sex…
“Oh.” Nathan closed his eyes. “Oh, fuck.”
He hadn’t thought of grabbing condoms, not once. Not that it would have mattered because he didn’t have any condoms. Fucking the probably crazy girl was understandable, but fucking her without any protection? He didn’t need Isaac to tell him how stupid that was.
Nathan abandoned the coffee pot and returned to the living room. “I think we need to talk.”
Her fingers stopped dancing, the object of her attention disappearing into the palm of her hand. “Yeah.” She scooted over to make room for him. “I think so, too.”
Nathan took a deep breath. She probably wasn’t protected either. He settled beside her on the couch, but pointedly didn’t touch her. He needed to have a clear head for this conversation. If he touched her, he feared he’d compound the problem. He decided to just get right to the point. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even think about using protection last night. I know I’m clean, but if you’re worried about getting pregnant, we could probably go to the clinic.”
Remy frowned. “Pregnant? Oh, no, that’s no problem. My shot won’t run out for months yet.”
“Oh, well, that’s good then. But pregnancy isn’t the only thing we have to worry about. I mean, I don’t know how clean you are.”
“Clean? You don’t mean taking a shower, do you?”
“No. I mean, I don’t have any sexually transmitted diseases. But you might. You might not even know about it.”
“Oh.” Remy’s frown cleared. “You don’t need to worry about that. I’ve been fully vaccinated.”
“Oh. Wait. What? What are you talking about?”
“Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” She flipped the coin in her hand onto his lap. “You ever see anything like that before?”
“No. What does this have to do with vaccinations?”
“Just…answer my question, okay? I promise, it’ll make sense soon. Or maybe not.”
Nathan held the heavy coin between his forefinger and his thumb, studying it. One side of the coin was blank, with a dull shine. The edge was smooth and uninterrupted. The engraving on the other side was elaborate. Nathan had never seen anything so fine, so detailed on a coin before. It depicted a woman in motion, looking over her shoulder. The artist had been so careful about the detail of the work that Nathan saw the fear on her face—but the fear was almost hope. As though the one chasing her could be her death or her savior. Words arched across the top and along the bottom, but he didn’t understand them. He didn’t even recognize the alphabet.
“No.” Nathan handed it back to her. “Never. Where did you get it?”
She almost seemed disappointed in his response, letting it rest in her palm for a long moment, her hair hiding her face as she continued to regard the coin. When she spoke, her voice was even more subdued than it had been when he’d walked in. “That…is a very long story.”
Nathan thought this very long story was the same story he had been waiting to hear from her since the moment she showed up at his feet. Perhaps he would get some answers to his questions, the ones Isaac had nagged him about only twenty-four hours earlier. Who was she, really? Where was she from? How did she end up in that warehouse at that precise moment? What were the lights and the explosions? And why did he feel this strange connection to her? “I think I’ve got the time to hear it.”
Remy nodded. It was as if he’d said what she had been expecting to hear.
He didn’t anticipate her rising from the couch, though, or going to the pile of her clothes she’d left folded in the corner. As she crouched and grabbed her pants, digging around in the pocket, he frowned. She was pulling out the fake ID that had upset her at the gas station.
She returned to the couch, facing him with her legs tucked beneath her. “I want you to look at this again,” she said, holding out the card. “I want you to tell me what you see.”
Nathan had no idea what she was on about, but he humored her and took it. He read aloud as he had before. “Remy Capra. Classification: C. Date of Birth, March 15, 2060. Residence, District of Columbia. The card is about as thin as paper, though stronger. There’s a hologram behind your picture.” He looked up at her solemn face. “The picture doesn’t look quite right anyway. It looks almost like a…mug shot? I suppose you’re going to tell me this isn’t a poorly done fake ID?”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m telling you.”
Nathan turned the card over, looking for any more clues, but found nothing but a barcode and a black strip. He knew she wasn’t lying to him. Or rather, she believed what she was saying. Nathan had seen it a thousand times before. Facts and truth were nothing compared to the delusions the human mind could conjure and accept as reality.
“Then what is it?”
Exhaling in frustration, Remy snatched the card back. “You think I’m crazy. If I didn’t know the truth, I’d think I was crazy, too. But this…” She waved the ID in the air. “…Is all I have left of who I am. Who I was. This and those stupid coins.”
“So, you’re telling me you were born in the year 2060. Fifty years from now and three thousand miles away. And somehow you managed to travel…what? Seventy-five years back in time?” Nathan kept his face professional, as though he were talking to a particularly confused witness. “Even if I granted time travel was possible, why would you end up in a deserted warehouse in Culver City?” But as he asked the question, he realized the absurdity of it. What was he expecting? That she’d have a convincing explanation?
“I don’t know.” For the first time since he’d come out, Remy looked agitated. The color was rising in her pale cheeks, and her fingers couldn’t seem to stop fidgeting. “I’ve lived in D.C. all my life. Born, bred, thought I’d die there. One minute, I’m jumping out the window of Senator Henryk’s house, and the next, it feels like somebody’s trying to scoop out my insides with a pitchfork and I’m on the floor of that warehouse on the other side of the country.”
She stood and began to pace in front of the couch, looking everywhere but at him. “I know what this looks like. I’ve been up since five-thirty, trying to talk myself out of
telling you the truth. Because it’s cracked. I know that. You know that. But after last night…” Her gaze caught on the camisole lying discarded on the floor. It took a moment for her to speak again. “I guess I’d rather you think I was cracked than a liar. But I’m not either.”
Remy’s eyes were bleak when they met his, but her words made him look away. Running his hands through his hair, Nathan focused on the floor, unable to bear the sincerity of her gaze. He could make her leave. Tell her to get her clothes, and her coins, and find somewhere else to be crazy, because he couldn’t help. Didn’t want to help. Except he could no more push her out his door than he could, well, travel through time.
But if he didn’t kick her out, what was his other option? Continue to humor her? Feed her delusions? Encourage this flight of fancy?
He couldn’t do anything until he had exhausted all possible explanations. He’d go through the standard questions systematically, until he could begin to narrow things down. “Remy…have you ever used drugs? Were you under the influence of any drugs that night?”
She was shaking her head before he finished the question. “I haven’t touched anything since I was sixteen. I’ve seen too many people frag on the stuff, and as much as I might spoil for wanting to escape, no way would I do it that way.”
Nathan nodded. Short of hauling her in for a blood test, he had no way of confirming that. Frag? Nathan was half-tempted to keep a running tally of the words he didn’t recognize, or were used in the wrong context.
“Have you ever been hospitalized for mental illness? Does your family have a history of mental illness?”
Remy snorted. “No, never been locked up for that. I don’t think my mom ever was, either, but I can’t tell you about my father’s side. I never knew any of them.” She collapsed back onto the far end of the couch, curling up into a defensive ball. “You think I didn’t already go through all this? I’d love for this to be some grand delusion, because at least then, it would make sense. I mean, L.A., and the warehouse, and…you.”