Destiny's Chance

by Cara Bristol

  “Please,” she said, her eyes dewy with entreaty, her pink lips parted by arousal. In less noble moments, he had imagined Destiny looking at him that way, and electric energy jolted through him from the base of his skull through his heart into his aching erection. This was a bad idea. So bad.

  He jumped anyway.

  SHE COULDN’T FIGHT anymore. Not when Chance stretched out so close, so warm. Why walk away with nothing when she could take memories with her of what might have been if fate had been less capricious?

  His tongue, his mouth felt like hot, wet suede as he sucked her nipple, the shivery sensations he aroused leaping from neuron to neuron until it reached her tingling clit. She closed her eyes and, still unconvinced he would follow through with what they had started, grabbed handfuls of his hair. The finest of masculine silk poured through her fingers. She groaned. Chance growled and nipped. Warmth flooded her pussy.

  She followed the curve of his head and ran her hands over his back and shoulders, kneaded the muscles bulging beneath his skin. His erection found escape through the fly of his boxers, and it pressed thick and rigid against her leg, oozing fluid. She grabbed for that bad boy but could stretch only as far as his waist. She caressed his calf with her foot, enjoying the roughness of his body hair.

  Chance slipped his fingers up the leg of her pajama shorts and homed in on her aching center. He strummed her throbbing clit with his thumb and slid a digit into her.

  “You’re so wet,” he murmured.

  “Umm.” She hummed an agreement. Her need had drenched the crotch of her sleep shorts. She’d been ready for ages, had fantasized about him, eased her loneliness with conjured images, whispered to herself the sweet nothings she yearned to hear him utter.

  He pulled off her shorts, and she kicked them away. While he yanked off his boxers, she sat up and tore off the tank bunched under her armpits.

  He cupped her neck and caressed her jaw with his thumb. “You’re shaking.”

  “I want you so much,” she responded and watched the desire in his gaze skyrocket. He kissed her then, his mouth plundering, and she surrendered everything she had and more, seeking fulfillment in the slide of his soft lips, the caress of his tongue, and the taste of man and a hint of ale.

  He closed his hands over her breasts and captured her nipples between the web of his thumb and finger. She could reach him now, and she wrapped her hand around his erection, stroking from its base surrounded by curly dark hair to the satiny crown slickened by fluid. His cock pulsed under her touch. A spot below the cap on the underside beckoned, and when she thumbed it, he growled.

  The sound resonated low in her body and unleashed another surge of wetness. As if he’d sensed her response, her needs, he pressed her against the pillows and nestled himself between her legs. A nuzzle, a graze against her clit had her gasping. A tingle of beard, a whisper of lip, and she jerked.

  His beautiful, pleasure-inducing mouth hovered so close to her sex, his warm breath brushed over her. “Is this what you want, Zoe?”

  “Yes,” she answered on a moan, but before she could stop herself, added, “but don’t call me Zoe.”

  He riveted his attention on her face. “What should I call you?”

  Heartache lanced her. Every moment she spent with him would be stolen from a dead woman. But, if that was the only way she could get him, she’d grab it.

  Destiny rolled her head on the pillow. “I don’t feel like her right now.”

  “No. You’re different.” He spread open her folds and swiped his tongue over her exposed flesh. “Wet.” Another delicate lash. “Sweet.” His gaze sought hers again. “Soft.”

  Her pussy and clit ached, and she thrust her hips upward, needing more contact, more pressure. More. “Don’t torture me.”

  “Baffling,” he said, and drew her clit into his mouth and sucked gently.

  Destiny whimpered, her nerve endings attacked by pleasure. Without a barrier of hair, nothing came between them but pure sensation: the softness of his mouth, the delicious scrape of his unshaven jaw, and the spiraling tension. Time slid into slow motion like it had in the crash, and once more she fell end over end, only not in terror this time, but in ecstasy.

  Chance eased two fingers into her pussy, curled them upward, and everything inside contracted. “Now, now!” she cried.

  He scrambled to his knees. His cock jutted out, a perfect length of steel, its crown reddened and slickened. Air caught in her throat. Intensity darkened his eyes, tautened his muscles. How fierce he looked. She shuddered with need as he guided his cock into position. Her slender body resisted at first, then relaxed in surrender to the thrust of his hips. Big. So big. No give to his hardness. She gasped at the stretch, the pressure, as he filled not just her pussy, but the hidden hollow places of her soul. How had she existed without him? How would she live after her time with him ended?

  She contracted her muscles, holding him tighter still, and he groaned. “Oh, fuck.” Perspiration trickled down his temple to his jaw and dripped onto her collarbone. He poised above her, braced on his fists, his biceps bulging. Destiny clutched at his shoulders, dug her heels into his buttocks.

  His glutes contracted. He pulled back, then drove forward. Thrust and swivel. The grind against her clit kindled a lick of fire that intensified when he rested on a forearm to free a hand to massage the bud. “So good, so good,” she moaned, her praise inadequate, sensations rendering her unable to fully communicate.

  Harder, faster, he thrust, whipping desire to a frenzy. She bucked, curled her fingers into his back. Moisture broke out on her skin, added to his, and their bodies slid against each other in perfect synchronization.

  Need coiled, muscles fluttered. She closed her eyes.

  “Look at me!”

  The passion etched on his face propelled her into a vortex of ecstasy. Her hopes, her dreams, her secret longings, her love poured out of her, and she clung to the beacon of his piercing gaze. As she convulsed with passion, his expression turned wide-eyed with disbelief as orgasm claimed him. He sucked in a hiss of air and expelled a muffled comment, a senseless utterance that sounded like, “Not…possible.” He shuddered and spilled himself inside her.

  IN SLEEP SHE clung to him, had wedged a leg between his thighs and hugged his arm against her breasts, grabbed a handful of his chest hair in her fist. Chance lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, struggling to rebuild a defense against the warmth that beckoned him to stray from his course of resolve. He steeled himself not to brush the hair from her cheek, to trace the bruise that marred her soft skin, to rub his arm against her nipple, to kiss her awake—to have another go at it.

  A fuck. That was all it had been. A woman had offered him sex, and like any hetero guy would—like his brother Roman would have done—he’d accepted the offer.

  End of story.

  Except for the disconcerting epilogue. As he’d climaxed, he could have sworn he’d seen Destiny peering at him through Zoe’s eyes. A lust-induced hallucination, not worthy of a second’s consideration. He scrubbed his eyelids with his fist in a vain attempt to erase the vision seared into his brain.

  His sleeping ex’s lashes formed feathery crescents on her high cheekbones; her hair spread out in a tantalizing tangle. Against his side, her body fit perfectly, like a jigsaw puzzle section snapped into the right space. It was the only piece that fit. Never physically demonstrative or affectionate in the past, she had expressed little inclination to cuddle after climax when the fun and games had ended. It was as if she’d deliberately avoided the intimacy. As he should do now. But he couldn’t bring himself to break contact, finding disturbing comfort in the nearness of her body.

  Her breathing, easy and deep, whispered across his neck. On each exhale, she emitted a cute puffing noise that brought a smile to his lips until he realized he’d never known her to snore before. Another change in behavior. He raised his hand to scratch his chin but detoured to brush that errant curl from her cheek. Her silky-soft, baby-fine hair wrapped
itself around his finger.

  “Who are you, Zoe?” he murmured.

  With his toe, he hooked the top sheet they’d kicked to the foot of the bed and pulled it over them. He checked on the shadow dragons. They twined together in truce, dancing as lovers, anger spent. He would be foolish to contemplate trying again on the basis of one evening, some good cooking, one adorable little snore.

  Pure folly.

  But not nearly as foolish as the notion that Destiny slept curled against him.

  Chapter Eight

  What had started as a tiny trembling in her knees as they’d left the house turned to serious knocking upon arrival at the park. Chance cut the engine and covered her icy hand. “Ready?” he asked.

  “As I’ll ever be.” Which meant not at all. Courage had bled away. In a bizarre twist of fate, she would attend her own funeral. Alive.

  He squeezed her hand, and she said, “Let’s do it.”

  “I’ll get your door.” He exited the vehicle.

  She was grateful her parents had acceded to her wishes and had her cremated. She’d have freaked for sure if she had to view her body. Probably Laura had imposed her will on the arrangements.

  After contacting her parents from the hospital, Destiny hadn’t tried again. Further attempts to convince them she was their daughter would cause them and her anguish. She’d lost her mother and father, her death carving a rift and opening an aching void in her chest. Intellectually she understood their reactions, but she’d internalized their shock as rejection, disownment. She was their child, their blood. How could they not recognize her? If they didn’t know her, no one else would either.

  Not even her sister. She and Laura had shared a tighter-than-tight bond like twins born five years apart, except Laura had been adopted. The instant she’d laid eyes on the tiny baby brought home from the hospital, Destiny’s five-year-old self had fallen in love. So had Laura. As a baby, she’d reach for Destiny before their mother. When she’d fall or get scared, she’d cry, “Des,” not “Mama.” Had that been the source of problems between Laura and their mother all along?

  Perhaps her death would draw Laura and her parents together in a way that life never had. She hoped something positive would rise out of the tragic circumstances.

  Chance helped her out of the car, but speculation furrowed his brows.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You look like you have a question.”

  He shook his head. “Let’s go or we’ll be late.”

  Her behavior would be deemed gauche if she arrived tardy at her memorial service.

  A canopy was erected in the near distance, chairs beneath it. People were seated. As they approached, she recognized cousins, aunts and uncles, people she’d worked with, friends, high school classmates. Finally she spotted her parents, her dad as dark and somber as their black clothing, her mother contrastingly pale like all emotion had leached away. They were speaking to neighbors, receiving condolences, no doubt. Her heart contracted. I’m so sorry. Their grief was so unnecessary. She scanned the crowd in search of her sister.

  How could she have missed her? Laura sat front row, center, wearing a purloined red sweater—Destiny’s cashmere cardigan. She choked off a laugh and a sob. Nervy. Perfect. Growing up together, a sticking point between the sisters had been Laura’s inclination to borrow Destiny’s clothes without asking.

  Her gaze on her sister, she stumbled in the grass, but Chance steadied her before she could fall. “Are you okay?” he asked, and she knew he referred to more than her physical state.

  “Not sure,” she answered truthfully.

  Laura appeared engaged in conversation with an aunt, a buxom, middle-aged woman, but Destiny recognized her sister’s polite-but-I’m-not-listening expression. Her parents huddled alone, temporarily without company.

  “I’d better go speak to my…Destiny’s parents.” Had Chance caught the slip? She risked a glance at his face. She read no surprise or curiosity in his expression.

  Poster collages of photographs commemorating her life stood on easels. Graduation—high school and college. Christmases. Her Facebook profile photo. The bad-haircut one. Good grief, she supposedly had died, and that picture still surfaced! One bad choice would haunt her forever. She stifled a snort and trod over dewy grass.

  On her parents’ faces, recognition flashed, but not the kind she had hoped for deep down. To them, she was an acquaintance, a friend of their daughter’s, the last person to see her alive, possibly the one they held responsible for her death since Zoe had been driving. A dagger of hurt twisted in her chest at their expressions of polite but pained welcome. Was so much tied up in a physical vessel that they couldn’t see her? She glanced at Chance, his expression shuttered. He hadn’t recognized her either. They’d had sex together, and still he didn’t suspect. All her slipups, all the differences in behavior, their passion, and she was just a body.

  Despair coiled into a tight, hard lump in her throat. Surrounded by people she knew and loved, she’d never felt more alone.

  “You’re Destiny’s friend,” her mother spoke. “You were with her…when it happened.”

  “Yes. I’m…Zoe Richards. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Chance introduced himself and shook their hands. “Your daughter was a special woman.”

  “Thank you,” her father said. She remembered him shouting to never contact them again or he’d call the police. “How are you doing?” he asked politely.

  Fine, of course, would be a lie. She’d lost a friend, life as she’d lived it, and her family. But her parents had suffered more, and she couldn’t add to their burden by expressing her grief. “I’m…okay.”

  “I picture her going over that cliff, terrified in her last moments.” Her mother choked, and her dad wrapped his arm around her.

  Destiny had screamed in fear, but she hadn’t died. Zoe, who had been killed, never uttered a sound, almost as if she’d accepted her death before it came upon her. Destiny couldn’t leave her mother thinking her daughter’s final moments were ones of terror. She stared into her grief-stricken eyes and shook her head. “Destiny hadn’t slept well the night before and practically nodded off at lunch. She fell asleep in the car. W-we went over the side, and she never knew.”

  “Really?” Her mother grabbed her hands, hope lighting her face.

  Destiny wanted to fling herself in her mother’s arms and weep. Seek her own comfort and relieve her mother’s grief. Most likely she and the woman who had brought her into the world would never touch again. She held her mother tighter than necessary but said stoically, “Really. She didn’t suffer at all. She wasn’t afraid.”

  She stood before her, so it wasn’t a total falsehood.

  At last her father cleared his throat, and her mother released her. “Thank you,” she said.

  She glanced at her father. “If there’s anything I can do, anything at all, please call me. I would like to help.” It was what people always said to mourners, but she meant it. From the bottom of her lying heart.

  They took their leave and seats several rows behind Laura.

  “Was Destiny asleep?” Chance asked.

  “No.” She could tell him the truth because his girlfriend sat next to him. So he thought. “I’m going to hell, aren’t I?”

  He shook his head. “You’ve earned a place in heaven.”

  She watched her parents take their place beside Laura, spied the flicker of disapproval on her mother’s face as she assessed her sister’s boldly colored attire. Destiny loved her parents, but they weren’t perfect. Weren’t even fair sometimes.

  The simple service suited her. One by one, friends and family stood and shared how she’d touched their lives. Destiny wept into a wad of tissues by the time they finished.

  A flautist presented a musical interlude of traditional mourning songs. The service neared the end with one final hymn remaining when Laura jumped up to the podium and whispered in her ear. The wom
an nodded and raised her flute.

  “That’s not in the program!” In the quiet, her mother’s admonition carried.

  “It is now.” Laura stared straight ahead.

  Nothing like death to widen a schism within a family.

  In several notes, Destiny recognized the haunting strains of “My Heart Will Go On.”

  Chance did too, and he jerked.

  “Destiny and I saw the movie together. She liked that song too,” she whispered, compelled to explain the coincidence. She could feel a flush creeping up her neck. Fibbing to her mother came easy, but lying to Chance went against the grain, even though everything in her life right now was a lie.

  Listening to the music, she ached with longing for what she’d lost. For the rest of her life, she’d have to pretend to be somebody else. But who was the real loser here? Survivor’s guilt knotted in her chest. Not only had Zoe died, but she’d passed without anyone noticing. Though her identity would have to remain a secret, Destiny was alive and well, surrounded by friends and family who loved her, although she would no longer be a part of their lives. The crash for her had ended not in death but divorce.

  At the end of the service, she would speak to Laura. Maybe they could become friends. Perhaps through her, she could establish contact, if not a rapport, with her parents.

  The strains of the music she loved flowed over her, and she surrendered to it, found her ache soothed by the beauty. A simple, pure gratitude rose within her. In her head, Destiny sang the lyrics to the melody while mouthing the words.

  Like she’d been shot in the back by an arrow, Laura stiffened. She whipped around in her chair, scanning the audience until she spotted Destiny. Their gazes locked, and her sister formed an O with her mouth.