Eden's Embers

by Helena Maeve

  She had been counting on closing her eyes only for a second, but well fed and heavy with exhaustion, sleep found her quickly. She jolted awake, unsure of the reason until she felt a gentle finger hook a rebellious slice of hair behind her ear.

  It tickled, but that wasn’t the sole reason why Alana felt her heart leap in her throat. “Jackson?” She twisted around, grabbing for the hand that had been teasing her before.

  She found its owner smiling groggily. “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself,” Alana breathed, relief washing over her like a warm caress. “Took you long enough…”

  “I was having a nice dream. Didn’t want it to end.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Alana pressed her lips to his hand then her cheek. “Do I want to know?”

  Jackson grinned. “You were in it.”

  “Then I definitely want to know,” Alana said, content to pretend that there were no tears brimming in her eyes. With a little luck, the shadows of the cabin would conceal her weakness for a while longer. She knew by now that drifter women were meant to be tough, like Leona and Siggy, but maybe she didn’t have to be just like them to be worthy of Jackson.

  “Come here,” he entreated. In another life, it might have been an order, something to make Alana jump to obey because his tone of voice demanded it. In this one, she hoisted herself up onto the cot of her own free will, with no one to urge her.

  Jackson slid his arm around the slight dip of her waist, using his free hand to slot their fingers together.

  “Does it hurt very much?” Alana asked when she caught him wincing as she settled beside him.

  “No. Not very much.” It wasn’t a Not at all, but she hadn’t been expecting that. Jackson was warm against her side, their bodies connected from shoulder to shin, and Alana could very much picture herself staying just like this until their bones blew away to dust. She didn’t realize her cheeks were damp until Jackson dried her tears with his fingertips, until his lips found hers and no more hitching sobs could seep out like secrets.

  “Why are you crying?” he asked, laughing softly. “Disappointed I’m still around?”

  “No,” Alana sniffed. “I know what a hardy bastard you are.” He’d literally walked over broken glass in bare feet so she wouldn’t have to.

  She didn’t know why she was weeping, truth be told. Possibly nerves. Most likely exhaustion. Jackson didn’t tell her to stop, though, so Alana didn’t trouble herself with untangling her reasons.

  “Tell me about your dream,” she murmured, swiping angrily at her eyes.

  “Something to do with leaving the old rules behind,” Jackson said. “I can’t remember it very well… Maybe we could ask Ophelyn.”

  Alana perked up. “You heard?”

  “Bits and pieces…”

  “And?” She couldn’t quite conceal a thrum of anxiety as the question took root. She had moved against everything he knew, denying the laws he’d followed, the relationship they’d forced. Even his claim to her was void if she refused to regard herself as his thrall.

  None of which meant that Alana was through with being his, but the distinction was a flimsy one. She wouldn’t blame Jackson for doubting.

  Except—he wasn’t. He smiled, lashes low over his cheeks, and hitched up his shoulders. “I want you however you’ll let me have you. As my thrall, as my wife…”

  “How about we start slow? We could try courting.” An old-fashioned notion that she had often laughed at in her youth, but now that she was older and hopefully wiser, she understood that time to get to know each other could only forge stronger bonds between them.

  “Courting,” Jackson repeated, as though testing out the word.

  “Yes… You could tell me about you, for instance. And I could tell you about my life—”

  He grinned. “About your admirers?”

  “I told you,” Alana scoffed. “I didn’t have any. My intended was on his third attempt at marital bliss. I was just a spare part.”

  “Unlucky,” Jackson said, his grin impossible to conceal.

  “I did run away, remember?” With you, she might have added, but there was no need. Jackson had been her way out of a bad place. Now she could be his.

  “I’ve never tried to court before,” he mused, staring up at the cracked paint on the cabin ceiling. “If I write you a song and it’s dreadful, do you promise not to laugh?”

  “No,” Alana said, cupping her cheek in the palm of her hand. “But I’ll write you one back so we’re even.” It felt good to kiss him again, to savor his warmth and think this was not an end, but a beginning.

  She fell asleep not long after that, listening to the metronome of his heartbeat—steady, solid, unrelenting—and woke to Jackson’s snoring. She couldn’t remember if he had ever told her about his dream, but her own had involved waking up alone, the bed empty beside her. She was glad to find that it was nothing more than mental debris and stubborn dread.

  Jackson didn’t stir as she reached for a musty blanket at the foot of the bed and tugged it over their legs. It wasn’t much, but as home comforts went, it beat their cramped private quarters back in Haven. It even beat her bed back in New Eden—perhaps because she had Jackson to share it with now. She pillowed her head on her arm and closed her eyes, letting the soft rumble of his exhales lull her back to sleep.

  The waters rocked them gently, not to shore, not into the wide, open waters, either. They hovered in place, an oasis of calm at the heart of a turbulent wasteland.

  Epilogue

  Alana woke to voices on the other side of the bulkhead. They were coming from the galley. She knew it wasn’t Jackson she had to blame for the commotion, because he was still laid up beside her, snoring. She disentangled herself from his hold and reached for her peignoir. It was a patchwork of silk and cotton, made from more than one good piece of cloth in unfortunate shades of turquoise or lavender. Alana had sewn it together with little skill, but it did the trick for moments like these, when her gut was telling her to get out of bed even as the rest of her body wanted to linger.

  She nearly smacked her head into the gas lamp above the door as she left the cabin for the galley, dodging out of the way as the boat bobbed, sending the offending glass vial straight at her.

  “Girls? What’s going on?” It wasn’t yet morning. Judging by the thick darkness outside the portholes they were coming up on five o’clock at the latest.

  Two sheepish grins met her query, but no answer.

  Alana folded her arms. “Would I be correct in assuming those eggs have something to do with it?” The hens had just started laying and Alana was counting on saving a handful for when they reached port. Leona had been a big proponent of tossing the birds into a skillet and serving them with onions and roast tomatoes. Even after all this time, it still felt good to prove her wrong.

  “We’re making a cake,” her youngest said with an imperious tilt of the head.

  “You are.” It wasn’t a question. It was too early for that. At this hour, Alana just took the information at face value. “Wait, I’m sure there’s a reason, I just haven’t—”

  “Daddy’s birthday!”

  Alana grinned despite herself. “Oh, right. What would I do without you two to remind me?” She brushed their cheeks with kisses despite squealing protests. At eight and five, they were still young enough to suffer her affection no matter how much they might’ve pretended otherwise. “Well, carry on, then. Mama’s going back to bed.”

  “Really?” her eldest asked, blinking her big black eyes at Alana as she often did when she wanted to get her way. It also worked, most of the time.

  “Really really,” Alana said and reluctantly let them go. “Just leave the mix in the cooler when you’re done and I’ll put it in the oven.” They were still too young to be dealing with the very real danger of burning down their home and everyone in it. That fear was more of Alana’s caliber—and Jackson’s, to a lesser extent.

  She eased the galley door shut behind her before slipping back into th
e darkened bedroom and closing that door too.

  “Something’s happening,” Jackson muttered in the dark. He was always gruff when he was sleepy, but Alana had long learned to appreciate his flaws.

  “Your daughters are baking you a cake.”

  “My daughters?”

  “Yeah, I don’t know how they got here, but they say you’re their father, so…” Alana trailed off with a squeak as Jackson snagged a hand into her peignoir and pulled her down to the bed beside him. She landed in a heap, one leg between his and the other dangling awkwardly over the edge of the bed, her elbow narrowly avoiding his nose. It was a near miss, but they were used to those by now. “”Is that how a fifty-year-old behaves?” she huffed, pushing herself up on an elbow.

  “Are you complaining?”

  “Constantly. I’m told it’s one of my most striking talents.” She could trade him quip for quip until the sun came up, but Alana had better things in mind. She pushed him down when he meant to flip her over, locking her fingers around the jut of his shoulder. “I hear it’s your birthday today.”

  “Lies. Calumny.” Jackson tilted his head with a broad grin. “And what if it was?”

  “Well, I thought about leaving you for a younger man, but since there aren’t any for miles…” Alana brushed her bare knee against his cock, enjoying the familiar scrape of soft curls against her skin. “I could give you your present early.”

  Jackson sucked in a breath, his excitement obvious even in the shadows of the cabin. “I’d be good with that.” It wasn’t the most enthusiastic response he might have offered, but Jackson wasn’t a man of many words. He was better with showing his appreciation as Alana unraveled her peignoir and let it drop, carelessly, off one shoulder.

  She’d wondered time and again why he didn’t find another—younger, prettier, more fertile—companion in the years since they’d left Haven. Never aloud, of course, she still had some sense of good manners, but in her heart of hearts, the thought returned to her. Why not find someone who could give him sons, for instance? Boys had been so prized back in New Eden that she’d started to believe there was some logic to it.

  Yet whenever these moments of weakness came to her, Alana often found her answers in the tender brush of Jackson’s lips against her collarbones, the gentle rasp of his tongue against her swollen, dark nipple. They had been together so many years—through thick and thin, as they said in the old days—that her body reacted to his touch with little prompting.

  She smothered a moan for fear of being overheard, biting the lobe of his ear instead. Jackson shook against her, his cock giving a sweet, familiar twitch.

  “I’m still a little sore,” Alana whispered, for his ears only.

  Jackson sighed. “I don’t know why you let me—”

  “We can do it the other way,” she said, stopping his apologies before he could work himself up to the usual self-recrimination. Even after all this time, he still talked about what they did in bed as Alana allowing him to touch her. She’d stopped trying to change his mind. It was easier to just watch his eyes go wide, pupils dark in the faint glow of moonlight that spilled through the windows as he took her meaning.

  “You’ll have to be quiet.”

  “I can try,” Alana shot back, knowing she had him, knowing he would think of this as something she granted when it was her idea—as it usually was the case.

  She shed her peignoir with a quick twist, letting it pool on the floor, over her slippers, as he hunted for the vial of lotion they used for this and other purposes. It was one of Alana’s own concoctions, so she trusted it not to irritate her skin or lead to any other unpleasantness. They’d had some unfortunate experiences with lubricant scavenged from shops and supermarkets, often well past its expiration date, but nothing they couldn’t look back on and laugh about.

  A healthy sense of humor was the only way to negotiate the small, cramped cabin in which they had made their bedroom—particularly when both of them were sluggish with sleep. Alana was glad when she finally flopped down on her belly, a pillow under her hips to ease the strain on her lower back. Jackson never seemed to complain of any aches and pains, and he stilled moved as gracefully as he had thirteen years prior. Alana envied him.

  She forgot all about jealousy as she felt his hands slide down her back in a long, warm caress. The callouses on his fingers had been owing to knives and rifles once. Now they were most often earned from the fishing tackle and the ship’s wheel. He had rope burns too, from hoisting the sails, but Alana had a few of those herself—not from hoisting sails.

  “Are you going to tease me much longer?” Alana asked, twisting around at the waist to give him the full benefit of her scowl. “The girls—”

  “The girls are fine. Everything is fine. I’m in bed with my wife and I’m admiring her gorgeous ass,” Jackson shot back. “And you can nag all you want, I won’t be deterred.”

  She had to laugh at that, albeit feeling a little short of breath as Jackson parted her cheeks and darted his tongue against the tight rosebud of her anus. “Fuck—” She worked her hips back, seeking more of that sweet, delicious sensation. It was everything and nothing at all like having him on his knees, his tongue lapping at her cunt until she thrashed and came—most often with her hands buried in his graying hair.

  “Shh,” Jackson breathed, his warm breath gusting over her tailbone. “You’re going to frighten the children.”

  He liked to torment her when he knew she was already losing her mind. Perhaps it should have worried her—the ancients had all kinds of glossy printed writings about how to tell if your partner was unfaithful, losing interest, just not that into you—but they ran woefully short on litmus tests about how to tell if one’s partner had a sadistic streak that only manifested when it was least appropriate.

  Oh, who was she kidding? She loved it when he decided to turn up the heat by denying her satisfaction. It never failed to light a fire in her belly.

  By the time Alana felt Jackson work a slick finger into her ass, her pussy was already moist and she knew, on some vague and distant plane, that she would have to do laundry again in the morning.

  Or maybe Jackson would do it this time. She couldn’t remember just then whose turn it was.

  The thought evaporated into mist as Jackson worked another finger into her, scissoring mercilessly. Alana gripped the sheets with tight fists, canting back into his merciless onslaught. “Oh, you jerk. That’s it— Fuck, more.”

  She had been so shy about asking for what she wanted, for such a long time. She knew better now. She had beard-burn on the insides of her thighs and a sore, aching cunt to show for it.

  “I’m ready,” she gritted out, trying to muffle her ragged pants into the bedding. “Please, Jackson— Honey, God—”

  “I like the sound of that,” he chuckled, but his voice was strained. He pulled out his fingers with a hard twist, leaving Alana whimpering at the sudden emptiness. She knew what was coming, though, and tried to be patient.

  Jackson straddled the backs of her legs, forcing her to squeeze her cunt, and ran his slick erection against her hole. He liked to tease, but there were limits to what he could take. This was one.

  Alana smothered her moans into the mattress as he slid into her. It wasn’t effortless, it always burned, and she loved it. She tried to relax for his sake more than her own, so he could sheath himself into her fully before he came.

  “I can—I never get over how tight you are,” he breathed out in a rush, kissing the center of her spine and scratching his fingertips into the wings of her shoulders.

  “Jackson—” she pleaded. Don’t tease, she wanted to beg, but this was something else and she knew it in the way he settled over her, pinning her with his weight. They had made love like this before. It reminded Alana of the old days, of being held down and taken. Of being his thrall. She didn’t know why she did it, but as she felt his fingers stroke along the column of her neck, Alana turned her head and breathed, “Master…”

  Hi
s sharp intake of breath had her worried that she’d crossed a line and she stiffened, expecting him to pull out as he’d done before, to offer apology when none was needed. She wanted to turn, to soothe the crease of worry and effort from his face with her fingertips. She didn’t. At length, Jackson tucked his brow against her rattling ribcage and moved, fucking into her as rough and as hard as she had always begged him.

  He didn’t speak her name as he fisted a hand into her hair, tugging sharply. Passion flared in her belly, throbbing in her pussy like a phantom ache.

  “More,” became “Faster,” became “Don’t stop,” because Alana had never bothered to learn how to stifle her desire or stop herself from sharing her need with Jackson. He was the only man she’d ever taken to bed and he had always treated her the way she wanted to be handled—with patience, with a firm hand.

  She felt him come inside her moments later, likely overwhelmed by the tight clutch of her body. His gasps rose to a pitch, but he was still trying to keep himself silent, so there were no moans, no breathless, growling utterances of her name. Maybe next time.

  A lesser man would’ve stopped there, spent and exhausted, but Jackson reached down to finger her cunt instead, even though he was still shaking with his own release and his touch was nowhere near as precise as it might’ve been. It didn’t matter. It was his fingers brushing against her swollen clit or casting down her dripping folds. It was his hot breath in her ear. There was nowhere for Alana to flee, no possible way she could avoid the sudden onslaught of pleasure as it built and built in her belly.

  Hell, she didn’t want to. She rode his clever fingers like he’d ridden her until the sparks at her center became a supernova, became the harried litany of Jackson’s name on her lips. She wasn’t as good about muffling her moans as her hips stuttered and shook, but she tried. She put her faith in the sturdy cabin door.