The Storm

by Tara Wylde

  “Shhh,” I soothe. “I’m not doing anything I don’t want to do.”

  I rise from my chair and slide over to his. My stomach is in knots – I haven’t done anything like this since I was with Brian Sorensen in high school, and even then it was only because it was the thing teenage couples were expected to do. It was about fitting in, being normal, like all the other kids.

  Now, none of this is even remotely close to normal, and I don’t care.

  “But…” he breathes.

  “No buts.”

  I can read his mind: he thinks I feel obligated to do this in return for everything he’s done for me. The ironic thing is that’s exactly what Arkady did expect from me – hell, what he demanded from me. And it was the last thing on earth I wanted to do with him.

  Nick hasn’t asked for anything in return, and that’s why I want this so much. I have no idea what the hell I’m doing, but I know that I want to do it. That I want to touch him, feel his skin against mine. To let him know how safe I feel with him. How cared for.

  The cherry on top is that he’s so fucking hot. That jet-black hair. Those smoky, smoldering eyes. That deadly body that looks more like it was chiseled by a sculptor than molded in a gym. Even if we’d only passed on the street instead of everything else that’s happened between us, I would have stopped and dropped my sunglasses to get a better look. He has to have noticed me staring at him at least half a dozen times since I’ve been here.

  I straddle him on the chair and wrap my arms around his thick neck, laying another slow, wet kiss on his lips. This time he responds more strongly and clasps his own powerful arms around my torso, so that my breasts are mashed against his heaving chest.

  My heart is hammering inside me, and the delicious, warm ache between my legs is undeniable. There’s no way I could ignore the steel hardness of his shaft through the thin lycra of my yoga pants. My hips respond on their own, independent of my conscious mind, grinding back and forth against him.

  “Storm,” he sighs as his lips break away from mine and find the curve of my throat. His tongue is fire against the delicate skin there, making me clutch him even closer.

  “Nikolai,” I whisper in his ear. “That’s sooo good.”

  A moment later I feel his hands under my shirt, deftly unhooking my bra. His palms are warm and rough as he slides them up and over my breasts, making my already stiff nipples ache even more. Hands that can splinter wood with their powerful strikes roam across my skin so gently that it makes me shiver.

  Nick is the first person to ever touch me so intimately. The thought makes my hips grind even harder against his erection, sending an unstoppable thrill up through my core.

  “Oh, God,” I pant in his ear as my orgasm starts. It’s already beyond my control. Then his hot tongue hits my nipple and I’m gripping his shoulders with my nails, bucking against him, riding the wave as it lifts me up, shuddering in ecstasy for the first time with a man.

  And that man is Nick.

  The electric current takes over my entire body, shaking me with undeniable passion until I’ve lost all control over myself. The world consists of nothing but Nick’s body and mine, together, linked in a way I’ve never known before. A way I never understood was possible.

  For one brief, shining moment, my life is pure pleasure, and I savor every single last drop of it as I ride the wave until the very end.

  As the sensation ebbs, I feel naked and embarrassed and sexy and connected, all at once. My chest is heaving against his, exhausted and exhilarated. His grip on me hasn’t eased one iota since we started, letting me know that everything is okay, that I’m safe with him, no matter what happens.

  Our mouths meet again, more gently this time. Familiar now. A coda to the symphony of sensuality I just experienced.

  “That was so…” I sigh. “So…”

  “Intense,” he finishes for me, his breathing labored but steady. “For me, too.”

  My eyes widen. “Did you…?”

  “It’s – it’s been a long time,” he says with a sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

  I grasp his neck and bury my face in his throat.

  “It was my first with a man,” I whisper. “And it was incredible.”

  He’s quiet for a few moments before saying: “How can that be? You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve met in years.”

  I hug him fiercely. I know what he’s trying to say, and it’s so sweet it makes me want to just crawl inside his clothes and hold him like this forever.

  “No questions,” I whisper. “Remember?”

  He nods, his breathing somewhat under control again.

  We stay like that for a long while – me still straddling him, our arms around each other, each face buried in the other’s neck.

  “We should do something,” I suggest finally.

  “I should – uh, clean up,” Nick says.

  “Okay. While you do that, I’ll clean up supper. It’s the least I can do.”

  I pout a bit as I slide off of him, then grip the edge of the table to steady myself. My legs are like the egg noodles in the stroganoff right now.

  As he walks toward the doorway of the kitchen, I take his arm gently.

  “We’re still good,” I say hopefully. “Right?”

  His palm glides across my cheek a moment before his lips part mine for a final kiss, making my rubbery legs feel more like water.

  “We’re more than good,” he says, touching his forehead to mine. “And we’re going to get even better, if we give it time.”

  “Time,” I grin. “Absolutely.”

  He smiles and strides into the hallway as I start searching the cabinets for Tupperware containers for our leftovers.

  It takes me almost a full minute to realize I’m humming Chopin’s Prelude No. 15.

  Chapter Nine

  9. STORM

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “You have a license, right?” he asks.

  “Well, sure,” I say, eyes wide. “But this – I mean, I can’t.”

  He shrugs. “Sure you can. Take your pick and let’s go.”

  We’re in the huge garage that used to be a carriage house on the west side of the house. In front of us on the concrete floor is a mini-museum of nine classic American muscle cars, each one in pristine shape, like the Hamlin piano in the music room.

  All I did was ask to go into town with him today. Now he’s telling me to choose which of these rolling bank vaults I want to drive on the trip!

  “Did they come with the house?” I joke as I wander through the garage. I’m not a car buff, but I do recognize the vintage 1950s Cadillac. It’s the kind Elvis used to love so much.

  Nick shakes his head. “I restored them.”

  “Really? That’s amazing!”

  “I have a lot of money and a lot of time on my hands,” he says. “When I’m not saving damsels in distress, that is.”

  I grin and hold up three fingers. “Another one! Keep ‘em coming, funny man.”

  I learned to drive in my mom’s beat-up Toyota Tercel, which was about half the size of most of the cars in here. I bet they have engines to match. Finally my eyes settle on something more my size, a little two-seater convertible in gorgeous candy-apply red.

  “This one is perfect,” I say. “Can we take it?”

  “You can drive a stick?”

  I roll my eyes. “Why does every guy just assume a girl can’t drive a standard? You probably don’t think I can parallel park, either.”

  His eyebrows go up.

  “Yes, I can parallel park, smart guy!” I snap. “And I can drive this thing, too!”

  He smiles and grabs a set of heavy-looking keys from a pegboard on the wall. He tosses them to me and makes his way to the passenger side of the convertible.

  “All right, Danica Patrick,” he says, getting in. “Let’s go.”

  I return the smirk as I open my door. “You know who Danica Patrick is,” I muse. “Maybe you’re not as old as you look.”


  “I’m old enough to put you over my knee,” he says with mock gravity.

  I push in the clutch and spark the engine. It has the deep, throaty growl of a tiger on a leash, despite the tiny size of the car, and suddenly I wonder if I made the right choice.

  “Promises, promises,” I grin, putting it into gear and pulling into the circular driveway.

  The engine purrs even louder, like an animal that senses freedom. Nick hits the button on the garage door opener clipped to the sun visor and the door slides shut behind us. He looks at me again, eyebrows up.

  “You’re sure?” he asks one last time.

  “Just sit back and enjoy the ride,” I say, dropping his aviator sunglasses over my eyes.

  The tires squeal as I pop the clutch and hit the gas, and for a full five seconds I’m absolutely positive I’m going to drive straight into the iron gate at the end of the driveway. The car roars to life and covers 100 yards in the blink of an eye before I cram in the clutch and slam on the brake pedal.

  “Okay,” I pant, hoping I haven’t wet myself. “What the hell, Nick?”

  He shocks me by biting his lip.

  “I meant to tell you,” he says. His voice is trembling, like he’s about to bust out laughing. “This is a 1968 Corvette Stingray with a big-block V8. Basically it’s a jet engine with a Fiberglass shell sitting on it.”

  So much for our leisurely drive.

  “Very funny,” I say. “Are any of the other beasts in that garage easier to drive?”

  He gives me a quizzical look. “Why do you ask? I though you did great. Now that you’re used to it, let’s go.”

  A wave of his watch over the sensor pad on the stone wall and the gate opens, as if by magic. Part of me wonders if this is another attempt at a joke.

  “Are you serious?” I say. “I almost killed us!”

  “But you didn’t. So let’s go.”

  I blink at him a few times before determining that yes, he’s being serious. As I spark the rumbling engine again, my heart beats faster. I can’t tell if it’s from terror or excitement – probably both.

  “You’re sure?” I ask before putting it in gear.

  “I’m sure.”

  He pulls another pair of shades from the Corvette’s glove box and puts them on, then looks at me. His confidence in me is so foreign that he might as well be speaking another language. No one has ever thought I was capable of anything except playing the piano. I’ve never felt trust like he’s showing me right now.

  The feeling is… indescribable.

  “Something wrong?” he asks.

  “Not a thing,” I say, gripping the leather-bound steering wheel and gunning the engine. “Let’s ride.”

  Chapter Ten

  10. STORM

  A silver bell above the door announces us as Nick and I walk into Ellie’s Deli, a quaint little shop on Main Street. Like the other storefronts in town, it’s somehow historic and yet in perfect shape at the same time. I suppose the Chamber of Commerce recognizes that tourists come here for the charm, since the town doesn’t offer much in the way of beaches.

  A middle-aged woman with short white hair and glasses behind the counter brighten as she sees us.

  “Well, slap my tits and call me Sally!” she hoots. “Nick! How’ve you been?”

  I like this woman already.

  Nick grins sheepishly. “I’m fine, Ellie. How’s things?”

  “Peachy keen,” she says, lowering her glasses and giving me the once-over. “And who’s your friend?”

  Without thinking, I open my mouth to say my real name. Luckily, Nick speaks first.

  “This is Storm,” he says, and I realize with a dart of adrenaline how close I came to making a big mistake.

  Ellie takes my offered hand across the glass counter that holds a vast array of meats and cheeses.

  “Pleasure,” she smiles. “Any friend of Nick’s is a friend of mine.”

  I smile back. “Thank you, that’s very kind.”

  “So how do you two know each other?” she asks. It’s a perfectly normal question and I realize I don’t have an answer for it.

  “She’s my antiques assessor,” Nick says without looking up from the rack of smoked meats he’s been perusing. “Apparently that old piano that came with my house is worth six figures.”

  He lies like a pro. For the hundredth time since we met, I find myself wondering about his past. What led him from Russian immigrant to living alone in that vast mansion on the cliffs? So many questions.

  Then again, he probably has just as many about me.

  “Is that so?” Ellie says, eyebrows rising. “Gonna get rid of some of those museum pieces, are you? Or are you just updating your insurance?”

  Nick joins us at the counter. “I don’t need even a tenth of what I have in that house,” he says casually. “I really should auction the rest off.”

  Ellie nods. “Well, you know the Rotary Club is here to help you in any way we can,” she says. “I might even buy a few pieces myself.”

  He shakes his head. “If you want something, just let me know, it’s yours.”

  Her grin is as affectionate as a grandmother’s. “What am I going to do with you, Nick?” she says. Then she turns her gaze to me. “Nick here has a reputation for generosity, in case you didn’t know. I’d bet my bottom dollar that whatever he gets for his antiques will go to charity, so estimate high, okay?”

  “Ellie…” Nick says, frowning.

  “Let the woman talk, Nick,” I say in the familiar tone of a significant other. He thrills me by smiling.

  “Nick is all swagger and no steel,” Ellie chuckles. “He may look like Josh Brolin after someone ran over his dog, but he’s got a heart of gold. Town council wanted to name a park after him, but he said no.”

  I goggle at him, smiling. “Seriously?”

  His crimson cheeks are begging me to change the subject, but I’m having too much fun.

  “Yes, indeed,” says Ellie. “Doesn’t surprise me that he didn’t tell you anything about himself, though. This one wouldn’t say shit if he had a mouth full of it. Although we all had a good time last year at the Rotary Christmas shindig, didn’t we?”

  Nick avoids both our gazes like a shameful dog.

  “I suppose we did,” he concedes.

  Ellie flashes me a wide grin. “He was at a table with me and Frank – that’s my hubby – and the rest of the board members. Get a few drinks into Nick and he’s almost tolerable.”

  Nick manages to smile and frown at the same time, and it makes me want to giggle like a loon.

  “You don’t make it easy for a guy to keep up a reputation, Ellie,” he gripes.

  “Oh, please,” she says with a dismissive wave. “You’re not scaring anyone with your tough loner act. Just give it up.”

  “Yeah, Nick,” I say, grinning. “Give it up.”

  He shakes his head. “That does it,” he says with a sigh. “I’m outta here, Ell. You only have yourself to blame.”

  “Well, I’m going to buy something,” I say.

  The grin he flashes me is maddeningly smug, and I suddenly realize why: I don’t even have a wallet, let alone any cash.

  “Are you really?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say, not missing a beat. My extended hand is an unspoken demand for money.

  The look on his face is priceless – he didn’t expect me to call his bluff like that. He pulls out his wallet and silently hands me three fifties.

  “Thank you,” I say sweetly. “I’m going to stay here and talk to Ellie for a while longer. Meet you back at the car?”

  He blinks at me. Looks at Ellie, then back at me. Ellie makes a shooing motion with her hand. “You heard the girl.”

  “Fine,” he mutters. “I’ll be at Murphy’s having a beer.”

  The bell over the door jingles again as he walks back onto the sun-drenched street and heads south to the pub.

  “I don’t know what the deal is with the two of you,” Ellie says as we watch
him disappear. “And I’m not going to ask. But whatever it is, I hope you keep it up.”

  I cock my head. “Why do you say that?”

  “Honey, I’ve known Nick for fifteen years or more, and I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.”

  My heart skips a beat at that, and I feel a glimmer of hope blossoming somewhere deep inside me. But it’s fragile, something that I don’t want to bring into the light, not just yet. After all, my life to this point has been a long, miserable string of disappointments.

  Do I dare hope for a future with Nick?

  “So he’s not big with the ladies?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

  “He’s not anything with the ladies,” she says simply. “You’re the first one I’ve ever seen him with.”

  My heart skips another beat. A man who looks like him, with all his money, has never been seen with a woman?

  “That – surprises me,” I manage to say.

  Ellie’s expression darkens and she sighs. “I think his wife’s death hit him terribly hard,” she says. “When he first came here, he’d talk about her now and then. But he hasn’t mentioned her in years.”

  His wife?

  “I never understood why he bought that huge place,” she continues. “Poor woman never even got to live in it. She was in the hospital for months before she finally passed.”

  She must be able to read the expression on my face, because she says: “He hasn’t told you any of this, has he?”

  “No,” I say through numb lips.

  She smiles sympathetically. “I’m sorry, honey, I shouldn’t have talked about things that aren’t my business. I’m sure he’ll bring it up in his own time.”

  She’s right; I was just a bit surprised by the fact he’d been married before. I don’t even know Nick’s last name yet; why would he have told me about his wife?

  Like he said, we have time.

  Keep telling yourself that, “Storm.” Maybe you’ll believe it one day.

  Chapter Eleven

  11. NICK

  Finn, the guy who owns and runs Murphy’s, is a bit paunchy, in his 60s, and is about as Irish as I am. He changed his name at some point in the past, but just as Storm did with me, I detected the faint hint of his accent the first time we shook hands years ago.