by Godwin, Pam
His jaw set. Red spots bloomed on his neck and cheeks. “And now? If it happened now, would ye let me?”
I cupped his face and rubbed my thumbs over his whiskers. “Of course, I would. I trust you.”
“Then show me the scar. I want to see it.”
I arched my eyebrows and tried to hide my surfacing nerves with humor. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?”
“Ach, I’m not coddin’ ye. I can’t be more serious in me request.”
“Okay.” I threw up my hands. “Fine.”
He remained on his knees, eyes on mine.
“Now?”
He nodded.
So many times, I lost myself to fantasies of him gazing upon my body with an amorous ogle and a slackened jaw. But I knew his request wasn’t about sex. So I pictured my annual doctor’s exam. Latex gloves. Cold stirrups. It was just a health inspection.
I shrugged out of my shirt and lay back on the bed, propped up on my elbows. The chill in the room hardened my nipples, pointing them to the ceiling.
He sucked in a breath, his brogue thick. “Aw love, you’re a vixen.”
Doctor’s office. Acrid disinfectant hospital smell. Stiff exam table.
He stood over me. “Ye meant wha’ ye said? Ye trust me fully?”
“Yes.” That word was so much bolder than the voice that imparted it.
He removed his robe. His bare chest tapered to the slim waistline of his jeans, which hung low on his hips. My heart hammered.
The muscles in his arms twitched in the candlelight as he crawled over me. Sweat lined my palms.
When he straddled my thighs, my teeth sank into my lip. He moved my turquoise stone to the side and bent his mouth over my scar. His eyes held mine.
“Does he live?” he rasped. “The sodding bastard who did this?”
I shook my head. His gaze lowered to my marred chest. My lungs labored under his examination. His head dipped. I held my breath.
Warm lips stroked my collarbone, lingering on the widest stretch of scar tissue, the gouge where the knife plunged. He followed the welt around my breast. I balled the bedding in my fists. His tongue caressed the raised tissue. Each time I shuddered, a sultry exhale escaped his mouth. His tongue never strayed from the gash. When he arrived at my collarbone a third time, he raised his head.
We exchanged reverent looks. It felt so fucking good to feel a man’s adoration again. I felt alive. Joy even.
Our foreheads touched. His lips lowered. Closer. Closer. Then they found mine.
He brushed them sweetly back and forth. His tongue reached out, begging invitation. Oh, sweet God, I wanted to. I wanted to push him on his back and ride him until his voice was hoarse and his balls empty. I couldn’t. I shouldn’t. He drew my bottom lip into his mouth, sucking, nursing. Our breaths united.
He took over my mouth, his tongue moving in and out, his lips massaging. The richness of oak and whiskey and Roark seeped into my taste buds. His lips flowed against mine, his breath a velvet stroke. My veins thrummed in song, tingling the crown of my head, the soles of my feet and everywhere in between.
His fingers dug into the mattress on either side of us. I echoed his moan with my own. The kiss deepened, impatient and hungry.
When he caught his breath, his eyes slammed into mine. His lips were swollen and wet. His pupils widened, flickered, then his expression fell.
He ducked his head and groaned into my shoulder. “Jaysus, Mary and Joseph.” He pushed off me and slumped at my side.
I gritted my teeth against the sudden loss. Every sensitive zone on my body pulsated for attention. The hollow between my shoulder and neck. The dark peaks of my breasts. The dip in my waist. The folds between my legs. The more I thought about him touching me, the hotter I burned. So I marshaled my breathing by counting the knots in the wood beams above. One, two, three, four—
“Evie, I’m so sorry.”
I rubbed my thighs together. My chest heaved. Beside me, his breathing wasn’t any better. He rolled away to his prayer bench and I restarted my counting. One, two, three…
…twenty-eight, twenty-nine. I took a deep breath. The itch was still there, but my frenzied pulse had ebbed.
His silhouette flickered in the candlelight, bent over his bench. His mouth moved soundlessly, fingers sliding along rosary beads in rheumatic strokes. When he reached the rosary’s length, he made the sign of the cross and clutched the dangling crucifix to begin again.
“Stop this. Come back to bed.”
His eyes widened under drawn eyebrows.
“It was only a month ago you told me you could handle this.”
He set down the beads. “I can.”
I raised the blanket.
He dove at the invitation, slipping under it and reaching across to pull me to him. He mantled my body with a heavy thigh and bicep. His voice was soft at my ear, “Evie, I’m—”
“Don’t. We’ll talk in the morning.” I wrapped my hands around the arm across my chest and closed my eyes.
“Right. It’ll be a brilliant segue into the lecture I’ll be giving on the risks involved with offering up a voodoo vagina.”
Heat flushed my face. I bit down on my cheek to trap my groan.
I woke later that night, my skin still exposed from the waist up. Whiskers tickled my back. Fingers trailed over the bumps of my spine. A kiss grazed my shoulder. And another. Then lips peppered my nape. He was hugging my back, a knee tucked between my thighs.
My body surrendered to his touch, boiled to its earlier intensity. “Roark?”
He stiffened. He thought I was still asleep?
After a few breaths, he shifted, rolling me in his fold to face him. His jaw was clenched, lips in a slit, but desire fed the blaze in his heavy-lidded eyes. Would he let me run my hand through his curls and suck the tension from his bottom lip?
We stared at each other, nose to nose. I licked my lips, where his oaky taste lingered. His eyes followed.
The muscles in my stomach clenched, rippled lower, and settled into a throb against the thigh between my legs. I meant to push him away, but instead curled my nails into his back. The buildup inside me quickened to the point of pain. This time, it had to be slaked.
I took a deep breath. The words came on my exhale. “Please. Fuck me.”
He lowered his head.
God is faithful;
he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear.
But when you are tempted,
he will also provide a way out so that you can stand up under it.
The Holy Bible, 1 Corinthians 10:13
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: REBELS OF THE SACRED HEART
Roark buried a hand in my hair, knotting a shock of it at my nape. Another hand around my hip, he pressed his mouth hard against mine.
His tongue slipped past my lips, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. I fell into his kiss, clinging to him as tightly as he clung to me. Soft curls tangled with my fingers as I scored his scalp. He responded with a rumble low in his throat.
When I met him, I was injured, hungry and so damn lonely. In a matter of hours, he’d slipped past my guard, sneaked in with a charming smile, and soothed the ache in my heart. But I wanted more than friendly flirting and sympathetic snuggling. I wanted an embedded joining, a molecular connection, a melding of souls.
My body trapped under his, the lean sinews in his back bunched under my hands. His teeth scraped my neck where he nuzzled and licked. Then his tongue sought mine again, tasting as he nudged his thigh between my legs and drove the muscled strength of it against my groin.
Need swelled inside me, tightening my womb and demanding release.
His pelvis retreated. He released my mouth. His eyes searched mine as he molded fingers to the contour of my waist, sweeping them over the edge of my breast.
“I want this,” he panted. “Ye den’ know how much I want…but I—”
“No,” I whispered between clenched teeth. “We both want this. Please.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, nostrils flaring. His hand curled into a fist on my chest and his body constricted, pulled away.
“No.” I rolled after him, restrained by twisted bedding.
He scooted to the end of the bed, hunched over. His knuckles blanched as his hands made fists in his lap. “God forgive me.”
“God forgive you?” I sat up, shouting at his back. “Bullshit. What about me forgiving you?”
No response.
“Fuck this.” I untangled my legs from the blankets and bolted to the bathroom.
“Evie!”
I slammed the door and sent something crashing to the floor. The candlelight danced as I yanked the drawer open. My bullet lay amongst the toothpaste, soaps and razors.
In the mirror, my yellow-green irises flared under the agitated vein in my forehead. My cheeks flushed in coral hues. My hair parted over my shoulder, curling around one breast and miming his caress. I dropped my eyes.
My naval jerked in response to the pulsing below it. I splayed a hand over the curve of my hip, dipped it under the waistband and between my thighs. My body trembled. I plucked the bullet and dropped to my usual spot on the floor. My eyes closed, flooded with the intensity of copper ones. The illusion of Jesse’s body wrapped around and in mine as the bullet assuaged my need.
After I cleaned up, I returned to the floor. At least self-pleasure took the edge off. Bet his vow didn’t allow him even that.
We stood at a crossroad. The longer we remained confined to the bunker, the more the thing between us would strain. He swore to protect me, asking only for my faith in his discipline. With my growing connection to the aphids, I needed his faith in my humanity.
From my perspective, humanity as a whole was already lost. The cries of the nymph in the cabin, however, still sent shudders through me. What if there were others like her? What if I could aid the research to cure them?
A shadow flickered under the bathroom door. I reached up for the knob and opened it.
He sat on the other side, legs bent, back to the door jam. He raised his eyes to mine and held out my shirt. “I’m sorry. Ye deserve more.”
“Don’t be sorry. I didn’t mean what I said.” I sweetened my words, but they tasted like acid in my mouth. I pulled the shirt on.
Behind his grim expression was an unrivaled tenacity. His eyes were vehement in resolve and I found myself filled with admiration. If only I could be that strong.
I scooched toward him and leaned against the opposite side of the doorway.
When he drooped a hand over his bent knee, I hooked my pinky around his thumb. “What do you pray for?”
He stared at our hands. “Forgiveness, guidance, strength”—the corner of his mouth lifted—“ye.”
Something in my chest squeezed. “We should sleep separately.”
“No.” He interlaced our fingers. “Sleeping with me arms around ye is me favorite part of every day. I won’t have it another way.”
I blew out a breath. That went both ways. How had I allowed him to nose dive straight into the recesses of my heart? “That’s probably best. Where we’re headed, we’ll need to share body warmth.”
His lashes flew up. When he opened his mouth, I said, “We’re going to find the Shard.” If they still existed.
He closed his mouth and rolled his lips as if sampling my words. “And wha’ about your animosity toward mankind?”
Was I that transparent? “Ah well, some starry-eyed bloke has shown me the yellow brick road. Maybe I’ll find a heart.”
That earned me the patented Roark smile. “And wha’ if the Shard’s just a cantankerous auld man pressing buttons on a ham radio?”
“We won’t know until we pull back the curtain.”
He raised his hand and smoothed hair from my cheek. “Then pull your socks up. Iceland will freeze the balls off a brass monkey.”
Roark spent the next two days scribbling on his maps of the U.K., marking towns along the way that might have the supplies we’d need. I spent that time cleaning my weapons, honing my strength in the gym and scouring the genetics primer from the library.
The night before we planned to depart, he woke me, kneeling beside me, his features twisted in a queer wonderment. “Evie. Evie.”
“Mm?”
“Did ye read any of your entomology texts? Or any of the books on aphids?”
Seriously? He woke me for that? My lids fluttered closed and I waved him away. “Tomorrow.”
“I read them.” He shook me. “Evie? Do ye know wha’ the aphid’s biggest predator is?”
“My 5.56 round between the eyes.”
His hands hooked under my armpits and slid me to a sitting position. I groaned my annoyance. He curled a knuckle under my chin and lifted my eyes to his. Even in the dim candlelight, his jades were fierce. “Aphids. The wee insects. Do ye know their predator, love?”
I exaggerated another yawn.
His hand brushed my shoulder and extended before me. Two ladybugs gripped his fingers.
“Ladybirds. The bloody aphids’ predators are ladybirds.” He let the beetles wiggle into my lap. “Do ye know wha’ this means?”
I flicked the bugs across the room. “We need an exterminator?”
He squinted at me, his tone impatient. “Wise up and listen. I prayed for a sign.”
I lifted a shoulder. “Like the spinning sun of the Medjugorje sunset? Or the bleeding Bolivian statues?”
He sidled closer, palm circling my nape. “I very specifically asked for”—his eyes dipped to my lips then darted back up—“I asked for a sign to acknowledge you’re more sacred than me vow.”
He sat back on his ankles and pulled the blanket away from me. My body teemed with bustling beetles. Ladybugs perched on my arms and thighs and stirred in the bedding that surrounded me.
I jumped out of the bed and swatted them off. “Oh God, where did they come from?”
“Exactly.” He ran his hand over his mouth. Creases spread from the corners of his eyes. “Ye are hallowed.”
“You can’t be serious.” I brushed the last of them away and grimaced. “This isn’t the first time they’ve flocked to me like this.” My dad’s boat. My Lakota name.
He stood still, hands to his sides, watching the bed. “This is big. Bigger than us.”
Good lord. “Maybe they’re like mosquitoes, only biting certain people. Maybe I exude an odor that attracts them.”
“I’m going to wet the tea.”
The blankets seemed to move under the writhing red bodies. A shiver ran through me. “Something stronger than tea.”
He held up a bottle of Bushmills and patted a stool by the bar. I sat and he filled our tumblers. “Can ye have children?”
My nerves resurfaced. “That’s…what? What the hell does my fertility have to do with our insect problem?”
He passed me a glass. “I’ve wanted to ask ye since I met ye. I decided to come out with it straight away.” He sat next to me. “I know it’s not an easy question.”
No, it wasn’t. But I kept nothing from the man. “I had an IUD implanted three years ago. It’s like ninety-nine point nine nine percent effective against pregnancy. And no periods, one less thing to worry about. I should get two more years out it.”
He traced the lip of his glass. “So if it was removed. Ye could get pregnant?”
Fear and curiosity collided, wrestled. What sort of divine notions had hatched in that mercurial brain of his? Was he going to offer fatherhood? For a child I couldn’t have and didn’t want? “Conception maybe. But pregnancy to term? Or a baby that lives after it inhales the virus? Just because I’m immune doesn’t mean my child would be.” The reminder of my A’s final hours wrenched my gut. “Why?”
“The Shard. They’ll pursue this option.”
Oh. The last human woman begetting children. Yeah, that would be a coup. One that ran a chill through me. Maybe I’d agree to be a guinea pig in their research, but I’d die before I’d bring a daughter into a world rif
e with rapists.
I swilled the contents of my glass and met his heavy gaze.
“Ye know it’s different now.”
“You’re referring to this sign”—I gestured to the bed—“from your god? Now you’re suddenly released from your vow?”
“I den’ know. I asked for a sign and the aphids’ predator rains down upon us. Perhaps, it’s a blessing from God.”
Oh, my sentimental Irishman. “It’s frigid above the freeze line. Bugs come inside, drawn to the warmth.”
“Maybe.” Thoughts swirled through his expression. “Regardless, I’m bound to ye.”
I leaned away. “That’s not necessary.”
“I’m not asking. Nor am I asking for the same in return. We no longer live in a world that accommodates traditional sensibilities.”
What the hell was he getting at? He was bound to me, but wouldn’t sleep with me?
He drained his tumbler. “And I will kill any man who tries to own ye like a thing to possess.”
I straightened. “Not if I kill him first. And for my part, I’m not a whore.” Between Jesse’s disappearance and Roark’s celibacy, I faced a future of abstinence.
He jerked my stool between his legs and planted his palms on my hips. “No. Ye are hallowed.” He touched his forehead to mine and brushed a thumb over my lips. “Times are different now.”
First my fertility. Then my fidelity? I didn’t know how to respond, so I didn’t.
He stood, the Bushmills bottle tucked under his arm, and walked to the stereo. He held up a CD. “Flogging Molly?”
To my silence, he nodded to the bed. “Or ye could snuggle with your bugs.”
I grabbed my empty tumbler and joined him on the couch.
The whiskey flowed for the next couple hours. We avoided further discussion on sex, the Shard, or beetles sent from God. Instead, we shared stories about our families growing up and our experiences during the outbreak. And I told him about my nightmares with the Drone.
“I felt his name when we encountered the messenger bug.”
“That’s why ye jumped off the bike.”
I nodded.
“Ye think this…Drone is real? And he’s looking for ye?”