Jump Zone: Cleo Falls

by Snow, Wylie

  “Piece of cake,” he reassured himself.

  Thunder boomed in the distance as he dropped.

  “Libra!”

  Cleo, bent at the waist, her pulse ticking in her ears, stopped to catch her breath. She’d been sprinting at top speed, ignoring the throb in her lower leg and the burning stitch in her side, praying to all that was holy and feathered that Libra remained alive.

  If he did fall, if he were hurt, she could help. With her training, there was no fracture she couldn’t set, no flesh wound she couldn’t patch. Internal injuries would be a problem, but she might be able to keep him alive until she ran to the Trading Post for help.

  She straightened to resume her search, limp-jogging, ducking under the low branches that pulled her hair from the braid and scratched at her cheeks and arms. Her heartbeat whomped so loudly in her ears, she couldn’t concentrate on the sounds of the forest—a potentially fatal distraction. Every few minutes, she looked up between the treetops, keeping track of the thickening thunderheads.

  “Liii-bra!” she called in breathless desperation. She left the beaten path to get closer to the cliff face. If he’d fallen, was unconscious, unable to call out, then staying on the trail was useless, valuable time would be lost. “Lii-br—”

  “Looking for me?”

  He emerged from a copse of alders, dragging his pack on the ground next to him. Alive. Unharmed.

  Shirtless. Sweaty. Smug.

  Half-smiling, he said, “Looks like I’m first.”

  Cleo felt a wave of relief so deep, so complete, she almost wept. She doubled over, sucking cool, rain-scented air into her lungs, waiting for the searing in her oblique muscle to subside, for the tightness in her chest to loosen.

  “I heard you calling,” he continued. “Where have you been? I was starting to get worried.”

  She lifted her head, eyeing him from under her lashes. “Where have I been?” she asked, incredulously. She stood and planted her fists on her hips. “Where have I been? Where the hell have you been?”

  Mother Nature underscored Cleo’s questions with overlapping sheets of lightning.

  “Up ahead,” he said. “Waiting for you on the trail.”

  “What do you mean, on the trail? I’ve been watching, waiting for you to come down.”

  Thunder cracked overhead.

  He gave her a deer-in-torchlight look and shrugged. “I’ve been down for a while now.”

  “But how?” Cleo asked, her gaze flicking between him and the cliff face.

  Another shrug.

  “Turn around.”

  “What?”

  “Turn. Around. Make a circle. Do a pirouette.”

  Libra looked at her like she’d been bitten by a rabid wolf, but pivoted on his heel.

  “Yeah, just as I thought,” she said using the sarcastic voice she’d usually reserved for Jag. “Ain’t no wings attached to your back, darlin’.”

  “Who needs wings, darlin’, when I can just hitch a ride on a magical aer-o-plane and fly down.” He actually flapped pretend wings.

  “You bastard!” The air temperature suddenly dropped as the heavens released a needle-like drizzle. Cleo stomped forward. “I waited. And when you didn’t come, I…I…” Worried and ached and fretted. And he had the colossal nerve to mock her, the unmitigated gall to…to…stand there and look cocky and unapologetic. The audacity to stand there while cold droplets meandered down the planes and valleys of his muscled torso. Stand there with one eyebrow lifted, looking sexier and more smug than he had a damn right to. She wanted to smack him.

  “I thought you’d fallen!” Cleo open-palm whacked him in the chest. “Or worse!” He didn’t step away, didn’t flinch, didn’t make a move to stop her. So she used both her hands to smack him, again and again, until her dirt-smeared palms stung as they made contact with his solid, wet flesh. It was either get violent or cry, and she was not, for the love of all things carnivorous, going to shed a tear for this stupid, thoughtless, idiotic outsider!

  “I thought you were lying in a bloody heap,” she said, teeth clenched. His skin reddened beneath her fingers. “Hurting, dying…”

  Libra encircled her wrists with two fingers pinning her hands in place against him, against his searing flesh, against his chest as it rose and fell with rapid breath. “Were you worried?” His voice was as rough and rasped as the cliff face.

  “Worried? No.” Cleo said, unable to meet his eyes. She concentrated on stilling the emotion that vibrated through her, telling her limbs to cease shivering, her knees to stop shaking. Her chest heaved in defiance.

  When she absolutely could not stop herself, she looked up at him, just as a fat droplet hit his cheek. His pupils widened, his lips pressed together for a brief second, but he didn’t speak, didn’t let go of her hands.

  Cleo shook her head to protest, shook her head so her eyes would unglue from the stare that might let him see her too deeply, might lead him to discover why her heart was still pounding as if in full run.

  Libra’s scent, his presence, his strength, everything about him radiated masculinity. The air changed, the lightning creating an unnatural charge between them, striking Cleo with a realization that was so ancient, so obvious, yet somehow obscured until this very moment.

  She knew lots of men, but Libra was the only man who made her acutely aware of her own femininity, conscious of her hair, her face, her smell, her curves…her sex. He made her feel like a female in the most basic sense of the word, a woman standing next to a man, a Jane next to a Tarzan, a Romeo next to a Juliet. Two halves of one whole, necessary components in the survival of a species. Yin and yang, dark and light, man and woman. The contrast was suddenly so clear, so biologically profound, it made her feel naked.

  Naked. The tips of her fingers curled into his flesh, and she felt his muscles quiver beneath her touch.

  “Why are you naked?” she asked, barely a whisper.

  “I’m not naked.”

  “You’re not wearing a shirt.”

  “Since when does a little bare chest offend your sensibilities?” He tugged her forward, into him.

  Cleo bit back a gasp when her forearms made contact with the heat of his torso. Off balance, her jellied knees threatened collapse, but she refused to take a step closer.

  Don’t trust outsiders.

  Thank you, Lewin Rush! She needed that voice in her head to remind her that Libra was a bastard. An outsider. Not to be trusted.

  Narrowing her eyes, gathering her Taiga indignation, she met his stare. “What? You think just because I’m a triber, I don’t have a moral code?”

  Damn it! For all her intent to sound caustic, her voice was breathy and expectant. He parted his lips ever so slightly and his lids dropped to half-mast. “Do you think that we walk around n-n-naked, no better than animals?”

  He pressed his thumb into the pulse point at her wrist.

  She wished, no she needed him to say something jack-assly stupid to piss her off because her anger was being pushed aside by physical need stronger than the rushing current that had pulled her under the surface of the river. She didn’t want to succumb again, didn’t want to surrender to him.

  But he didn’t. He didn’t speak at all. Hooded eyes remained fixed to her lips, lingered there long enough to make her nervously lick them. She felt his chest hitch, and when his silvery-blue orbs sought hers, her own lust reflected back.

  “I don’t know, darlin’,” he rasped. “I’ve only been here for a few days, and I’m feeling some overwhelming animalistic tendencies.”

  Eighteen

  Libra’s mouth came down just as an ear-splitting boom shook the ground under them. Oblivious to Mother Nature, oblivious to everything except a consuming need to be possessed, Cleo parted her lips and invited him deeper.

 
He dropped her wrists to bury his fingers in the loose braid, tilting her head further back. Tongues tangled, twisted, their teeth scraped and bumped, and still, they couldn’t seem to get enough. Rising on her tiptoes, Cleo pressed herself into his rain-slicked chest and snaked her arms around his neck.

  Don’t trust—

  He yanked her head back, breaking the kiss. He searched her face, puzzlement in his eyes.

  A pang of fear tapped the fragile wall of her heart. She waited…for him to focus on her scar, to see disgust cloud his eyes, for the glass to shatter and the pain to seep in. She waited for him to realize he was cavorting with a savage. But when he blinked, the only thing in his gaze was pure want.

  He smoothed back the wet tendrils plastered to her face, his breath coming hot and uneven.

  Libra pulled her into him and nibbled her bottom lip, sucked it into his mouth before plunging back into her mouth, moving his tongue slower, deeper, more controlled.

  His taste filled her, awakened every nerve ending in her body. From head to toe, her skin bloomed and tingled, like a flash of heat after a gulp of corn whiskey.

  Don’t trust—

  She’d never been kissed, not like this, not ever. Cleo leaned into him, her body forming against him so perfectly that not even the raindrops could get between them. They fit together like two parts of a whole and she felt her body vibrating like a tuning fork at perfect pitch.

  Don’t trust outsiders—

  Shhh, Lewin. This one is different.

  This one used the tip of his tongue to draw electric lines on the underside of her jaw.

  He framed her face, turning her this way and that as his hungry mouth sampled her cheeks, her neck, her ear, and back to her lips…always back to her lips.

  When he groaned for her, made his chest rumble like the thunder, she pulled him deeper, wrapped her arms tighter, pressed her body harder.

  Libra gripped her ass and hauled her against him so she could feel his lust pushing into her abdomen.

  Cleo’s heart banged against her sternum, stealing blood from her limbs and sending it to her core. Her leg muscles faltered, unable to support her, while her head floated somewhere up in the trees.

  Libra’s kisses became more urgent, more intense. He used his tongue, teeth, and lips with bruising ferocity. His hands coasted up her hips and encircled her bare midriff. The touch of his fingers as they spanned her ribs made her quiver from the inside out.

  She willed him to touch her breasts, to undo the straps of her halter and drag his thumbs across her bare nipples. Just imagining it made them tingle and tighten.

  His breathing became erratic, as if he’d read her mind and conjured the same image. She felt his heart pound against her chest, matching her own crazy rushing blood. A moan, low and needy, came from deep in his throat—raw, primal, and erotic as hell.

  He wants me.

  I want you, too, her body answered, undulating against his. Unable to hold them in, unable to swallow them, she let escape the little mewls of pleasure.

  She tunnelled her fingers into his damp, silky hair and concentrated on keeping them there. Because what she really wanted to do was explore every inch of him—scratch him, bite him, taste him, lick him…go savage on his ass.

  He tore his mouth away from hers to rain kisses over her chin, down the column of her throat, and across the edge of her collarbone. Her lips throbbed, ached for him to come back, but Cleo dropped her head to the side to let him have his way.

  “About before,” he said between kisses.

  “Forget it.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Shh,” she said. “Not now.”

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I believe you. I really do.”

  “It’s okay—”

  “No, you have to know something.” He stopped and tongued the shell of her ear. He went very still and whispered, “I’m sorry.” His breath was hot against her. “Whatever happens, please know that I’m sorry for today, sorry for—”

  “For the love of ducks, Libra,” Cleo groaned and opened her eyes. “Just shut up and kiss—”

  Cleo’s body tightened, every muscle, every sense on high alert. There was movement in her peripheral. She shoved Libra backward, thinking only to protect him.

  Bangers. Two of them, and they were big. From the looks of them, they’d been living too close to the Dead Lakes. Bangers had a reputation for being dangerous sons-of-bitches, mostly because their mental capacity didn’t reach much past finding their next meal.

  These two were sneaking off with Libra’s backpack.

  “Stop!”

  She launched herself onto the hunched back of the closest one while the other darted through the trees.

  Cleo coiled her arm around the Banger’s neck and pulled her forearm taut, compressing his windpipe. She used her knees to squeeze his torso until her inner thighs burned while he tried to buck her loose.

  By the time Libra caught up, a dazed look about the eyes, the other Banger was a half-dozen yards away. “He’s got your stuff!” Cleo grunted, thrusting her chin. He hesitated shifting from one foot to the other, not wanting to leave her, but not wanting to lose their only supplies. “Go!” she said as another crack of thunder shook the ground. “I’ve got this one.”

  The Banger clawed her arm, grunting and gasping, his blunt fingers scratching Cleo’s sweat-and-rain-slicked skin. He thrust his head back to knock her in the face, but she’d read his body language, predicted the move, and ducked sideways. He repeated the move twice more, swinging his blunt skull around like an angered bull. Cleo used it to her advantage, tightening her hold around his throat with each movement.

  His hammy forearms punched against her legs; dirty, sharp fingernails tried to pry her knees from his middle, but without a supply of air to his lungs, his movements became uncoordinated, his strikes powerless. Cleo didn’t relent. His sickly gasps and increasingly desperate whacks did nothing to deter her.

  He stumbled backward and, with a surprising burst of strength, rammed Cleo into a tree trunk, hard enough to knock the air from her lungs. Her head snapped back against the rough bark, sending a vibration down her spine that threatened her tenacious hold. While Cleo gasped to refill her lungs, the Banger stumbled forward then lurched back again. Cleo braced for impact, pulling her head into her shoulders, but he faltered like a drunk and sideswiped her against the tree trunk, scraping a strip of skin from her upper arm.

  “Bastard!” she wheezed, ears still ringing from the impact. She was going to squeeze this bugger until his eyeballs popped.

  She could sense him drifting into oxygen-deprived unconsciousness. He dropped onto one knee, then fell forward onto the damp ground, taking Cleo, a living, breathing, hurting backpack, with him.

  “’Bout time,” she muttered as the muscles in her arm burned from exertion. She lay there for a moment to give her lungs a chance to fill to capacity.

  For the love of skunks, he reeked. How did she not smell these things coming? She laid her fingers to the side of his throat and, satisfied she hadn’t killed him, rolled off his back and rubbed her palms against her thighs, as if that would rid her of his stink.

  “Let’s go find your friend,” she muttered and took off after Libra.

  Cleo found them on the dirt trail, circling each other like two alphacats in a cage. This Banger was more disgusting than his friend, with patches of sparse hair on his head, a matted, patchy beard, and the visible flesh on his face and arms marred by lumpy tumors.

  He was spitting and gnashing his blackened stumpy teeth, which probably accounted for the retch-inducing odor, though the animal-skin rags he wore could probably growl on their own.

  One glance toward Libra confirmed that her city-boy had no clue what he was facing. Bangers were single-minded when it cam
e to survival and didn’t know the concept of a fair fight. To them, it was kill or be killed. She wouldn’t allow her urbanite to get snapped in two, couldn’t allow him to be hurt on her watch, in her territory. Not before he could lead her to Lower Amerada. Especially not before she learned how that kiss would end. She had to think fast.

  Cleo knew her best chance would be to take him from behind, like she’d done to the other, but now that she’d been spotted, it would be hard to get around him.

  The Banger eyed her, his gaze extending into the forest at her back. When nothing moved in the bush, he narrowed his eyes and snarled a mouthful of garbled sounds, as if asking about the other Banger.

  Interesting. These troglodytes almost never developed bonds with another, didn’t have the capacity for social behavior, or so she thought. Maybe she could capitalize on that.

  “Killed him,” she replied nonchalantly. “Now, be a good little troll and hand over the bag.”

  He clutched it tighter, eyes darting left and right, trying to decide which way to run.

  As soon as his attention flicked away, Cleo dove and, using the mud for added momentum, threw herself into a sliding scissor kick, taking his legs out from under him. Before the Banger could find his feet, Libra was over him, wrestling away the backpack.

  Mistake. Going hand-to-hand with one of these guys was like getting between a mother bear and her cub. This guy wanted food. Bad.

  He went right for the throat, digging his scabby fingers into Libra’s windpipe. The urbanite clung to his bag with one arm while the other pummelled the Banger in the ribs, but they were matched in determination, and Libra still appeared confused by what he was up against. For every blow he landed, the Banger only squeezed harder.

  Libra brought his knee up between them, but Cleo could see his face taking on an unhealthy purple tinge as his strength drained with his oxygen supply. The Banger leaned into a roll and if Cleo didn’t intervene, he’d get on top of Libra, and that would be the end of the city boy. Libra’s eyes started to bulge and his movements were becoming jerky and uncoordinated.