by Joss Ware
Overwhelming? No. Not at all.
She sighed, whispering his name, twisting her face away just to catch a breath. Why had she tried to ignore him? She felt so lightheaded, warm, sleek . . . alive. His hands . . . everywhere. . . .
Then, he stepped back, taking that powerful comfort away, his hands pushing her back against the wall, shoving himself away. Jade realized belatedly that they were in her dressing room, such as it was, and that the light had been left on.
“Jade,” he managed to say. His voice sounded different: tight, breathless, bewildered. “I. . . .”
He stepped back, swiping a hand over his mouth, his eyes large and deep and blue. A little shocked, even. That anguish was there again, that and something else. Heat, yes. Want, desire . . . and something fierce.
His face darkened, as though some other thought had occurred to him—an unpleasant one. “I’m not going to fight through the crowd again, Jade.”
She shook her head, realizing her breathing had just begun to catch up with her racing heart. “What?”
“I don’t share. I won’t. I . . . want . . .” His voice trailed off as if he could make no sense of it either, but then his expression settled. His eyes sharpened, the ocean blue flattening into cold steel. “I don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours, but I’m not playing. You’re mine, Jade, and—”
“Are you crazy?” She drew herself up. She couldn’t have been more shocked at this totally out-of-the-blue pronouncement. Mine? “I thought you were from the twenty-first century, not the Middle Ages. I don’t belong to anyone. Never again will I belong to anyone. You can’t—”
“So do you kiss everyone like you just kissed me? Vaughn and Luke and all of your groupies?” He stepped toward her again, grimacing, almost as if he were fighting some magnetic pull. His words were furious, but they came out low, steady, unrelenting. His eyes bored into hers. “You tell them all—Luke of the fucking mega crystal, the cowboy mayor, all of them—that you’re done with them.”
Jade could hardly comprehend that this man, this man she hardly knew, whom she’d kissed a total of three times and had known for as many days, was hammering her with these demands. Without warning, he’d changed from the respectful, kind, sexy-as-hell Elliott, to this . . . alpha man who slammed her up against the wall.
The exact kind of man she despised.
But . . . holy crap. She’d liked it. She’d kissed him, pressed into him, moaned beneath him . . . and would have taken more.
What the hell was wrong with her?
“I,” she said, drawing herself up, making her own voice calm and steely too, “do not answer to you. Or anyone. You’re insane.”
All of the heat and ferocity seemed to drain from his face. “Maybe I am,” he whispered. “Maybe I am.”
He drew himself up, stiffly, his gaze blank and emotionless, his face like stone. “I’m sorry if I offended you.” His words were just as stiff as his persona. “But I meant what I said, Jade. You’re mine. You know it. And the sooner you admit it, the better off we’ll both be.”
Before she could assimilate this sudden change, he spun and was gone.
And no more than a second later the door flew open again.
Jade’s heart leapt, but then she saw that it was Flo. Her eyes wide, her freckles standing out in dark relief against her flushed face, the older woman burst into the room and shut the door.
“What happened?” she demanded, her voice an excited hush that Jade assumed she thought was a whisper. “Oh my saints, it was just like Rhett sweeping Scarlett up into his arms and carrying her up the stairs!” Flo clasped her hand to her pillowy breasts and pretended to swoon. “Jade, he is mad about you.”
“Yeah, mad is the right word,” Jade said, glancing at the door as if it would provide some answer to this tailspin she’d been in for the last few minutes. “He’s crazy.”
“What happened? What did he say? Tell me!” Flo swept over to the raggedy sofa and settled her round bottom right on the edge of its cushion, looking up expectantly.
Jade tried to explain, but even she wasn’t certain what had happened. She did her best.
But apparently, Flo had all the answers. And it began with her lip color. “See, I told you it would make him notice,” she said. “But it’s your fault, you know.”
Jade gaped at her. “My fault that he dragged me off like some Neanderthal cavewoman into a room and slammed me up against the wall?” She shivered. It seemed like every time she thought about that whole slamming-up-against-the-wall thing, her belly flipped and squished. Not in an unpleasant way either.
What the hell was wrong with her? She’d been manhandled enough in the past. She wasn’t the kind of woman that would ever be weak enough to let that happen again. She’d grown so strong since those days.
And she’d really had no intention of having a man in her life, except for the safe and strong Vaughn Rogan. No one would mess with the mayor of Envy.
Except maybe Elliott Drake.
Tell your cowboy boyfriend you’re done with him.
She couldn’t help the little squiggly shiver deep in her belly, but she ignored it.
“I don’t want some guy ordering me around, pretending he owns me, Flo. I’ve been there, done that, and bought the T-shirt,” she said, quoting an old cliché that she didn’t quite understand. “And that’s what he wants.”
“You didn’t tell him about Luke. He thinks the worst, and you know what happens whenever you sing, Jade. You know how it looks.” The excited glint in Flo’s eyes had given way to a steely one. The one where she moved from fairy godmother to mentor. Or motherly lecturer.
“I don’t answer to Elliott. I don’t have to tell him about Luke. And I’m sorry if he didn’t like the way I look when I sing. I can’t help it, and you know I can’t see anything in the audience anyway.”
“When you sing, you have every single man in the room on his knees. It’s that low voice combined with the way you look. And then they all flock to see you afterward. You know that’s part of the reason you let Vaughn hang around—to scare them off.”
“They all flock? What . . . the three guys who play backup for me sometimes, and you and Jason and Tiger? I hardly call that flocking. Besides, the guys only come backstage to tell me if my guitar is out of tune, or whether the amp was up high enough.”
Flo was shaking her head. “To a man blinded by love”—at which Jade snorted; Elliott had never said anything about love—“it looks like you’ve got a bunch of groupies hanging on you.”
“Whatever.” Jade shook her head, suddenly weary. “I’m tired, Flo. I’m going to go to bed before Vaughn shows up and really complicates my life.”
Flo tsked, shaking her head, but Jade ignored it. Sometimes that was the only way to handle her.
Six months After
There are monsters here. They call for someone named Ruth, and they have orange eyes. Come out only at night. Saw them for the first time two weeks ago. They look just like I always pictured the blood-sucking, flesh-eating jiang shi monsters from China my granddad told us stories about. The jiangs move like they’ve had the crap beaten out of them. But they’re huge, larger than humans, and strong and they tear people apart. We saw them. Leonard Glover went out and never came back. But we heard him scream.
Staying inside at night for damn sure.
Theo has found an intact satellite station he thinks he can hack into. Have told him he’s no Torvalds, but he laughs and tells me to fuck off. He’ll do it.
The crew we sent has returned from Hoover Dam. It’s intact, but the power plant and generator aren’t functioning well. We don’t have the manpower to maintain it, so are looking for other options. Windmills. Water. Ethanol. There’s a fucking ocean here, so of course we’re also going to look at algae and other possibilities.
Have decided to create a governing council and elect a mayor. Rowe wants to be mayor, but Marck will fight him for it. Rowe’s a better choice in my opinion—he’s fair and prag
matic and reminds me a lot of Jack from LOST. Marck is too controlling, and he wants to enforce things like breeding plans and schedules. The man gives me a twitch.
Think I’m in love, btw. Her name is Elsie.
—from the journal of Lou Waxnicki
Chapter 15
Crap.
And holy hot damn.
Zoë’s world had become heat and sleek muscle, warm and strong against her, around her, taking, pulling, demanding. Holy shit, the man had a set of lips on him. And he damn well knew how to use them.
She couldn’t get enough of touching this man, this Quent . . . devouring his mouth, tasting the warmth and salt on his skin, the unfamiliar sensation of closeness, of strength, of comfort. She wanted to fucking crawl inside him.
And though it scared the shit out of her, she didn’t give a good damn at the moment. All she wanted was skin to skin, hot and damp and hard.
And apparently, so did he.
Somehow, they’d made their way inside . . . somewhere . . . and up some stairs; she remembered little but bumping against the wall and being kissed breathless every time they went around a corner, or grabbing his shirt and yanking him to her, just to taste him again, bodies crashing against the plaster in low thuds, sagging together, knee to knee, hip to hip.
Lips, teeth, hands . . . every damn where.
At last, she heard a quiet jingle, the clink against metal, and pulled away from his throat enough to register that he was opening a door. She tugged free of his grip, wiped her mouth, wondered briefly what the hell had gotten into her, then rejected the thought and turned to pull him through the door.
They stumbled, their feet catching and he gave a deep little laugh that sent a renewed sizzle through her, she felt something bump her from behind and realized it was the doorframe. Extricating herself, she slid one hand along the smooth wall and turned to look.
Heart pounding, mouth throbbing, fingers shaking. What the fuck? She drew in a deep breath, tried to settle.
Zoë had never been in one of these rooms, but it took only a brief glance to see that it was small, furnished with an actual bed and a table and chair, and that there was a massive window. The glass was still intact. That was pretty much all she needed to know. Other than where her arrow was . . . but that could wait.
That could damn well wait.
But . . . hell, she almost forgot. There was something else she had to take care of. She felt in her pocket. The paper was still there.
Quent closed the door and, now that they were separated by half a room’s length, gave her a quick look as if to judge whether she was about to cut and run. As if.
His chest, covered by a shirt that she’d stretched out of shape, moved rapidly as if he’d run miles . . . maybe that was how they got up those steps so quickly. He’d half-carried her, using those wide shoulders and sleek, muscled arms. She couldn’t wait to touch them.
But first . . . she had to take care of this. “Wait.”
He stopped, freezing there across the room. The tension flashing between them plummeted and the expression on his face—suddenly blank and rigid—would have been comical if she wasn’t cursing herself for smashing the mood. Business before pleasure. “I have something to show you.” She dug in her pocket, pulled out the paper. “Here,” she said, when he didn’t move.
“What is it?” He spoke in such precise tones, with an accent she’d only heard in the movies. His voice was low, careful, emotionless.
“I found this in the van that the kids were driving. Before you came up to try and fix it. They were going somewhere, meeting someone. It looks like a map.” When he didn’t move, she shoved the paper at him. “And there was crystal dust all over inside.”
“Crystal dust?”
“Take it,” she said, rattling the paper loudly, impatient.
“That is not what I want, Zoë.” The blankness left his expression.
Holy crap. Her belly tanked and her breath caught. She nearly fucking swooned.
She dropped the paper. It wafted silently to the floor.
Shit. Oh shit, she needed to touch him, feel that hair-roughened skin, warm and solid and real. Sliding her fingers under the shirt hadn’t been enough . . . not nearly enough.
His dangerous blond hair, the color of fresh honey in the sunlight, rose in little licks at the back of his head, and she remembered shoving her fingers into the heavy waves. And his eyes . . . zeroing on her as if he were a feral wolf. She couldn’t see their color, but the way they gleamed, and wanted, made her belly quiver and her breathing rise.
Come and get me.
The next thing Zoë knew, she was plastering her body over his, or maybe he’d moved first, their lips smashing together as two pairs of hands tore frantically at her shirt. She wasn’t sure if he grabbed it up first, or if she did, but suddenly the tee came up and over her torso, snagging on her chin and ear because they were fused together at the mouth, desperate and fierce . . . and then he ripped it up and over and away.
And, oh shit, crap, fuck . . . those elegant hands found her skin instantly, covering her breasts, sliding under her bra to tip them out of the lacy cups. She pulled recklessly at him, at his clothes, her nails slipping over him, scoring, in her haste. Skin to skin, warmth to warmth. It was a craving, a need.
Then, in the flurry of tearing, pulling, slipping, they were suddenly chest to breast, melding together hot and damp. The bed was behind her, and she collapsed back onto it. He tumbled with her, one heavy thigh wedging between her legs, jolting the mattress as he caught himself over her.
She pushed her hands up onto his bare chest, feeling the muscles, taut and firm as he held himself up. He bent his head to kiss along her chin to the place just in front of her ear, at its juncture with her cheek, where even the most feathery of touch sent a blast of shivers over her body.
Oh, she was most definitely ready for this. Her body felt alive, and ready. Needy.
Zoë arched and sighed against him, sliding her hands up to feel the planes of muscle over his back and around to the smooth bulge of muscle in his arms. She had little time to explore, for his jeans were in the way, and so were her cargo pants. They clung together, torsos hot, as he grasped her hair and held her head in place, nuzzling roughly along her neck as she twisted and sighed beneath him.
Then he rolled to the side, taking her with him—a flurry of hands pulling at zippers, buttons, shucking and kicking them off, whipping them to the floor. Their bodies bare against each other, long, hair-roughened legs smoothing against hers, his mouth sucking hard enough on a nipple that she gave a little scream that made him smile while he was doing so. Hands drawing over her, her shoulders, hips, back, everywhere . . . as if he too needed to feel.
He cupped his hand between her legs, his thumb twitching around her ready clit, then slipping in and out and around. She was ready, pulsing and slick, her world centered there where he touched . . . and she reached for him, guiding him to her.
“God, no . . .” he gasped, pulling at her hand, easing back. “Wait.” He sat back, chest heaving, face darkened by shadow, skin glistening. “I don’t have anything. Protection.”
“Wh—?” It was impossible to make her mouth form words, her brain capture coherent thoughts. Protection from what?
“Condom. I don’t have a condom.”
“A what?” she managed to gasp. “Whatever. We don’t need that. Quent. I want you inside me.”
She reached for him again, her fingers around the hot velvety skin, gave a good stroke. He groaned deep and low, the muscles in his arms trembling on either side of her. “Zoë,” he said.
But she pulled him down, smashing her mouth to his. Whatever the fuck a condom was, they didn’t need it to do what she wanted.
Once more she guided him to her hot, wet, ready place. “Quent. Now.”
She lifted her hips and he slid inside with a deep groan, paused . . . and held.
“Move,” she ordered, lifting her hips. “Dammit.”
His surpr
ised puff of humor warmed her neck, and the next thing, they were thrashing together, wild and desperate, looking for their rhythm . . . and, oh, yes, finding it.
And, oh. Sweat and salt, deep loose pleasure winding tighter, coiling, faster and harder . . . then she cried out, grabbing at him, her nails digging, her mouth free from his, as the orgasm rocked her.
His muscles bunched, she felt them, vaguely aware, as he stroked once . . . twice . . . tighter, then suddenly, shockingly . . . he pulled out, twisting away . . . then gasped a deep, pleasured groan that caused another luscious twinge in her belly.
Oh, holy hot damn indeed.
Quent walked into The Pub, looking a combination of dazed and like the cat who’d taken a bath in the proverbial cream. Elliott recognized that look right away, and settled into his seat, feeling acutely pissed off.
At least one of them hadn’t made an utter fool out of himself. What the hell had possessed him to go all Neanderthal on Jade? Especially knowing her history. Christ.
You’re insane.
That about covered it. He still felt that deep itchiness inside him, the gnawing anger and unsettled, volcanic feelings. He wanted to rage at everyone. He wanted to lock himself away and brood. But the antagonism, the murkiness, had faded into stark reality. Bleak, dark, unending, terrible.
He hated this world.
“I need a drink,” Quent said, pulling up a chair next to Elliott.
“Where you been?” Fence asked Quent. “We were talking about you and suddenly you were gone.”
“I went for a walk.”
Fence gestured to Quent’s misaligned shirt, buttoned awkwardly—a travesty for a man who’d kept himself neat and groomed even in survivalist mode. His hair was mussed and fell in his eyes. “Looks like you did more than walking, man.” His infectious grin flashed bright and bold, and even in his morbid state, Elliott felt it. “So, tell . . . does it still work? It’s been fifty damned years.”
“Piss off.” But it was clear that Quent wasn’t really angry. “Zoë found me and wanted her arrow back.”