Storm

by Jo Raven

  Shit. Here we go.

  “Yes.” My last mouthful is stuck in my throat, so I grab my glass and gulp some wine to wash it down. “Just for a few days.”

  He pours himself some more wine. “You’re not from around here.”

  Not a question this time. I poke halfheartedly at my food, appetite gone. “Neither are you.”

  He glances up, those pretty blue eyes widening for a second. Again he recovers quickly, a smirk pulling at his lips. It’s as if he’s used to bad surprises in his life, and I wonder why that makes my heart ache for him.

  Life sucks. It’s a well-known fact.

  “I’m from Baltimore,” he says at last, twisting the stem of his wine glass between long fingers. “And you?”

  Might as well tell him. Telling him about myself isn’t the issue. The issue is being here, with him. Possibly putting him in danger.

  “Detroit area. Ann Arbor.”

  “Ann Arbor.” He chews on the inside of his cheek. “And what are you doing, all the way down south?”

  “I could ask the same of you.”

  He takes a sip from his wine. “The owners… were people I knew.”

  “Were?”

  He winces. “Are.”

  I stop poking at my cooling lasagna and drink some more wine. It’s fruity and fresh, gliding easily down my throat. “Family friends, then.”

  “Something like that.”

  He keeps saying that. Whatever it means. “Who are the owners?”

  “You sure are curious.”

  “So are you.”

  He chuckles, but that flash of fear and pain crosses his face again. A wince. A tightening of his mouth. “The Jordans.”

  Jordans. I feel like I’m supposed to know the name. Then again… Rich people. Their lives must be splashed all over the tabloids.

  “So you’re housesitting and fixing stuff? Like the hedge?”

  “I like fixing stuff.” He tilts his head to the side, studying me, as if I’m something he can fix, too.

  But he can’t. He can’t fix my past, or my present.

  Two million dollars. The sum flashes in my mind erratically, like a broken shop sign. Holy shit. Who could pay that back? My only way to survive is running and hiding.

  Forever—if I’m lucky and they don’t kill me to make an example out of me.

  “I gotta go,” I say, and push my chair back. “Thank you for the dinner. It was great.”

  His eyes are on me, and I see a shadow pass through their blue depths. It looks an awful lot like sadness, and my breath catches.

  Then it’s gone, and his brows lift. “No dessert?”

  I lick my lips as I take a step away. He looks like dessert, with his dark hair tousled and all that gorgeous muscled body slumped back in the chair.

  Bad, bad idea. “No… Thanks.”

  He nods. “Then I’ll walk you out.”

  ***

  Tripping over my own feet in my haste, I cross the living room and step out of the house, onto the patio. He follows, his bare feet whispering on the tiles. The blue light from the Olympic pool floods the air. I rush around its rim, my breathing echoing in my ears.

  “Ray,” he calls out from behind me. “Raylin.”

  I don’t want to turn around and see him. If I do, I may not leave. I may stay, and then all bets are off.

  “I’m sorry!” I shout over my shoulder. “I have no manners, I know. Dinner was delicious. Thank you!”

  “Slow down.”

  “No, sorry. I have things to do. Dishes to wash. Cans to check for expiration dates. You know. Important stuff.”

  “Hey, Cinderella. Your sandals.”

  Oh shit. I turn around slowly, cursing myself. “Um… thanks?”

  They’re dangling from his fingers. He’s stalking toward me, a slight limp to his gait I never noticed before. A crooked smirk pulls at his lips, his eyes twinkle at me, and I lose my train of thought.

  God…

  See, I knew this would happen if I turned. Butterflies somersault in my stomach, my mouth is dry and my pulse is beating everywhere—at the base of my throat, in my wrists, between my legs. I need something, I need him, and my hands clench helplessly at my sides.

  He comes to stand in front of me, and I want him to kiss me. I want to taste his mouth and kiss my way up that square jaw, wrap my arms around him, feel the power in his body.

  I gasp when he goes down to his knees and taps on my foot. “Lift.”

  Automatically I lift my foot, and he growls in the back of his throat, startling me.

  “Good girl,” he says as he pulls my sandal on, then lowers my foot, his fingers trailing over the arch, stroking. Sparkling pleasure shoots up my leg to settle where I’m burning. “Now the other.”

  My mind blank, his scent wrapping around me like a vine, I lift my foot, and this time he takes his time, massaging the sole with strong fingertips before slipping the sandal on.

  He glances up at me, the heat in his gaze scorching. He wraps his hands around my ankles, and I suck in a sharp breath as he runs his palms up, under my dress, the calluses on his palms catching on my skin.

  He stops right at the edge of my panties and licks his lips.

  What is he going to do? I want to ask him, but then I’m afraid he’ll stop. I don’t want him to stop. His touch is electrifying.

  “Ray…” The rasp in his voice is stronger, his eyes darker. His thumbs dip under the elastic, under the thin cotton—

  He grabs my hips and pulls me down, onto his lap.

  I squeal, flailing, my knees folding. His hands support me, easily lowering me on top of his thighs where he’s kneeling by the pool, then move up to my waist, steadying me.

  Throwing my arms around his neck, I hold on for dear life, waiting for my heart to stop hammering. “You’re crazy.”

  He grins, a slow, lazy grin that robs what little breath I have left in my lungs. “And you’re beautiful.”

  Beautiful. He finds me beautiful, I think, and then his mouth is on mine, soft and warm, salty and sweet and spiced with his scent. I part my lips for him and his tongue thrusts inside, stroking me. I moan, sinking my fingers into the hair at the back of his neck, like I’ve been wanting to do since I met him, and it’s softer than I imagined.

  Spun silk, wisp of cloud.

  He tastes of wine and male, dark and heady. His lips move over mine, and I can’t get enough. My fingers tighten in his hair and he groans, his hands dropping to my ass, pressing me to him.

  To the hard-on bulging in his pants, its thick ridge rubbing through my soaked panties, sending jolts to the core of me.

  I break the kiss because my oxygen is running out, and he chases after my mouth, nipping at my lips. He’s breathing hard, eyes heavy-lidded, his solid chest pressing into my breasts, and his hands slide under my dress again, tugging on my panties. Cool air rushes between my legs, and I shiver.

  His thumbs stroke up, parting my folds, striking me with need.

  “Storm…” My breathing is coming fast and hard, my hands kneading the thick muscles in the back of his neck.

  “Stop thinking,” he whispers. “Hold on to me.”

  I start to shake my head, my legs tensing to get up.

  He peers up at me through dark lashes as he pushes a finger into me. I shudder, my whole body shaking at the intrusion. The pressure inside me ratchets up, and I can’t think or move. He strokes me, his thumb sliding up and down over my clit, while he adds another finger into me, working me deep and hard.

  Oh God. I’m going to come. Straddling him, his fingers inside me, with the tang of the sea and him filling my senses, the feel of his muscular body pressed to mine…

  Pleasure spikes down my spine, and I start to shatter, my hands clawing at his back.

  “Kiss me,” he says, his breath hot against my neck. “Kiss me, Ray.”

  I dip my head, and he bites at my lips, drawing me down until his mouth covers mine. He parts my lips with his tongue and licks at my mouth, making
me moan. It’s so hot, I tangle my tongue with his.

  It’s his turn to groan, and he presses deeper into me, stroking into me with his callused fingers. My hips roll, taking him in, and I gasp in his mouth—or he gasps in mine, not sure which—as the pressure crests and breaks, gripping my body in an earth-shattering orgasm.

  I tremble as one of his hands comes up to grip my hip, keeping me from toppling over, my pussy clenching so hard I see stars. His kiss turns soft and slow, his lips moving lightly against mine, letting me draw breath.

  But he doesn’t withdraw his fingers until the last spasm has eased and the last wisp of pleasure has faded, leaving me boneless in his arms.

  He lowers me back to his lap, where he’s still thick and long, pressing into my throbbing folds through the thin barrier of cloth.

  And I panic. I scramble off him, registering for a second his startled expression, then I’m off and running to the gate, letting myself out. I run down the beach, not caring one bit about the sand in my sandals and the burning building behind my eyes.

  What the hell am I doing? I screwed this up. I need to leave. Leave this beach, this hide-out.

  Leave Storm.

  Not like we have anything going, anyway. Not that I want more than this dinner with the dirty, delicious dessert that followed.

  Leave before reality crashes down and takes everyone with it.

  STORM

  What the hell? I’m kneeling by the pool, watching her run away, and my brain’s shut down. Did I hurt her? Did I do something she didn’t want?

  She came, no way could she fake that, not with my fingers inside her, feeling her pussy clench around me like a vise. Not when I tasted her moans in my mouth, when I felt her tense and then go slack in my arms.

  And then she ran away.

  Fuck. If I scared her. I thought she wanted it, but maybe I should have waited longer. I screwed up, because I couldn’t wait. I wanted to touch her, feel her. And now I’ve had copped a feel and had a taste, I’m hungry for more.

  Goddammit.

  I get up slowly, wincing as fire shoots up my leg. I massage the knotted muscle as I stagger by the pool, the recently healed fracture aching like a bitch. I’m also hard as a rock, and fuck if I’m going to make it back to the house with my thigh on fire and a boner like a goddamn flag pole between my legs.

  Arriving at the nearest chaise lounge, I sink gingerly down and lie back with a sigh of relief, staring up at the dark sky. How did I get myself into such a jam—again? Can’t count the times I’ve had to jack off to this chick’s image since I met her.

  Looks like today will be no different. Fuck my luck. Reaching down, I unzip my fly and ease out my aching cock. I wheeze out a breath, letting my hand curl around the base and hold on for a moment, savoring the need, the burning pressure behind my balls.

  Picturing her. Dark hair loose, a storm cloud around her pale face, those fucking big eyes staring up at me as she goes to her knees between my legs. Her pink tongue darting out to lick her soft lips, her hand trailing over her breasts, down her belly, down, down…

  A groan leaves my throat and, looking down, I realize I’ve begun stroking myself, tugging on my hard dick. My fist slides up to the crown and back down, my grip made slippery by the precum leaking from the slit.

  Fuck, feels so good. Wish she was the one doing it to me. Wish she’d stayed. That I’d feel her warm, smooth skin on mine, feel her mouth on mine, that I’d hold her, and not feel…

  So alone.

  Shit.

  Swallowing, I squeeze my dick savagely, then pull on it so hard I gasp. Yeah, that’s it. Just need to come, get the need out of my system. My stomach is clenched tightly, my back bowed forward as I beat my meat, groaning out loud at the pressure building and building.

  Can’t. I can’t come. My dick is on fire. My balls are hard and heavy. Jesus. Come. Come already, fucking dammit.

  I almost see her, in the milky light from the pool, breathing on my cock, licking up the underside, then taking me in her hot, pretty mouth. Sucking me down her throat.

  Oh fuck. I arch back, my head thumping on the heavy cloth of the chaise lounge, my body jerking as I shoot my load on my chest, my chin and fucking everywhere.

  Holy shit.

  I blink, not seeing anything, my vision gone dark for a second. What the hell was that? Flying so fucking high, and she’s not even here. The thought of her was enough to wring me dry.

  Throwing an arm over my eyes, I stay still and breathe. Breathe in, breathe out. Trying not to sink in the same dark funk that has held me these past months, since people around me started dying again, since I almost died in that car, and in the explosion before that.

  Wish I could fade into the night tonight.

  Chapter Four

  RAYLIN

  Dammit, Ray. What were you thinking?

  I hadn’t been thinking, that was the problem. I let myself go, let myself want. It’d be impossible not to want him. He’s gorgeous. But I should know better by now.

  My steps slow, and my pulse quietens. I take off my sandals and walk on the damp sand, running in my mind everything that went down tonight—from the dinner to his mouth on mine and his hands on me.

  My body remembers, too, tightening inside, the ghostly trace of his fingers burning in me. Fire. Flames. Brands. His touch scorched me.

  And oh God… I left him high and dry. Had my pleasure and ran. That was…

  I clap a hand over my mouth, a sudden attack of laughter shaking my shoulders. This isn’t funny. I shouldn’t be laughing.

  So many things I shouldn’t be doing, and yet here I am.

  Running away. Why did I panic?

  Because people around me are in danger.

  But this isn’t a relationship. Sleeping with a hottie doesn’t count as anything but that. Sexy fun. No harm no foul. Nobody needs to know about it. He didn’t ask me out, or put a ring on my finger. We didn’t exchange phone numbers and email addresses. He had an itch to scratch—and so did I.

  I glance over my shoulder at the mansion, coming to a stop. I could go back, apologize for taking off like that. Touch him. Finish what we started together.

  But something holds me back. Maybe it’s the dark shadow I glimpsed in his gaze as I was about to go, his gentle concern, his attention. The fact he said he finds me beautiful. The way he kissed me, like he’s stranded in a desert, and I’m cool water.

  I want to know more about him. Know why he went out into the storm. Why he limps. Why a guy like him, going around bare-chested and in old jeans, with tattoos and a scruffy jaw, is housesitting such a mansion. I want his story.

  And then I see a bullet tearing through him, I see blood pooling around him. Like it happened to Mom. Like it happened to the man who shot at my brother, like it’ll happen to me once they catch me.

  That’s why I shouldn’t ever go back.

  ***

  I toss and turn all night, dreaming of him. He’s stretched out on his back, stroking himself, those blue eyes dark with desire. I can’t see his hard-on, but I see his strong fist clearly, moving up and down. I see the rose tattoos shifting on his sides with his every breath, his abs contracting, standing out stark and so very lickable.

  “Kiss me, Ray,” he whispers over and over again. “Kiss me.”

  His head drops back, his mouth opening as he comes, moaning my name.

  And I wake up again and again to the image of him, finding myself twisted in the sheets, aroused and throbbing, drenched in sweat.

  The urge to touch myself and relieve the pressure is killing me, but I don’t. Not that I want him to touch me, I tell myself as I get up to grab a glass of water from the kitchen sink. That I’d rather feel something other than his fingers inside me—something bigger, hotter, something…

  Oh crap.

  I whimper as the need flares in my belly. I need him inside me, need his mouth on me, his arms around me. His scent. I want to rub myself in it.

  I splash my face with cold water
and sink in a kitchen chair, about to cry. This can’t happen. I can’t fall for Storm. No way. Can’t fall for anyone right now. Can’t let my walls down.

  So not fair. I’m only nineteen. I want to have friends and have fun, I want a cute boyfriend, I want… I want sex. I’ve only ever had it twice before, and it sucked, but this, with Storm… It feels different, like it could be mind-blowing, and I want it. I want him. Want to see the heat rising in his eyes, find out about the sadness that surfaces sometimes.

  Oh no. No, Ray.

  I jump up from my seat and pace in the kitchen, wringing my hands together. I need to leave. Leave this place. My fault, for going out of my way to meet someone. I gotta keep moving. First rule of hiding: don’t sprout roots. Don’t get too comfy. Don’t talk to people.

  Or kiss them and make out with them.

  This is serious. The people after me don’t kid. They want something I can’t give them. They want retribution, death or worse.

  I need a new plan. A new place to crash and hide. I wish I had internet to search for an exit route, but I don’t, and I wish I had money to pay for my ride, and I don’t. Hitchhiking gives me the heebie-jeebies, but I guess I’ll have to give it another go.

  Typical of my life.

  I walk around the house, in and out of the bathrooms, the kitchen, the empty TV room, and out onto the terrace overlooking the sea. I gaze in the direction of the house where Storm is, and my chest hurts. What is this strange ache?

  It shouldn’t feel like I’m leaving home.

  But it does.

  ***

  I should say goodbye.

  The thought spins inside my head like a mini cyclone all day, throwing me off balance. I should say goodbye to Storm and apologize for ditching him last night.

  Let him know I’m leaving.

  I’m dithering, putting off the inevitable. It’s not as if I have to pack or anything. When afternoon comes around, I finish the last of the crackers and another can of party sausages and sit on the steps of the terrace. Chin in my hand, I watch the ocean roll. Waves and dunes and seagulls—but I can’t appreciate the beauty of the place anymore.

  My eyes keep searching for a lone runner arriving with the nightfall.

  Where is he? Why hasn’t he come?