Archetype

by M. D. Waters

  The sponge slows over my breasts, and my breath quickens. My body is on fire and my mouth a desert. My insides are molten and aching with the most pleasurable pain.

  I reach forward with shaking fingers, finding his abdomen with their tips. His muscles draw in taut under my touch and his breath catches. The hitching sound is almost inaudible over the spray hitting my back. Water trails over his skin and I move my fingers up against its current, over ridges and smooth plains of muscle. It is not until my hands reach his collarbone that he draws in a shaky breath.

  I lay my fingers over the quickened pulse in his neck. “Are you nervous?” I ask.

  “Of course I am,” he says, his tone husky in a way that leaves me breathless. “Being touched by you—being able to touch you—” He stops abruptly and slides a hand over my cheek. His thumb gently outlines my lower lip. Raw desire fills his eyes, which are turning a fiery shade of green. But not only desire—tenderness. Love. “I have no words to describe this,” he says finally.

  My heart spins wildly in my chest, and the heat in my belly rises in dangerous tides, threatening to roll me under, and I grow dizzy, but a good dizzy.

  I slide my hands behind his neck and up, clutching his damp hair in my fingers. I have only to rise on my tiptoes to meet his mouth halfway. He tastes of warm, clean water, and his skin is akin to the flame of my own.

  Our skin meets and a delicious shudder takes my breath. I press into him and mold with my pliable bones and raw nerve endings. His palms flatten across my back, and we are so close, I truly believe I might slip right into his skin. And yet we are not nearly close enough.

  “Make love to me,” I whisper over his mouth and can hardly believe I found the nerve.

  The water shuts off and I am swiftly off my feet and carried through the bathroom. His mouth glances over my neck, his nose brushes my ear. Hot, humid breaths send waves of goose bumps over my wet skin. Yet the fire inside me rages on, and I expect steam to rise from my skin any second now.

  There is no concern for the carpet or comforter as we drip water over everything. He lays me down with such care, as if I am delicate china, and hovers over me a moment later. My skin begs for him to touch me again.

  His chest heaves and his eyes smolder through dark lashes as they look into mine. Dripping strands of his hair hang forward and I reach up to push them back. This time, when my fingers trail over his cheekbone and his lips press into my palm, he does not push my hand away. His eyes close and his mouth slides down to my wrist. His lips are smooth and his skin is a coarse contrast of beard shadow. My skin tingles and burns in the wake of his kiss.

  When he opens his eyes a heartbeat later, the hunger in them is sharp but controlled. “I need to look at you,” he says and he is not asking.

  This whole time his gaze has never traveled low enough to see me, really see me, giving me some small amount of privacy. Just the idea of his gaze rolling over me is fuel to my fire. My teeth press into my lower lip until all feeling is gone and I nod.

  His gaze drops to my lips. “Roll over,” he whispers, and I do.

  He does not touch me for so long, and if it were not for the acute awareness of him, I would almost forget he is there. It is as if my skin can sense him, which direction, how close or far. So when his hands slide up the sides of my hips to my waist, I am not surprised but am finally able to take a long-needed breath. His palms are hot on my skin, his mouth and tongue in the dip of my back smoldering. The trail he places over my spine calls up my flame, speaking its language. Burn, it says. Need. And, oh, how I need. Ache. Melt.

  His fingers move up my back, tracing agonizingly slowly over every curve and angle. His lips brush over my ear. “Turn over.”

  My body is so alive at this point that I cannot imagine surviving his touch. I am a live wire. His gaze on my breasts alone is as good as a simple touch. I arch up slightly as if he has pulled some string, his eyes reeling me in.

  His fingers hover, trembling, over my breastbone for several thumping heartbeats, before skimming over my skin. The trail between my breasts is hot on its way to where he widens and splays his palm over my stomach. The tips of his fingers press gently into my skin and his mouth falls desperately to my breast. My breath hitches at this new sensation. Where my skin was tender before, my nipples are a million times that. He suckles and grazes his teeth over them, drawing moans of pleasure from me.

  I thread my fingers into his hair, holding him to me until I can no longer take it. I find the strength to pull him free and up. His mouth falls on mine, tasting of the tang of skin. His lips force mine apart with a new desperation in our kiss. Something deep and primal and nowhere enough to sate our needs.

  His knees nudge my thighs apart. If I could breathe, I would whimper or sigh with relief. I no longer fear this; the need is too much for this trivial feeling. His gaze dances over my face, watching me carefully before sliding inside.

  The shock of this sensation takes my breath. I knew nothing of heat until now. Nothing. With each gliding inch of him, shock wave after shock wave of heat envelops me. I cannot breathe, and only the weight of his gaze keeps me from floating into this sensation.

  When he is as deep as he can possibly go, he holds very still, mouth parted, shoulders bunched and corded with muscle over me. Neither of us exchanges a single breath. Time is frozen, yet I am writhing in flames.

  “Don’t move,” he whispers.

  His palm eases over my hip and thigh. Fingers press behind my knee and pull my leg up and back. He rests my calf over his shoulder, opening me up further so he can sink deeper. And deeper is where he goes. I cry out and arch up. A shudder drives over him and he holds again, filling me, eyes closed.

  “Declan,” I whimper, desperate for him to feed this insatiable hunger building in me.

  “Shhh . . . Not yet.”

  His kiss paints the underside of my chin. His tongue dips into the lines of my neck. And still he does not move out of me.

  He tortures me with this pleasure, and when he slides away, there is no relief because then I am empty of him. I am in agony, burning. The need for him returns me to the mindless woman I was months ago who knew nothing of the world. I am no more than tissue, blood, and bone. And need. Oh God, the need. The hunger. The pain of needing him to fill me, the torture of pleasure when he finally does.

  A smile shapes his lips and he watches me intently as if memorizing my face. Soaking in the details of each mask I wear, the creations he himself helps forge. I watch his as well, wondering if my expression is as open as his. If my desire is as clear.

  I know one thing for certain; I will never again see Declan as honest as he is in this moment.

  My fingers trace over this raw honesty, this desire, his need. I grasp his face and pull his mouth down over mine. His lips are oxygen to my fire, and suddenly I cannot take it anymore. I buck up against him and he is too surprised to stop me. He rolls to his back and I grind my hips down against him. His head tilts back into the pillow under him and a moan of pleasure passes his swollen lips, sounding very much like my name.

  He is still swimming in this sensation when I pull up again. I tighten my muscles over the head of his erection and slide down slowly this time.

  “Oh God,” he says, his eyes rolling up, fingers kneading into my hips.

  I do this again and his arms tighten around me impatiently. I am suddenly on my back again. He rocks into me with a new purpose, a new drive, a new goal.

  “Come,” he says breathily, his gaze boring into me. “Come for me.”

  He does not need to tell me to because I am already there. The eruption is too much to take in silence, yet I cannot catch my breath to scream as I need to. Declan rides into the shuddering waves of my body until I am raw and tender and then holds me to him until his own climax peaks. He does not scream out, either, but is red and breathless. His jaw clenches tight, as do his eyes, and when he is finally capable of breath, he collapses over me.

  It is a full minute before he pushe
s away and kisses me. The hunger and longing and need are all gone. What remains is far sweeter.

  “How are you?” he asks.

  I bite my lip and smile. Now that it is over, my nerves are back on high alert and I am all too aware of how he lies spent and pulsing gently inside me. “Perfect.”

  He grins and the sea in his eyes is alight. “Are you blushing?”

  I turn my face away and try to hide behind my hands. He removes them before they can rest.

  “You’re beautiful when you blush,” he says and kisses the tip of my nose.

  “Too bad I cannot blush on command. I would do it simply for the compliments.”

  “I’ve been working hard to give you all this and all you needed were compliments?” He laughs. “Why didn’t you say so? Would have saved me a lot of trouble.”

  I cup his face and kiss him. “All I need is you.” I stop and consider something else to add. “And dinner. I am starving.”

  CHAPTER 17

  I woke to a deep, sinking warmth. It came from the sun peeking through the slatted windows but also from the heat of skin pressed against my back. Deep and even breaths told me he still slept, spooning behind me in the same way we’d fallen asleep.

  Near my head, his hand lay over mine. It twitched once. I removed my hand and covered his, letting my thumb trace over the luckenbooth.

  I begged him not to do it. It wasn’t necessary for him to brand himself just to prove his love for me.

  “No one will take you seriously,” I’d warned.

  “No one has to know. I’ll wear Plasti-skin over it.”

  I’d laughed at him. What an absurd annoyance for him to go through. “Every day?”

  He waved a hand. “It won’t be every day. Just when I have to meet with clients.”

  “So every day.”

  “I’m doing it. The only way you’re changing my mind is if you refuse to marry me.”

  “I won’t do that.”

  “Then it’s settled.”

  I hadn’t been able to tell him the brand meant something different for me. I’d grown up thinking of the linked hearts as a ball and chain to slavery. This wasn’t what I wanted for us, but he seemed determined to turn this horrible memory into something special.

  Now, looking at the sign of something I’d grown to despise on his hand, I realized he was right. He was mine, just as I was his. The two of us linked.

  Forever.

  • • •

  I start awake and bolt upright in the dark room. No light comes through the windows, which do not have curtains, let alone blinds. Only the moon’s glowing reflection off the snow gives me a sense of time. A sense of where I am.

  My heart drives in my chest and my quickened breath is difficult to tame. I am beginning to think of these dreams as nightmares because each one only adds to my confusion. Why do I dream of this woman’s life?

  I study my hand to be sure there is no brand, that I have not dreamed this, too. It is the only proof that these dreams are not memories. That I am Emma Burke. That I am where I belong.

  The bed shifts and dips beside me. Declan runs a hand over my bare shoulder. “Bad dream?”

  “Yes.” The word comes out of my mouth before I have a chance to stop it. “I mean, no.”

  “You don’t have to lie, Emma. I’m not going to think you’re having a setback because you have an honest-to-God nightmare.”

  I peer over my shoulder. “It was not a nightmare. I promise. Just . . . uncomfortable.”

  “In what way?”

  “It does not matter.” I lie down and stare up at the shadowed ceiling. “It was only a dream.”

  He scoops an arm under me and curls me into him until I rest on his shoulder. My hand lies over his chest and his heart thumps steadily against my palm.

  “You’re shivering,” he says and pulls up the comforter.

  Goose bumps rise on my arm as if on command. “I am a little cold.”

  “House control, increase heat two degrees,” he says into the room. A tiny click sounds before an almost imperceptible whoosh of air in the ventilation.

  “Thank you, but will you be too hot?”

  “I can sleep outside the covers if I have to.” He slides my hair back and kisses my forehead. “Go back to sleep.”

  “Declan?”

  “Hm?”

  “Why do I have to go back to the hospital?”

  The air in his chest stills and he does not speak for a long time. “Arthur wants to make sure you adjust okay. It won’t be long now.”

  I push up on my elbow and watch my hand moving over his chest to avoid his eyes. “I am adjusting. The first day was difficult, but I did okay tonight. I am comfortable here. I am comfortable with you.”

  “Is this about Ruby?”

  This surprises me and I give him my full attention, bringing my hand to a complete stop. He lifts a hand to tuck my hair back.

  “No,” I tell him. “Ruby does not understand things. I was not careful, so what happened was my fault. I should never have left my belongings in the lounge.”

  A small smile plays on his lips. “You’re really good with her, you know?”

  “She is like me. I understand her.”

  He nods. “I’ll talk to Arthur. Maybe we can shorten your days.”

  This is enough and I smile. “Really?”

  He kisses me. “Really.”

  • • •

  “Declan is happy to have you home,” Dr. Travista says. “The week has gone by rather quickly, with no problems.”

  I stand with folded arms near the window, looking out at the melting snow. Living in Declan’s home makes this easier. “It gets easier every day, and Declan works hard to make it so. He is very kind and patient with me.”

  “He is much like his mother in that respect.”

  I turn, careful to hide my surprise. This is the first I am hearing of parents. “His mother? Did you know her?”

  He smiles. “I’ve worked for the Burkes my entire career. His father, Andrew, hired me right out of college. Andrew and Eliza are gone now.” He looks down at his lap and frowns. “Eight years now, I think.”

  He uses the word “gone” and I cannot help but wonder if I will find them in a hospital room just as I did Jodi. I do not want to wait and find out, so I probe deeper. “Both? At the same time?”

  “Oh no, of course not. No, Eliza died during her second pregnancy and Andrew had a heart attack.”

  “How sad,” I say. “What about me? Do I have parents?” I doubt I do because I would have seen them. At least I think I would have. So much about this world confounds me.

  “No.” He does not elaborate.

  “Are they dead, too?”

  He taps his screen a few times and reads something. “There is nothing here in your WTC record about your parents.”

  I recognize the acronym from one of my earlier dreams with Toni. “WTC?”

  “Women’s Training Center. Where all our young women are prepared for marriage.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek and swallow the words “work camp.” He makes the WTC sound warm and fuzzy. Instead, I move back to the previous topic. “If there is no record of my parents, what does that mean?”

  Dr. Travista considers me for a long moment. I know this look. It is the can-she-handle-the-truth look. I am tired of being coddled.

  Finally, he says, “There is no official record of your birth, which means you come from West America.”

  Land of the free, She says, and I nearly jump in surprise. She has not spoken since before Declan and I made love. She was not happy with my decision, but I did not expect Her to disappear the way She had.

  I turn my back on the doctor. “But they could be alive?”

  “Unknown.”

  What he means is that nobody crosses into the east without deadly consequences. This is a man’s land. Corporations with their eye on the prize: survival by any means necessary, but only if it makes a lot of money. They took you from your parent
s.

  I school my face to hide my annoyance at Her outlandish accusations. “I will never know.”

  “No,” he agrees. “Not likely.”

  I turn to smile at the doctor even though my insides are empty of happiness. “It does not matter. I have Declan. We will have the family I never had.”

  “Maybe you are already well on your way.”

  I blink rapidly in surprise. “What?”

  “You’re a fertile woman and you’ve been home for a week. According to your cycle, you’re ovulating.”

  Heat floods my chest and flares up my neck. “You know my cycle?”

  He waves a hand as if my personal business is no big deal. “Of course. I’m your doctor. Why don’t we run some tests and see? Imagine the look on Declan’s face if you could tell him he’s about to be a father.”

  He stands to leave but I cannot bring my feet to move. Pregnant? I could be pregnant. I want to be sick when I should be thrilled. Why had I not thought of this possibility?

  I believe I mentioned the word “mistake” recently, She says.

  Dr. Travista’s eyebrows pinch together. “Are you all right? You look very pale.”

  I swallow. “I did not think . . .” I drop into the chair and turn away from him. “Is it really possible?”

  He sits back down and leans forward. “What is it, Emma? I thought you wanted this. You told me you couldn’t wait to start a family.”

  He is right. I did. But it had been a lie. “It is an easy enough thing to say. To feel. But faced with it . . . I do not think I am ready.”

  He leans back into his chair and sighs. “Emma.” He says this with an air of condescension, and I ball my hand into a fist before I reach out and slap him.

  “No.” I turn to face him. “I am only just getting used to being home. I need time.”

  He slaps his hands to his knees and stands. “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice. Birth control is illegal. Abortion is illegal, with a very severe punishment. Emma, pregnancy is not a choice. I’m sorry.”

  I follow him out but do not see anything but my future slipping out of my control.