by J. R. Ward
It was an antici-gasm at its finest.
“You’re supposed to be looking at the monitor,” he said as he brushed her cheek.
“I’d rather stare at you.”
“Oh, yeah . . . ?” As his voice grew as husky as hers, he knew it was time for some internal dialogue along the lines of oh-no-you-don’t-big-boy.
But damn.
“You make me feel something all over my body. Even in my legs.”
Well, sexual attraction would do that to someone. His circuits were sure as hell lit up like Manhattan at midnight.
Except there was a larger purpose to this Santa’s-lap routine, something that was so much more important than a quickie . . . or even a session that lasted a week, or a month, or God save them both, a year. It was about a lifetime. Hers.
“How about you look at the computer for a little bit, and then you can stare at me all you like?”
“All right.”
When she didn’t glance away from his face, he cleared his throat. “The computer, bambina.”
“Italian?”
“On my mother’s side.”
“And as for your father’s?”
He shrugged. “Never met him, so I couldn’t tell you.”
“Your sire was unknown?”
“Yup, pretty much.” Manny put his forefinger under her chin and tilted her head toward the computer. “Look.”
He tapped the monitor and knew when she focused properly because she frowned, her dark brows going down low over her diamond eyes.
“This is a friend of mine—Paul.” Manny did nothing to keep the pride out of his voice. “He was also a patient of mine. He kicks ass . . . and he’s been in that wheelchair for years.”
At first, Payne was not sure exactly what the image was. . . . It was moving; that was for certain. And it appeared to be—Wait. That was a human, and he was sitting in some kind of contraption that rolled o’er the ground. To ambulate, he pumped with his great arms, his face in a grimace, his concentration as fierce as any warrior’s would be in the height of battle.
Behind him, there was a field of three other men in similar mechanicals, and they were all fixated on him as if trying to close the e’er-widening distance betwixt them and their leader.
“Is it . . . a race?” she asked.
“That’s the Boston Marathon, wheelchair division. Paul’s coming up Heartbreak Hill, which is the hardest part.”
“He’s ahead of the others.”
“Wait for it—he’s only getting started. He didn’t just win that race.... He snapped it in half on his knee and lit it on fire.”
They watched the man win by a tremendous margin, his huge arms going like the wind, his chest pumping, the crowd on either side of the road roaring in support. As he broke through a ribbon, a stunning woman ran up and the pair embraced.
And in the human female’s arms? A babe with the same coloring as the man.
Payne’s healer leaned forward and moved a little black instrument around on the desk to change the picture on the screen. Gone was the moving image. . . . In its place was a static portrait of the man smiling. He was very handsome and glowed with health, and by his side were the same red-haired woman and that young with his blue eyes.
The man was still sitting down, and the chair he was on was more substantial than that which he had competed in—in fact it was much like the one Jane had brought in. His legs were out of proportion to the rest of him, small and tucked away beneath the seat, but you didn’t notice that—or even his rolling apparatus. You only saw the fierce strength and intelligence.
Payne reached out to the screen and touched the face of the man. “How long . . . ?” she asked hoarsely.
“Has he been paralyzed? About ten years or so. He was on his touring bike when he was hit by a drunk driver. I did seven operations on his back.”
“He is still in the . . . chair.”
“You see that woman next to him?”
“Yes.”
“She fell in love with him after the accident.”
Payne whipped her head around and stared up into her healer’s face. “He . . . sired young?”
“Yup. He can drive a car . . . he can have sex, obviously . . . and he lives a fuller life than most people who have two working legs. He’s an entrepreneur and an athlete and a hell of a man, and I’m proud to call him friend.”
As he spoke, her healer moved that black thing around and the pictures changed. There were ones of the man in other athletic contests, and then smiling by some kind of large building construction, and then with him seated before a red ribbon with a big pair of golden scissors in his hand.
“Paul is the mayor of Caldwell.” Her healer gently turned her face back to his. “Listen to me . . . and I want you to remember this. Your legs are part of you, but not all of you or what you are. So wherever we go after tonight, I need you to know that you are no less for the injury. Even if you are in a chair, you still stand as tall as you ever did. Height is just a vertical number—it doesn’t mean shit when it comes to your character or the kind of life you live.”
He was dead serious, and if she were to be truthful with herself, she fell a little in love with him in that moment.
“Can you move the . . . that thing?” she whispered. “So that I may see more?”
“Here—you work the mouse.” He took her hand and placed it on the warm, oblong scooter. “Left and right . . . up and down . . . See? It shifts the arrow on the screen. Click this when you want to see something.”
It took her a couple of tries, but then she got the knack of it . . . and it was absurd, but just making her way around the different areas on the screen and choosing what she wanted to look at gave her a dizzy sense of energy.
“I can do this,” she said. Except then she got embarrassed. Considering how simple it was, it was too small a victory to crow over.
“That’s the point,” her healer said in her ear. “You can do anything.”
She shivered at that. Or likely it was because of more than merely his words.
Refocusing on the computer, she liked the pictures of the man in the races best. His expression of agonized effort and indomitable willpower was something she had long felt burning in her own chest. But then the one of the family together was also among her favorites. They were humans, but the bonds seemed so strong between them. There was love, such love there.
“What do you say?” her healer murmured.
“I think you came at the perfect time. That’s what I say.”
She shifted in his strong arms and stared up at him. As she sat in his lap, she wished she could feel more of him. All of him. But from the waist down there was only a nonspecific warmth, one that was better than the chill that had persisted since the operation, yes . . . but there was so much more to be had.
“Healer . . .” she whispered, her eyes going to his mouth.
His lids lowered and he seemed to stop breathing. “Yeah . . . ?”
“May I . . .” She licked her lips. “May I kiss you?”
He seemed to wince, as if in pain, but that scent he carried roared, so she knew that he wanted what she did.
“Jesus . . . Christ,” he bit out.
“Your body wants this,” she said, bringing her hand up to the soft hair at the nape of his neck.
“And that’s the problem.” At her look of confusion, he leveled a hot stare right at her breasts. “It wants a hell of a lot more than just a kiss.”
Suddenly, there was a shift inside her body, one so subtle it was hard to pin down. But she felt something different throughout her torso and all her limbs. A tingling? She was too wrapped up in the sexual energy between them to worry about defining it.
Snaking another arm around his neck, she said, “What else does it want.”
Her healer groaned deep in his throat, and the sound gave her the same shot of power as when she’d a weapon in her hand. To feel that again? It was like a drug.
“Tell me, healer,” she
demanded. “What else does it want.”
His mahogany eyes were on fire as they locked on her own. “Everything. It wants every square inch of you—outside . . . and on the inside. To the point where I’m not sure you’re ready for how much I’m after.”
“I decide,” she countered, a strange, pounding need taking root in her gut. “I decide what I can and cannot handle, yes?”
His half smile was all evil. In a good way. “Yes, ma’am.”
As a low, rhythmic sound filled the air, she was surprised to realize it was her. Purring. “Do I have to ask again, healer?”
There was a pause. And then he slowly shook his head back and forth. “Nope. I’ll give you . . . exactly what you want.”
TWENTY-ONE
When Vishous pushed open the door to the exam room, he got a gander at the kind of seating arrangement that made him think fondly of castration.
Which, considering his own experience with the knife-on-the-’nads routine, was saying a lot.
Then again, his sister was all but straddling that ass-wipe human’s Mr. Happy, the man’s arms around her, their heads all nestled in. Except they weren’t looking at each other—and that was the only reason he didn’t break up the party: They were staring at the computer screen . . . at a man in a wheelchair racing a bunch of other guys.
“. . . Height is just a vertical number—it doesn’t mean shit when it comes to your character or the kind of life you live.”
“Can you move the . . . that thing?”
For some reason, V’s heart pounded as the human showed his sister how to work a mouse. And then he heard something that gave him reason for hope:
“I can do this,” she said.
“That’s the point,” Manello said softly. “You can do anything.”
Well, shit—the gamble had come up aces, hadn’t it: V had been willing to throw that human back into the mix briefly, just to get her past the suicidal impulse. Except he’d never once thought the guy would give her anything more than a case of puppy love.
And yet, here the motherfucker was . . . showing her so much more than how to kiss.
V had wanted to be the one to save her—and he supposed by bringing in Manello, he might have, but why hadn’t he done more sooner? Why hadn’t Jane? They should have gotten her out of this place, taken her to the mansion . . . had meals and talked with her.
Shown her that her future was different, but not disappeared.
V rubbed his face as anger tackled him to the ground. Goddamn Jane . . . how could she not know that patients required more than pain meds and sponge baths? His twin had needed a fucking horizon—anyone would go mad stuck in that room.
Fucking hell.
He glanced back at his sister and the human. The pair of them had locked eyes and it was looking like it would take a crowbar to get their heads apart.
Kinda got V back to wanting to kill the bastard.
As his gloved hand went into his pocket for a hand-rolled, he had half a mind to clear his throat loudly. Either that or take his dagger and end-over-end it at the human’s head. Trouble was, that surgeon was a tool to be used until he wasn’t needed anymore—and they hadn’t reached that point yet.
V forced himself to back out of the doorway—
“How’re they doing?”
As he wheeled around, he dropped his fucking cigarette.
Butch picked it up. “Need a light?”
“Try a knife.” He took the thing back and got out his new Bic, which actually frickin’ worked. After he inhaled, he let the smoke drift from his mouth. “We going out for a drink?”
“Not yet. I think you need to go talk to your female.”
“Trust me. I don’t. Not right now.”
“She’s packing up a bag, Vishous.”
The bonded male in him went crazy, but nonetheless, he forced himself to stand there in the hall and keep smoking. Thank God for his nicotine addiction: Sucking on the hand-rolled was the only reason he wasn’t cursing.
“V, my man. What the hell is going on?”
He could barely hear the guy for the scream inside of his head. And couldn’t come close to a full explanation. “My shellan and I have had a difference of opinion.”
“So talk it out.”
“Not right now.” He put the tail end of the cig out on the sole of his shitkicker and deep-sixed the butt. “Let’s go.”
Except . . . well, when it came down to it, he somehow couldn’t walk off to the parking garage where the Escalade had been getting its oil changed. He was literally incapable of leaving, his feet having glued themselves to the floor.
As he glanced down toward the office, he mourned the fact that just an hour ago it had looked like things were back on track. But no. It was almost as if the shit before had been nothing except a warm-up for where they were now.
“I got nothing to say to her, true.” As always.
“Maybe it’ll come to you.”
Doubt that, he thought.
Butch clapped him on the shoulder. “Listen to me. You have the fashion sense of a park bench and the interpersonal skills of a meat cleaver—”
“Is this supposed to be helping?”
“Let me finish—”
“What’s next? The size of my cock?”
“Hey, even pencils can get the job done—I’ve heard the moaning from your room to prove it.” Butch gave him a shake. “I’m just telling you—you need that female in your life. Don’t fuck that shit up. Not now—not ever, feel me?”
“She was going to help Payne kill herself.” As the guy winced, V nodded. “Yeah. So this ain’t about some he-said, she-said argument about the cap on the fucking toothpaste.”
After a moment, Butch murmured, “There must have been a pretty damn good reason.”
“There is no reason. Payne’s the only blood I’ve got and she was going to take that away from me.”
With the situation boiled down to its basics like that, the buzzing at the base of V’s brain got so much stronger and louder, he had to wonder if he was going to stroke out—and in that moment, for the first time in his life, he was scared of himself and what he was capable of. Not hurting Jane, of course—no matter how fried he was, he would never touch her in anger—
Butch took a step back and raised his palms. “Hey. Easy there, roomie.”
V looked down. In his hands were both of his daggers . . . and his fists were so tight he wondered whether the grips were going to have to be surgically removed from his palms.
“Take these,” he said numbly, “away from me.”
In a rush, he gave all of his weapons to his best friend, disarming himself completely. And Butch accepted the load with quick, grim efficiency.
“Yeah . . . maybe you’re right,” the guy muttered. “Talk to her later.”
“She’s not the one you need to worry about, cop.” ’Cuz apparently suicidal impulses ran the fuck all over his family tonight.
Butch caught his arm as he went to turn away. “What can I do to help.”
V had a quick, shocking picture filter through his brain. “Nothing you could handle. Unfortunately.”
“Don’t do my thinking for me, motherfucker.”
V stepped in close, bringing their faces to within an inch of each other. “You don’t have the stomach for it. Trust me.”
Those deep hazel eyes held his and didn’t blink. “You’d be amazed what I would do to keep you alive.”
Abruptly, V’s mouth opened, his breath growing tight. And as the two of them stood chest-to-chest, he knew every inch of his body, felt all of it at once.
“What are you saying, cop.”
“Do you honestly think lessers are a better option,” Butch muttered hoarsely. “At least I can make sure you aren’t dead at the end of it.”
Images flickered through his mind, graphically detailed and appallingly perverted. And all of them with him in a starring role.
After a moment of neither saying a word, Butch stepped off. “Go see yo
ur female. I’ll be waiting for you at the Escalade.”
“Butch. You don’t mean it. You can’t.”
His best friend regarded him coolly. “The fuck I don’t.” Turning away, he strode down the corridor. “Come find me. When you’re ready.”
As V watched the guy go, he wondered whether that was about them going out to drink tonight . . . or the pair of them walking through the dangerous door the cop had just opened.
In his heart of hearts, he knew it was both.
Holy. Shit.
Back in the exam room, as Manny stared into Payne’s eyes, he was dimly aware that someone was smoking somewhere close by. Knowing his luck, it was her cocksucking brother, and the big bastard was getting nicotined up right before he came in here to mop the floor with Manny’s piehole.
Whatever, though. Payne’s mouth was mere inches from his own, and her body was warm against him, and his cock was bursting at the seams. He was a man of willpower and self-determination, but stopping what was about to happen was waaaaaaay beyond even his skill set.
Reaching up, he cupped the side of her face. As contact was made, her lips parted and he knew he should say something, but his voice had packed its bags and taken a bus out of town, evidently—along with his brain.
Closer. He drew her closer and met her halfway, their mouths fusing. And even though his body had all the patience of an unfed tiger, he was careful as the contact was made. God, she was soft . . . oh, so soft . . . in a way that made him want to spread her wide and penetrate her with everything he had, his fingers, his tongue, his sex.
But none of that was happening right now. Or tonight. Or even the day after. He hadn’t had a lot of experience with virgins, but he was pretty damn sure that even if she was having a sexual response, how it was taken care of could be overwhelming—
“More,” she said with husky demand. “More . . .”
For a split second, his heart stopped and he rethought the go-easy routine: That tone of voice was so not little-girl-lost. It was all woman, ready for a lover.
And gee whiz, under the she-didn’t-need-to-ask-twice theory, he took over, stroking her mouth with his own before sucking in her lower lip. As his hand wound around her nape, he wanted to undo that braid and get into that hair of hers . . . but that was too close to undressing her, and this was far from private.