Savage Loss (Corona Pride Book 2)

by Liza Street

  Brigitte gulped. She needed to say something, and fast. “The only thing mighty about you is your ego.”

  He laughed. “You might not be wrong. Seriously, though, can I stay? The couch is nice and wide. I’ll have plenty of room.”

  She felt shy all of a sudden, and warm—too warm. “Yes. I mean, as long as it’s on the sofa. We’re not—” She fluttered her hands in the air. “You know.”

  Laughing again, he said, “Well, anytime you’re wanting to you know, let me know, okay?”

  She darted into her bedroom and gathered a pillow and one of the extra blankets. It took her that long to think up a comeback. “I’m not sure how me wanting to you know is any of your business.”

  He stood abruptly and stalked forward, dipping his head toward hers. He was tall. “I’ll let you keep that pretense. For now.”

  He reached for her, and she started to lean into him, her body wanting the closeness, the heat of him. But instead of embracing her, he carefully pulled the blanket and pillow from her grasp and tossed them on the sofa.

  “Goodnight, Brigitte,” he said.

  “Goodnight.” She couldn’t make her feet carry her out of the room.

  He turned away from her, but threw a glance over his shoulder. There was the sound of a zipper. “I’m about to get naked, so unless you want an eyeful of my mighty ego—”

  With a squeak, she backed into her room and shut the door between them. Through the door, she could hear him laughing softly.

  Fifteen

  Brigitte thrashed in her bed. Every time she thought of Rafe, who was in the other room lying naked on her couch, she got too hot. Every time she relaxed and drifted toward sleep, she got too cold.

  She glanced at the clock on her nightstand. One a.m. Was he asleep yet? She couldn’t hear anything from the living room. Was he still here? She needed him here. If he were here, she knew she’d be able to sleep with the uncanny kind of knowledge that Nanny Mae would have ascribed to magic.

  Straining her ears, she listened for sounds of him moving or breathing.

  Nothing.

  Maybe he was gone.

  Making sure her pajama pants and long-sleeved thermal sleeping shirt were in place, she eased open her bedroom door and peeked out.

  Impossible to see anything from here, because the sofa faced the other direction.

  “I can hear you,” he said in a low voice.

  “Oh,” she said on a sigh. “Um, I was just wondering if you were okay out here.”

  “I’m fine.” He sat up, and she could see his silhouette in the faint light coming through the window. “C’mere, Brigitte.”

  His voice was low, tempting. The way he ordered her over, expecting her to obey him, caused desire to pool low in her belly. This was what she’d missed after Lance and Marcellus—the opportunity to let go, allow someone else to take control, to lead. For her, relationships had always been a dance where one partner led, the other followed.

  Already she was walking around the sofa to join him. His eyes glinted in the moonlight, strangely reflective. As soon as she noticed them, though, he lowered his lids and patted the space on the cushions in front of him. Brigitte sat down.

  “All the way,” he murmured, gently pressing on her shoulder until she lay flush against his stomach.

  “But aren’t you naked?” she asked, worry in her voice.

  “In my boxers,” he said, pulling the blanket over them. “There you go. You can sleep now.”

  Something struck her about him then. The raw power he seemed to barely contain within him. The way he’d been able to carry her up that trail without breaking a sweat. His eyes, his mannerisms. His reverence for Brigitte’s dead grandmother. The way he’d asked about magic.

  “There’s something about you, isn’t there?” Brigitte said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Magic?”

  A long pause, and a sigh. “Yeah.”

  Brigitte’s heart thudded loudly in her chest. “Can you tell me?”

  “I will,” he promised. “Soon. Sleep now.”

  *

  Brigitte awoke in the early morning to a massive boner jabbing against her butt. She was already wet between her legs, already turned on. Enveloped in masculine, woodsy scent and warmth. Rafe’s chest was hard behind her, one of his arms draped over her hip, his palm splayed on her lower stomach. Beneath her shirt. Callused fingertips on skin.

  She sighed, wiggled. Behind her, he sucked in his breath and let it out in a low growl.

  Brigitte went still. Pretending to be asleep, she tried to even out her breathing. She wanted him, and she wanted him so much she thought she’d combust.

  His hand on her stomach tightened against her skin, fingers flexing, and he began rubbing her languidly. Brigitte kept herself still, quiet even when he kissed the side of her neck, bit it gently, and soothed it with a lick. Despite wanting to turn and touch him, grab him, make him feel as good as he was making her feel, she kept her arms curled up in front of her, like they’d been when she slept.

  He reached up with that big, warm hand and caressed the underside of her breast. His fingertips fluttered upward and feathered over her nipple. Softly, she moaned and pressed harder against him with her butt.

  While he nuzzled her ear with his lips, he moved his hand back down her stomach and dipped his fingers into her pajama pants, into her underwear. He lightly brushed over her curls and slid a finger against her folds.

  His cock was a steel rod behind her, so hard and large she could practically feel the heat of his blood pumping through it, readying it for her. She started to move one arm back, to grip him in her fist, but she stopped herself. Meanwhile, his finger was doing magical things in her pants, and she felt her breath coming harder and harder.

  Abruptly, he pulled away, turned her around so she was facing him. She kept her eyes shut.

  “Brigitte,” he whispered.

  “Mmm?” she murmured. Her voice was sleepy, but she was entirely awake.

  “Brigitte, if we do this, it’s you and me and we’re awake and not pretending otherwise. Not this time—not our first time.”

  She opened her eyes and gazed at him. Those dark chocolate eyes of his were half lidded, fathomless in the dim light of the early morning.

  “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay. We’re doing this. I’m awake.”

  “Good.” He crushed her to his chest, his arms twining around her to grab her ass and pull her closer.

  She rubbed against his thick length, which was now in the perfect place to touch against her folds, hitting her exactly right despite the clothes in the way.

  “Brigitte,” he moaned, pressing kisses to her neck.

  Reaching between them, she took hold of his shaft. It was thick and heavy and warm in her hand. The places she could put this—she knew she could give him all kinds of unimaginable pleasure.

  “I want you inside me,” she whispered.

  In response, he yanked her pajama pants and underwear down. She impatiently slid them off her ankles while he shimmied off his boxers. Brigitte yanked off her shirt, and his hands immediately went to her breasts, tweaking her already-hard nipples, drawing gasps from her. She reached down again for his cock, pulling it toward her entrance.

  “Wait a sec,” he said, and reached past her to the floor.

  She heard the clink of his belt buckle as he fumbled with his jeans. A second later he had torn open the foil square and a second after that he was poised at her entrance, so close to filling her but not quite there yet.

  “You’re awake,” he said, staring into her eyes. “You want this?”

  “Yes.”

  He pulled her head down, kissed her, his lips soft, tongue hard, demanding admission. When he pulled away, Brigitte felt dazed.

  His gaze didn’t leave hers. “I’m going to show you how I love you.”

  Love? She felt her eyes widen at the admission. Her mouth opened on a silent gasp as he thrust forward, sliding easily inside, filling her. “Rafe.
”

  He pulled her leg around him and turned them so she was on top. Her breasts dipped between them and he caressed them, pinching her nipples just enough to bring a tiny bit of pain and make her squirm harder against him. With every stroke inside her, he hit her g-spot. It wouldn’t be long before she came—she could already feel the pleasure spiraling into a tighter ball within her, waiting to burst.

  Keeping one hand on her breasts, he brought the other one down to slide against her clit, and she knew she was done. Crying out his name, she matched his thrusts with her hips, taking him in farther and faster.

  “Look at me,” he demanded.

  She opened her eyes and felt the orgasm take her. The ball of pleasure inside expanded, filling her, and spilling over. “Rafe!”

  He tensed beneath her. His eyes blazed into hers, and he squeezed her hips tightly, fingers digging into her flesh as he thrust a final time inside her, burying himself as far as he could go.

  Brigitte fell against him. Her breasts were mashed against his chest, her hair splayed out around her head like a brilliant curtain. He cupped her ass as the aftershocks shuddered through her.

  Everything had changed. She knew, now, that she was Rafe’s. Her heart, her mind, her body.

  He kissed the top of her head, and Brigitte lifted up so she could look at his face again. She didn’t have the words, yet, to tell him how she felt, but she knew it was shining from her face, the same way it shone from his. Love. Acceptance. Belonging.

  A soft chiming sound came from her bedroom.

  Brigitte tensed. That chime was Marcellus’s special ring tone. She left it alone, determined to stay in Rafe’s arms despite the questioning look he was giving her.

  Eventually the chiming stopped. Brigitte waited, breath held, for the notification that Marcellus had left a message, but there was nothing.

  “Everything okay?” Rafe asked, running his warm fingertips along her eyebrows, which she realized must be scrunched in concern.

  “Yes. Everything’s great.”

  She belonged to Rafe. And yet, a little over a year ago, she had belonged to Lance and Marcellus.

  Sixteen

  Rafe couldn’t help but worry about Brigitte. That call had unnerved her, and she hadn’t even answered it. Was it the vampires who had taken her? No—why would they be calling?

  He remembered back to what Justine had said about making it safe for Brigitte to share, but right now, Brigitte’s entire body had gone rigid. She eased off of him.

  “You sure everything’s okay?” he asked again.

  “Yeah.” She sat up next to him, so he leaned up and scooted over. He refused to stop touching her, though, so he hauled her closer to lean back against his chest.

  After a minute, she said, “You know, I slept last night. And I didn’t have any nightmares.”

  “Will you tell me about the nightmares? Sometimes they tell us things, things we don’t know or remember.”

  “You sound like my grandmother.”

  He shrugged and put his arms around her tighter. “She sounds smart, so I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Superstitious,” Brigitte argued. “But I’ll humor you—and her. The nightmare is the same every time. My hair’s all wild and I’m surrounded by flickering red walls. And my face has these black splotches on it that move around when I open my mouth to scream.”

  Rafe was quiet. Finally he said, “That sounds terrifying.”

  “It is. But every time I try to ignore the nightmare, I hear Nanny Mae chastising me, saying every vision is a gift. It doesn’t feel like a gift, though.”

  “Sometimes gifts are kind of hard to accept.”

  She looked at him, and he could guess what she was thinking—it had been hard to get close, hard to let go of all those defenses. But when she finally had, their connection had been a gift.

  As long as he lived, he wouldn’t forget the moment they’d shared this morning.

  He stroked her hair, thinking about her nightmarish vision. Maybe…maybe it was a scene from where she’d been kept. Maybe he was going about the search all wrong. Flickering red walls. Maybe instead of looking for caves, he should look for houses.

  Brigitte’s phone chimed in the other room, and she stiffened in his arms again. Before he could say anything, his phone vibrated in his pants next to the couch.

  Brigitte stood up, her glorious naked skin luminescent in the morning light.

  “You’re beautiful,” Rafe said.

  His phone vibrated again, and he held back a growl. Their morning was being ruined by technology. First Brigitte’s phone, now his.

  “I’ll let you get that,” she said.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Don’t pout,” she said, leaning forward tentatively and placing a soft kiss on his cheek.

  “Then don’t kiss me on the cheek—I want your lips on mine,” he said.

  “It’s…it’s morning. We should get up. Get ready for the day.”

  “Don’t close down on me now, Brigitte.”

  She looked terrified. He wanted to erase all traces of fear, ease her back into bliss.

  “Brigitte?” he said. “Please sit down.”

  She looked at the clock. “I have a doctor’s appointment—follow-up after I was gone. I really need to get ready.”

  “Do you have at least a minute? I think we should talk.”

  But before he could get the words out, she was already shaking her head. “Call me? I mean, if you want.”

  He stood and pulled on his clothes, watching her the entire time. “Of course I want to call you. You’re not going to get rid of me unless I am convinced you really don’t want me around. I don’t think it’s just in my head that there’s something special between us.”

  She looked at him sadly. “No, it’s not just in your head. It’s in mine, too.”

  He allowed her to all but shove him out of her apartment with only a brief kiss on the cheek. Something had caused an abrupt change in her, and he blamed the damn phone call. Was she hiding from someone? Or was she still in love with someone else? That sadness he’d sensed about her—it came from something. And the key to making her happy again was figuring it out.

  Within his pocket, his phone vibrated a third time as he walked back to his Nissan. Impatient, he pulled it out. Two texts from Marlana, asking for an update on the vampire search, and a text from Laura suggesting that they get an early start.

  He’d have just enough time to go back to his cabin and take a shower.

  Rafe texted Marlana first. I’ve got a new lead. Going to meet Laura and Chase early. Will keep you posted.

  Seventeen

  Brigitte waited until she saw Rafe’s SUV pull away from the curb outside her apartment complex. And then she cried.

  It wasn’t only Marcellus finally calling her back. It wasn’t only the worry over how he was coping with the anniversary of Lance’s death. It wasn’t only the lack of sleep after being kidnapped, or the nightmares that she knew would return again tonight.

  It was the strange, beautiful connection she’d had with Rafe. It felt strong, and it felt forever, but as she’d learned the hard way with Lance and Marcellus, even the strongest bonds can break, and the results could be cataclysmic.

  She hadn’t meant to let go and give so much of herself to Rafe, but it had happened and now she was weeping like the world was falling apart all over again.

  Marcellus didn’t usually leave messages, so when the phone rang again, Brigitte wiped her wet face with a Kleenex and answered the call.

  “Hey,” he said. Even with one syllable, there was variation and wobbling in his tone. He was high.

  “What do you want, Marcellus? More money? I’m not going to give it to you.”

  “Stop, Brigitte,” he said.

  Trying the dominant’s voice again. Like it would work on her now. She rolled her eyes. He’d set her adrift after Lance’s death and it had taken her a long time to get over it, but a year later, the bonds
were broken completely. She’d never go back. She’d never be a submissive again. Most of her exploration of that lifestyle and kink had been about pleasing Marcellus and Lance. She’d loved both of them, especially Lance.

  “I don’t have to obey you anymore,” she said. “You don’t deserve my submission.”

  “That’s true,” he said. After a pause, he continued, “Look, I just called to warn you.”

  “Warn me?” Outside, the spring day was bright. Birds flitted around the feeder outside Mr. Kanely’s window. Clouds were a brilliant white against a pale blue sky. But inside, Brigitte felt dark and cold.

  “I’m sorry, B. I talked to these guys. They were asking about you. I was drunk and I told them your mom’s maiden name. Maybe more, I don’t remember. You should probably put a hold on your accounts.”

  “What the hell, Marcellus? You gave strangers my personal information?” Through the haze of her anger, though, she was putting it together. “No, you didn’t give them anything. They bought the information off you with drugs, didn’t they?”

  “I said I was sorry,” he insisted.

  “When did this happen?” she asked.

  “Can’t remember.”

  He’d probably been high all week. She got out her laptop and powered it up so she could log on to her various accounts and check on things. Marcellus was quiet, but he hadn’t hung up.

  “The drugs are bad enough,” Brigitte said, “but you didn’t call me back last week. You knew it was important to me to grieve with someone who knew him, but instead I had to cope on my own and…you know what, never mind.” She was breathing heavily. He was silent on the other end, so she continued, “I’ve moved on. But you need to get help for your addiction. I’ve tried giving you money to get cleaned up, but you use it to buy more drugs.”

  “I don’t know how to get help.”

  “I’ve sent you lists. I’ve recommended all kinds of places. You have to want to help yourself.” She choked back a sob. It broke her heart that he refused to get better.

  “B, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

  What the hell else did he expect her to do when he kept choosing the path of self-destruction? Neither of them had been the same after Lance’s accident. Marcellus had hurt himself with substance abuse. Brigitte had hurt herself by closing herself off from physical intimacy…until this morning with Rafe. “Find something good, Marcellus, and embrace it.”