To the Edge

by Anna del Mar

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I can leave on the late ferry. Let’s take a little detour.”

  I had a new plan. I’d go check on Noah, make sure he was all right and thank him for his help. I’d have some sense of closure, put the past behind me and then I’d catch the last ferry out of Avalon and go home.

  And whatever else happened, I was determined: I was not going to kiss him ever again.

  Chapter Five

  Noah

  Clara found me sprawled next to the toilet, heaving on the bathroom tiles after I’d puked up every fucking thing I’d eaten in the past seven days. How she got into my locked house had to do with the set of spare keys I’d entrusted to Martha Crockett for the exclusive purpose of an emergency. Talk about shame. I felt worthless writhing at Clara’s feet.

  I told her in no uncertain terms to go home. Classic Clara, she didn’t listen to me. Without making a fuss, she cleaned me up, half dragged me to the bed and got me through the shivers. She fed me liquids to keep dehydration at bay, placed cool rags over my eyes and sponged me down when I got too hot to stand my own skin.

  She wanted to call a doctor. I may have threatened to skin her alive if she did. I’d had enough of doctors. Every time I opened my eyes, I spotted Clara sitting on the tufted chair by my bed. Between bouts of darkness, I caught glimpses of her face, hovering above me, whispering words of comfort or scolding me for trying to get up. Whenever I got a whiff, her natural scent helped soothe my lungs, wholesome like I remembered, crisp spring water, sun-kissed skin, jasmine and fresh grass right after the rain.

  The best part was also the worst part. The dreams came back with a vengeance, updated to the latest live images of Clara I’d fed into my brain. It was as if, after making the connection, my subconscious had gone into a creative frenzy. Maybe the liquid courage intensified my reactions and made me horny, because the dream streaming in my mind right now played in high definition with holographic flair.

  In the dream, I stood in the Luz house’s living room. Clara was cuffed in the elegant cage, dressed only in the black-and-red corset, thong and heels. There was no fire in the house, other than the blaze burning in my groin. The living room was restored to its original splendor. The pair of blue-and-gold macaws that had once dwelt in the aviary perched on the mantel, pruning their glorious feathers. Both of the birds looked down on us, but only one of the creatures seemed to be in a talkative mood.

  “Princess.” The macaw squawked. “Pretty girl. Princess. Go, go, go.”

  I approached the cage cautiously. Clara craned her neck, straining in her cuffs. Her iridescent blue eyes met mine. “Are you going to take me out of here?”

  “Why?” I said. “You look gorgeous in there.”

  The blush spread from her face to her chest, where the tops of her breasts swelled with her breaths like a pair of loaves rising above the molds.

  “Hungry.” The bird croaked. “Crackers. Princess crackers.”

  I reached between the bars and caressed Clara’s face. She closed her eyes and let out a long breath that told me she wanted me as badly as I needed her. I trailed my fingers down her jaw, across her cheek and over her plump lips. Her mouth parted obediently before she suckled the tips of my middle and index fingers. The heavenly suction swelled my erection. Christ. She might as well be sucking my cock. I reached out with my other hand and lifted her breast out of the corset. She let out a quiet whimper when I traced my thumb around the generous oval of her puffy areola and pinned her tight nipple between my fingers.

  “Need a treat,” the macaw screeched. “Treat, treat, princess treat.”

  I pulled my fingers out of Clara’s mouth, released her breast and, clutching her hips, whirled her about on her feet. The cuffs twisted above her head. Her wrists crossed and the chain shortened, pulling and stretching her arms. I drew her ass and her thighs against the bars and rubbed my knuckles against the patch of leather covering her pussy. She let out a little moan that inflamed my cock to a new level of throbbing.

  I hooked my finger on the thong and moved it aside. The wiry curls of her pubic hair sprang up. My fingers rustled through her bush until I caught a glimpse of her labia. The stunning sight quieted the rowdy macaw but had my dick rioting in my boxers.

  I slid my fingertips back and forth along her pussy, riding her private oil, kneading her little clit, which swelled like my cock. Clara gasped when I tested her slit, more so when my knuckle pressed into the tight channel whose opening I’d pioneered.

  A memory of our first night together on the sailboat seeped into my dream. Clara’s face drifted before me, her eyes wide, her mouth open, her body arching in my arms as I punched through her hymen. I hadn’t known she was a virgin back then. She hadn’t told me, maybe for fear I’d refuse to love her. But love her I had, that first time and every single time I fucked her after that, for real and in my dreams.

  “Tick, tack, tock,” the macaw said. “Where’s that boy’s cock?”

  The memory was too much. Need pounded through my body like the throbbing beats of a full set of tribal war drums. I unzipped my pants and released my cock. Reaching through the bars, I caught Clara by the haunches and hooked my hands at the tops of her thighs. I tilted her hips, lifting her until she stood on the tip of her toes. Her spine curled prettily at the lower back. Her sex protruded between the bars, teasing me with glimpses of her pink velvety walls.

  “Fuck dream girl.” The macaw squabbled. “Fuck princess hard.”

  I should have been gentle, but this was my damn dream. So instead, I rammed myself into her body. My cock plunged into Clara’s depths like a precision diver. I slipped straight in and went to the bottom. How I liked it when she cried out my name.

  I lunged in and out of her in a desperate drive to cram myself even deeper. The pleasure of those strokes was unbelievable. Fifteen years without her had me pounding her like a fucking desperado. Her body quivered in my clutch. But even as she cried out, she urged me on and I couldn’t stop. A blast rippled through her depths, an implosion that tightened around my cock and set me off.

  I woke up sweating and gasping for breath, clutching fistfuls of sheet. I looked around, still heaving. Lightning flashed through the curtains, illuminating the tufted chair. Thunder followed, weak and distant. I let out a long breath. Clara wasn’t there. Muted noises drifted up from the kitchen.

  I switched on the lights, flung aside the sheets and stared at my lap. Christ. I was a total mess. I was usually prolific, but this was ridiculous. I hadn’t had a wet dream in years. My pajama pants were drenched and even my T-shirt was soaked over my stomach.

  I climbed out of the bed and made my way to the bathroom on shaky legs. I snatched a towel and dried myself. It was no good. I was sticky as hell. I pitched my bed clothes into the hamper and stepped into the shower. Not even an icy blast could smother my body’s smoldering heat.

  I stepped out of the bathroom, marched over to the closet and donned a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. I was off-duty this weekend, but I opened my laptop, punched in my security codes and checked in with my team. All systems were go and no new encrypted communications had been detected from Josephus. I’d just finished checking my cyber traps when Clara arrived in my room, wrapped in my flannel robe and carrying a tray.

  Her straight-lipped, narrow-eyed glare would’ve intimidated pets and small children. “What are you doing out of bed?”

  “I feel better,” I said. “And by the way, thank you. You didn’t have to stick around to witness that shit show.”

  She lifted the tray in her hands. “How about you get in bed and have something to eat?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I sat on the mattress and leaned against the headboard. “At your service, ma’am.”

  “Don’t you try to play games with me.” Her eyes sparkled as she set the tray over my lap, plucked a mug from among the dishes and
lowered herself into the chair across from me. “I knew you way before the US Navy grabbed you by the balls and pounded some order into your brain. Obedience was never your forte.”

  “Can’t argue with truth.” I laughed. “But it’s good to know you’re still the same bossy terror that you were at seventeen.”

  She flashed her mischievous grin. “What you call bossy, I call efficient.”

  “Efficient it is.” I smiled, examining the tray on my lap. “Soup?”

  “Buddy, you were like that girl in The Exorcist last night.” She stuck out her tongue and made a funny face. “So soup is what you’re getting.”

  “Soup is great.”

  I dug in and discovered I was famished. She sipped her coffee and kept watch over me with those sparkling eyes of hers while I inhaled the stuff. The robe was too big for her. It gaped when she crossed her legs, teasing me with tantalizing glimpses of the curves beneath her breasts. I blinked and the robe was gone and she was naked. Her legs were wide open while she stroked her clit and dipped her fingers in her pussy. She eyed me from beneath her fluttering eyelashes, running her tongue over her lips and plucking at her tight nipple, provoking me. No need, I was already on her, plunging my tongue and my cock in her body, mad with lust...

  Easy, Blake. I dialed down the lust and concealed my hard-on beneath the tray. How many times had I imagined her lying naked next to me, right here in my bed?

  It took some doing, but I got myself under control. I finished my dinner, soaking the last of the soup with a piece of bread. Rain tapped on the windows and thunder rumbled in the distance, but the squall currently stirring the Chesapeake was nothing compared to the hurricane raging inside me.

  “I’d forgotten how magnificent storms are out here.” She leaned her head on the back of the chair and looked wistfully out the window. “I hadn’t realized how much I missed them.”

  Ah, yes, she did love watching the tall, roiling thunderclouds approaching the island and unleashing their fury over the ocean. The summer we’d spent together, she used to sneak out of the house at night and meet me at the old lighthouse so we could watch the bay’s epic weather spectacles together.

  Summer flings were a rite of passage for most, but my summer with Clara had been a lot more than that. The orphan in me had connected with her in a way I hadn’t connected with anyone else. My parents’ deaths had turned me into a sour, quiet, sullen adolescent. I’d refused to go to school for a while, something that set me back and made me the oldest student in my class. Thanks to Bess, I managed to pull the academics together in time to give the academy a shot, relying on my brains to move forward, because I was short of hope.

  It wasn’t until I came to Avalon and met Clara that I began to feel like I had a shot at life. She was like a jolt of energy injected directly into my veins. With her bubbly personality, irreverent humor and infectious laughter, the freckle-faced daredevil accomplished what no one else could: she made me smile.

  Back then, part of me had been convinced that she’d been created exclusively for me. The other part of me, the cynical survivor of losses that no child should suffer, wondered: Was it plausible to find one’s soul mate at age twenty?

  Even after all these years, the connection tugged my senses like an unbreakable link. On impulse, I set the tray aside, got up from the bed and gestured with my head. “Follow me.”

  She set her cup on the night table. “Should you be up and about?”

  “I’m good. Come on.”

  She followed me up the stairs. “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  We climbed to the cottage’s attic and took the spiral staircase up to the widow’s walk, where an octagonal room crowned the structure, one of the great features that had drawn me to the house. Clara stopped at the entrance and eyed the cedar wood ceiling that radiated from the center skylight, the polished floors that echoed the ceiling’s design, and the paneled walls casing the eight windows that allowed three-hundred-and-sixty-degree views of the island and the bay.

  “Wow.” She grappled for words. “This is...spectacular. And the craftsmanship...it’s out of this world.”

  She took in the temperature-controlled wine storage built into the walls and the only furniture in the room, two tall modern white leather-and-chrome swiveling chairs that cased the sommelier bistro table.

  “Martha told me you’d restored the cottage,” she said, “but this is an extraordinary space. Did you really do all of this on your own?”

  My heart may have swelled a little. I nodded.

  “It must have taken you lots of work and time.”

  “I like the work and I’ve had the time.”

  She glanced at me. “I heard about that.”

  Hell. My stomach lurched. She knew. I bet I had Martha to thank for that too. The woman couldn’t keep her mouth shut. I gritted my teeth and busied myself picking out two Riedel wineglasses from the shelf and uncorking an excellent merlot from Bordeaux.

  Clara leaned against the window and crossed her arms. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I brought you up here for the view.”

  “And what a view it is.”

  Her gaze shifted toward the horizon. The night sky served as the background for a spectacular light show. Her plush lips turned up at the ends in sincere appreciation. Her smile dazzled me like the lightning flashing over the ocean. My balls clenched and my body rumbled with the distant thunder.

  The chemistry between us hit me like a goddamn tsunami. It was the same irresistible, overwhelming, primal need that had driven us to transform the island into our mating grounds and fuck like rabbits throughout that extraordinary summer long ago. Incredible. She still had the power to spin my world and cloud my brain.

  Down, Noah. Down. I took a deep breath, poured the wine and offered her a glass.

  “Thanks.” She accepted the wine.

  I lifted my glass in the air. “To old friends and everlasting thunderstorms.”

  She clinked her glass against mine. “To everlasting friends and old thunderstorms.”

  Her toasts had always been better than mine. I drank to that, welcoming the comfort of a full-bodied merlot into my system.

  “Delicious.” She licked the wine off her sumptuous lips. “You drink fine wine these days, but you were more of a PBR kind of guy last time we hung out.”

  “That’s about all I could afford back then,” I said, chuckling. “But people change, Clara. I’ve learned a few things since I last saw you.”

  “Fifteen years.” She set her glass on the table and meandered about the room. “It sounds like a long time, but it feels like yesterday.”

  I couldn’t agree more.

  “So.” She lifted her hands in the air and gestured all around. “How bad is it?”

  “Never lived in a better place.” Totally true, considering my humble childhood.

  Her lips pressed together in a stubborn gesture. “I wasn’t asking about the house.”

  I let out a long breath. “I’m fine, Clara. Really.”

  “Ah, yes, fine, Noah Blake was always fine.” Her mouth set into a crooked smirk. “Coolest kid on the island. Catamaran flips, others panic, but not Noah, no way. He lives in the concrete jungle, but the kid swims like a shark, dives like a dolphin and can sail a bathtub if necessary. He swims out to the catamaran, leads the other kids safely to the beach and swims back to the flipped boat...”

  “Where the wildcat princess of Avalon, Clara Luz, refuses to abandon ship and commandeers him to help her flip her catamaran upright.” I grinned as I remembered the first time we laid eyes on each other.

  She balanced on the upturned hull, wearing nothing but a red bikini. Her lithe figure was a dark silhouette against the yellow light of the setting sun. But the instant I spotted her face, hovering over
me as I swam toward the boat, I knew a couple of things: This girl? She was going to rock my world. And I better right the goddamn catamaran or else...

  “Earth to Noah.” Clara’s voice interrupted my recollections.

  “Sorry,” I said. “What were you saying?”

  “Did you try getting some help for your, um...condition?”

  “So you think I’m either too proud or too dumb to go see the doctors?”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “It’s what you implied.” I paused, took a swig of my wine and forced myself to swallow.

  Clara’s eyebrows rose on her forehead. “Well?”

  I let out an exasperated sigh. “Help didn’t help. I got sick and tired of being sick and tired. Satisfied?”

  “Not really.” She deftly shifted strategies. “So what do you do these days for a living? Something to do with computers, Martha mentioned?”

  “Can’t talk about it,” I said. “Classified.”

  “Classified?” She took that in. “I’ll have to guess, then. Are you working for the CIA?”

  “Couldn’t tell you if I was.”

  “FBI or NSA?”

  I lifted my hands in the air and shrugged.

  “Homeland Security?” She’d never been one to give up easily. “State Department Bureau of Counterterrorism?”

  “All good guesses, but I’m afraid I can’t confirm or deny.”

  “Hmm.” She tapped her fingers against her lips. “I’m thinking some sort of a task force. Mother talks about these new secret multiagency public-private partnership taskforces as our best protection against terrorism.”

  “Spoken like the chairwoman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence.”

  “So you’ve followed her career?”

  I’d followed more than the senator’s career. I’d followed Clara’s life as closely as I’d dared, but I wasn’t going to admit to that right now. “Hard not to follow the people who set the rules, when you’re in my line of work.”

  Clara’s shrewd eyes narrowed on me. “Whatever it is you’re doing, it pays well. This is all very pricey. And you must be doing high-level stuff, because your IQ was always way above average.” She smiled. “Good going, Blake.”