by Marata Eros
Paco lays me down.
I fight not to cover myself as his gaze takes me in. He's seen me naked before—on that horrible night. But somehow, right now, with his bright eyes and loving hands, I feel nude instead of naked.
Loved.
He arranges my hair in a fan beneath my head then lays my arms away from my body.
He crawls over the top of me. My eyes move to his stiffness, and he hesitates.
“Don't stop,” I say, and he takes me at my word.
Paco leans over me and kisses my hands, palm facing the ceiling. His lips grace each fingertip before moving to the bend of my elbow then my chest.
When he is seated between my legs, he bows his body over mine, takes my hardened nipple between his lips, his large hand cupping my breast, and squeezes the flesh into his mouth.
I arch my back. The sensation of being pleasured is too much. I groan, and he sucks harder. Little threads of arousal pull from deep inside me, tugging at my core with each draw of his mouth on my nipple.
He moves to the other side and lavishes the same attention on my left breast. When his hand touches my mound, I suck in a breath. Paco's eyes roll to mine, but he doesn't stop, sinking a finger inside me. It is the very thing I fantasized about when I was envisioning him fingering me. “Yes?” his question is spoken softly. Is this okay?
“Yes,” I answer just as quietly.
His finger moves in and out of me in a slow pump. He moves my legs apart slowly, and it feels natural. Hot.
I spread them wider, allowing him better access to the center of me.
“Greta,” he moans against my neck, kissing softly, “you are too beautiful for words. Your body is made for mine.”
I agree without words, pulling him against me, but he resists. “Not yet.”
I lift my head, staring at him between my legs.
His eyes move to my splayed folds.
Oh.
I'm instantly self-conscious, until he gives a smile full of raw need. He wants this. Paco puts his hand on my stomach and, with a nod, dives below.
I expect something harsh and penetrating. It's my only point of reference. But his hot breath at my entrance warms me.
That is all.
Then the softest stroke of his tongue slowly licks up one side of my labia, crossing a path of wetness over my clit, and I shudder. He pauses at my reaction, inserting his finger again, and my hips come off the bed.
“Oh, God,” I breathe in surprised wonder.
His tongue glides down the other side, and my palms hit the sides of the bed as fingertips sink into the sheets. I whip my head back and forth when his tongue inches inside.
Before I can protest or analyze anything, his tongue begins to move in and out.
My hips meet his soft wet thrusts.
He tucks his hands beneath my hips and suddenly jerks me deeper into his face.
“Ah!” Pressure builds down low where his lips touch my flesh. I work my hips against him with abandon when the swelling feeling of hanging from a cliff stops.
Then I fall—crashing pleasure sweeps through my body, and his tongue eases, lapping against my entrance and running the length to the small bundle of nerves untouched before Paco's deft caress.
“Now,” he says softly as I begin to ease back into my body, the walls of my pussy still pulsing from the orgasm he just gave me.
Paco hovers above me in push-up position, and I give him a languid smile of permission. The tip of him inches slowly into me.
He's large, and I'm tight.
My eyes go wide, and he cages me with his arms, kissing me.
“Trust me, Greta.”
I widen my legs, tasting myself on his mouth, and go limp with desire. His mouth did that to me. Made me wet.
Made me want.
As I relax, he rocks deeper.
Then he's at my end. His face pulls away, and his lips lift, but he doesn't smile.
He waits.
“Yes,” I say.
Paco pulls out.
When he enters me again, I throw my head back. It's so beautiful, so complete.
He owns me in the best way, with my desire, permission, and love.
I give back what he gives me, my hips rising to meet each gentle thrust.
His pacing becomes irregular, and I instinctively know he's close. Paco is waiting for me to catch up.
He rocks more deeply, touching the same spot up high again and again.
“Harder,” I say, feeling that same golden weight begin to build as it did earlier.
Paco draws back and slams into me.
I breathe against the memories—then meet his deep thrusting. This is mine.
Ours.
He pounds into me, and I meet every plunging bit of him. The orgasm takes me by surprise, and I shout out my pleasure.
“Greta,” Paco says in a strained voice.
My eyes open, and he's rigid above me, pumping all himself into me. Hot liquid fills me, and I milk him of every drop. We're frozen together, my pulses of pleasure eating up what he gives me.
Paco covers me with his body. I don't feel suffocated by the gesture. I feel cherished.
He lays within me until he grows too soft and slips out, barely rolling off me and to the side.
His fingers scatter the sweaty strands of my hair out of my face. “Are you okay?”
I stare up at the ceiling for a few seconds, letting Paco trace the contours of my face as he waits for my reply.
“I'm so all right.”
Paco leans over and kisses my tears. He knows the difference. He tells me happy tears taste different from sad ones.
I believe him.
EPILOGUE
Paco
The narco was not invited, they do not wish to play anymore.
I look at Zaire, absently wondering what he's done there, to get that particular misery out of my life.
He tilts his hat in my direction. The motion is little more than a caress of the brim, but an acknowledgment nonetheless. The owner of Club Alpha got what he wanted.
I'm standing under an arc of flowers on my wedding day. The perfect woman will enter this artfully constructed courtyard in the next few moments, and I owe it all to Zaire and his determination to secure a happiness I could not. I share the sentiment of the other Club Alpha players—I'd do it again.
Seeing Greta enter through the tall rustic gallery doors in a gorgeous floor-length dress of soft white takes my breath, shattering the oxygen to the wind. I'm left gasping at her beauty.
My fortune.
I finger the matching wedding bands inside my pocket.
Greta's worth was never in her wealth, but in who she is.
To me.
I scan the audience as the music starts, catching Gia's eye. She winks, and I give her a nod.
Tallinn's dark presence graces the only exit. His eyes constantly rove the proceedings, though things could not be safer. I moved heaven and earth making sure of it.
The music trills, announcing the beginnings of the traditional American song “Here Comes the Bride.”
And she does.
Greta begins to walk down the aisle, and my heart swells, my chest tight with a new emotion—the only emotion.
Love.
THE END
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THE TOKEN SERIES
A Token Novella Compilation
Volumes 1-3
New York Times Bestselling author
MARATA EROS
All Rights are Reserved.
Copyright © 2013-14 Marata Eros
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for
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“Love sears the heart immortal
The embers burnt down to the token which remains ....”
Music that inspired me during the writing of The Token Serial:
Joe Bonamassa
Driving Towards the Daylight
A Fuoco
Ludovico Einaudi
Twenty-two year old Faren Mitchell hears the two words that change her abbreviated life forever. They're so final Faren decides she has nothing to lose by seizing every remaining moment of what life has to offer.
Until Faren collides with a motorcycle ridden by billionaire Jared McKenna.
Even the dark secret of her past and catharsis as a physical therapist can't save Faren from the sexual spiral that waits for her in the arms of a man who commits to no one. When circumstances force her to get a second job as an exotic dancer, Faren never imagines how close that choice will bring her to the brink of a new reality she is unequipped to handle.
THE TOKEN
A Token Series Novella
Volume 1
New York Times Bestselling author
MARATA EROS
All Rights are Reserved.
Copyright © 2013 Marata Eros
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to a legitimate retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Marata Eros Website
Marata Eros FB Fan Page
Editing suggestions provided by Red Adept Editing
~ Prologue ~
“You're dying,” Dr. Matthews says.
Two words.
Final.
Complete.
Desolate.
I feel my fingers clench the armrests of the chair underneath me, but the rest of my body remains numb.
If his words aren't enough to convince me, I see my silence is a prevailing annoyance in his day.
Dr. Matthews walks stiffly, making his way to the softly glowing X-ray reader.
I flinch when he slaps the photo of the soft tissue of my brain against the magnetic tabs of the lit surface.
The light glows around the tumor, immortalizing the end of my life like an emblazoned tool of disregard.
Just the facts, ma’am.
I sway as I stand, gripping the solid oak of his desk. It's very large, an anchor in the middle of his prestigious office full of the affectations of his career.
I walk toward Matthews. His hard face is edged by what might be sympathy. After all, it's not every day he tells a twenty-two-year-old woman she's got moments to live.
Actually, I do have time—months.
It's just not enough.
I look at the mess that's my brain, at the damning half a golf ball buried in a spot that will make me a vegetable if they operate. My eyes slide to the name at the bottom. For a split second, I hope to see another name there. But my own greets me.
Mitchell, Faren.
I back up and Matthews reaches to steady me.
But it's too late.
I spin and run out of his office as his voice calls after me. The corners of my coat sail behind me as I slap the metal hospital door open and take the cement steps two at a time.
I see my car parked across the street and race to it. My escape, my despair, is a thundering initiative I can't deny.
I miss the hit as if it happens to someone else. Only the noise permeates my senses as light flashes in my peripheral vision, mirrors against sunlight. I tumble in a slow spin of limbs. My body heaves and rolls, hitting the asphalt with a breath-stealing slap.
I lie against the rough black road. My lungs beg for air, burning for oxygen, and finally I take a sucking inhale that tears through my lungs.
The wet road feels cool against my face as I watch someone come into my line of sight. My body burns and my head aches. My arm is a slim exclamation point from my body, my fingers twitching. I can't make them stop. I can't make anything stop.
Powerless.
The doctor is too late with his condemning words. I've already died. I know this because the man who approaches is an angel. A helmet comes off hair so deep auburn it's a low-burning lick of flame. He swims toward me like a mirage, walking in a surreal slow motion. I blink, and my vision blurs. I try to raise my arm to wipe my eyes and whimper when it disobeys my command.
My angel crouches down, his eyes a deep brown, belying the dark bronze of his hair. “Shhh... I got you.” His voice is a deep melody.
I sigh. Safe.
I try to focus on him but the helmet he parks next to his boots becomes three as my vision triples.
There's a scuffle and I try to move to see what all the commotion's about. The angel wraps his warm large hand around my smaller one and smiles. “It's going to be okay.”
That's when I know I'm not in heaven.
That's what people say when nothing is okay.
~ 1 ~
One month prior
I flex my hand, grab my isometric handgrip, and do my hundred reps. So fun—a little like flossing my teeth. I put on the kettle with my good hand and turn the burner on high.
Flex, squeeze, release, flex again.
I get to a hundred and switch hands. As I go through my daily ritual, I flip open my Mac and browse my emails.
Faren, can you cover my shift? Faren, can you come in a half hour early? Faren, can you bring the main dish for the office pot luck?
Delete, delete, delete.
I'll say yes because it's hard for me to say no. Tough lessons in life have taught me that.
I put my handgrip on the corner of the end table, glancing at my left pinky and frowning. It's almost straight. Almost. No one can tell unless they're looking for it. No one ever looks that hard. Humanity glosses over shit.
I leave my laptop open and walk back to the stove. Depression-era jadeite salt and pepper shakers stand dead in the middle of a 1950s pink stove. The combo reminds me of an Easter egg. The kettle insists it's ready, bleating like a sheep. I lift it carefully, deliberately, using all the muscles of my hands as I've been taught.
As I teach others to do.
I pour the hot water over the tea bag and sigh, forcing my bad hand to thread through the loop of the tea cup handle. My dexterity is returning. I've pushed myself so hard that my hand rebels, willfully abandoning its hold on the cup.
The porcelain shatters, and shards fly on the wood floor of my tiny apartment above the main street where I live in deep anonymity. The pieces splinter in all directions, and I sigh. I want to chop off my hand.
I want to cradle it against my chest because it still works. Just not perfectly.
Like my life.
*
“Another headache?” Sue asks.
I nod, my hands falling away from my temples as I reach for my patient folder. I grip it with both hands and scan who's up first.
Bryce Collins. Pain. In. My. Ass.
I grin. I love the tough nuts to crack. They make it a
ll worth it. I stride to my torture chamber, pushing the door open with my hip and search through the sea of work out equipment and hand held physical therapy implements to meet the sullen gaze of a seventeen-year old athletic prodigy.
A prodigy with a chip on his shoulder so wide I could drive a truck through it. Well I have my own dings and dents. We can compare later.
Right now, it's all about the work.
“Hi, Bryce.”
He mumbles a reply as I hand him the first merciless task. The huge rubber band fits around the pole in the center of the room. Mirrors line the wall and toss back our struggles.
And our triumphs.
I watch as he half-heartedly goes through the motions of his straight leg kicks. When he reaches twenty I scoop my hand down and latch onto his hamstring and he groans at my touch. “Bend your knee a little,” he does while giving me a look that could kill. I stare neutrally back until his gaze drops and he finally digs in.
An hour later, shaking and sweating, Bryce's huge and muscled body lumbers outside my door. He pauses as he opens it, looking at me with pissed off brown eyes.
“I hate you, Miss Mitchell,” he says and means it.
I smile back. I totally get it. Bryce needs to hate me to get better. It beats hating himself. I nod. “I know.”
He walks out, and I run my finger down the patient appointments for the day. Kiki makes her loud entrance, and my lips twist. She balances chai tea in both hands, staggering in too-tall heels that sink into the nearly bald carpet.
“Gawd!” she huffs as she winds her way through the ellipticals, weight machines, and treadmills. She leans against the walking bars that run like railroad tracks for those with dual injuries. Like both legs not working.