by Marata Eros
“Oh . . . you like that?” I ask, moving her underneath me easily, and the smile disappears to be replaced with a look I recognize, covet.
Heat.
Desire.
“No,” she says, pressing a small hand against my chest. “Ever?” I smirk.
A look of horror goes over her face. “Hell no!” she says. I can’t stop the grin.
“You’re so full of yourself.”
“Full of you, more like,” I reply.
We stare at each other until the heat becomes scorching and Jewell casts her eyes down, hiding from me.
I let Jewell off the hook, cupping her hip and sitting up on an elbow. “He’s a rookie. This was his first case with a serial and . . . it went wrong. We didn’t know that there was someone besides Thad. We were looking for one . . .”
I watch Jewell’s face shut down, her laughter dying, our passion cooled.
“Hey . . .” I ask, like, do you want to hear more?
She nods, her teeth rolling her bottom lip inside her mouth.
I’m sure to keep that emotion inside.
It’s a major distraction for me.
I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. It’s painful for her. It’s murder for me. Just kill me twice. I couldn’t save Faith. I save Jewell the ultimate indignity of death but not the smaller one. My eyes flick to her knee, then back to her face.
“He was primary . . .”
Jewell arches her brows.
“That’s the section of surveillance nearest your dorm.”
“Oh,” she answers, a sheen to her eyes.
Don’t cry, baby.
“You and I had that fight at Skoochies and I was going to alert Clearwater, but a brawl broke out and I had to bounce that right out. By the time I finally communicated to Clearwater, he was . . .”
I swallow, and a tear rolls out like diamond rain from her eye. I watch its sparkling descent on her face. When it reaches her jaw, it hangs like a suspended gem, the sunlight capturing it, as my finger does. She sweeps her gaze to mine.
I look at the wetness on my finger, shimmering there. Tangible grief. Why do her tears hurt me?
“Ben Miller tried to kill him and take away your protection,” I say without looking up, mesmerized by that piece of her sadness.
“But he lived. Brad . . . I mean Clearwater . . . lived.”
I give a grave nod, meeting her eyes. “He did.”
Jewell inhales deeply, then exhales. “I’m glad.”
I feel the corners of my mouth turn up. “Me too.”
“What about Brock?”
I slant a wicked grin her way. “Yeah . . . I kicked his ass for hitting you.”
Jewell grins back, her face coloring. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
We smile at each other.
“So that whole scene back at school, with him and Brad . . . ?”
“Decoy,” I say simply.
“Huh.” Jewell bites her lip harder, nibbling at flesh I’d just moved over, tasted, eaten . . .
She glances at me and, seeing my expression, rolls her eyes.
“Guilty.” I throw up my hands, palms out. “You caught me.”
“Is that all you think about?” Jewell asks, but her tone is back to playful, mirth dancing in those deep emerald eyes. I think about it for . . . oh, about three seconds. “Yeah.”
Jewell leans forward and kisses my mouth, then lies back down, leaving me cold with her absence.
How will I ever feel warm if she’s not there to heat my body? I wonder.
I shake away the random thought, concentrating on the conversation instead of how I want to go again. With her. Forever.
“So . . . are you from here?” Jewell asks.
I shake my head.
Jewell’s body tenses. “Then you live in another state?” Her bottom lip trembles again and my eyes move to her mouth.
I nod, saying nothing.
“You’ll be moving back to where you’re from, where your job is?” she asks softly, her hands knotting where they’d been loose moments before.
My eyes shift back to her bent head. “My division is based out of Anchorage. But I was based out of Omaha at the time of Faith’s death.”
“Oh,” Jewell says in a small voice.
I lift her chin with my finger, those eyes fill with her tears.
“I’m not leaving, Jewell.”
“No?” she asks, the tears welling but none falling, they stand there, begging to escape.
I shake my head, pressing a kiss on her forehead and one on each eyelid, the wetness of her tears salt against my lips.
“My home is here.” I place a palm on her chest, her heart beating underneath my hand. We look into each other’s eyes.
“Here?” she asks, putting her small hand over my large one. I nod my head, once . . . slowly.
“Wherever you are is home now, Jewell.”
Her tears soak my naked chest; they don’t bother me. I recognize them for what they are.
Relief.
I recognize it because I share it alongside her.
24
“Babe,” I say, and she gives me the Look. Y’know, the one
that women reserve to let you know when you’re going to step in it. However, I’ve never been great on nonverbal female cues, not being a mind reader and all that bullshit.
I look up from the narrow wood board, one padded knee wedging it in place, my hand on the soft mallet with another sawed-off piece tight against the tongue.
Jewell looks over her shoulder at me, standing on tiptoe, wearing slippers as opposed to pointe shoes, and scowls, her nose crinkling in that cute way that makes me instantly think, bedroom.
“No, Cas,” she says with recognition and a small smile. She goes up on her tiptoes, down, up, down . . . I watch her ass clench, the small muscles of her calves rise like little balls.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to turn back to the boards that await installation, nailing the floorboard tight against the one before it with a solid whack of the mallet. I drive my knee forward, stabilizing it as I hit the wood. I pause and my face turns to her again, like a satellite come to orbit. Jewell moves fluidly, the jerky motions of two months ago lost to tireless practice, grace seeping in at the edges. Still, her face pinches with a knee twinge, and I stand, slapping a board in reverse to hold the face-nailed boards in place, keeping the run tight.
Words.
I hate words.
I hesitate. Plunking down the mallet, I run my hand over my freshly sheared hair. I meet her stare and Jewell gives a small huff, grabbing the barre, that I installed in this room for her, for her dancing. It was an absolute deal breaker for me. I told the realtor: Don’t bother showing me any houses that don’t have a room I can make into a dance studio.
When you find the woman you love, not just any space will do.
I want a home for her.
More, I want her heart to beat again. Her happiness is more important than my own.
I step onto the newly laid wood floor, that corner of the dance studio complete.
“You’re not supposed to be in here with your work boots, Cas,” she reprimands me.
It’s so hot when she tries to tell me what to do.
Jewell forgets I can see her face in the mirror.
I come to stand behind her, seeing the flush on her face, the want. And it isn’t from exercise.
“Tell you what,” I begin, pressing up behind her. Jewell rises on her toes, facing the mirror, which runs floor to ceiling. The barre is positioned at waist height, embedded in the sea of seamless glass.
Jewell’s eyes meet mine, and she gives a soft gasp as my arm snakes around her waist, the fingers of my other hand brushing her nipple. It fills my palm in a pebble of flesh.
Hard and waiting.
“Talk to your parents. I’m sick of them calling all the time,” I say against her skin, my fingers playing with her nipple like a musical instrument. Her own selection plays
in the background, the soft notes filling the open space, echoing softly around us.
“No,” she says, and I pinch her nipple hard and she moans, still on her toes as her head falls back against me, the knot of her hair resting on my shoulder.
“You like?” I say, my voice muffled against her throat.
“You know I do,” she says, biting her lip. Her body is warm from exercise and heats mine.
“Tell you what . . .” I say, my hand working lower. I know I’ve done what I need when she sucks in her breath, my hand buried against the thin material of her leotard as I split her with my fingers.
Her arms move behind me and latch on to my neck as I move against the material between her legs. I watch our bodies married together in the mirror, my dark skin a contrast against her fairness, her hair a flame against my neck.
“You agree to talk to them, and I’ll make you come . . . right now,” I say so softly her eyes snap open to look at me.
“Here?” Jewell asks, her eyes filled with shyness.
Excitement.
I smile.
We stare at each other in the mirror and finally she nods.
“Hang on to the barre,” I command in a low growl. I tear off my tool belt, letting it fall to the ground, carpenter’s pencils, my tape, and a bunch of other shit clattering to the plywood side of the floor.
Jewell leans forward, so tiny, so small.
Too short.
“Toes,” I say, breathless, dumping my jeans to my ankles.
Those lithe legs effortlessly lift her small body.
I gently move her legs farther apart.
“Look at me,” I demand.
Her eyes move to mine again in the mirror, dark with desire, wide with uncertainty.
My Jewell likes surprises.
“Watch me while I fuck you, Jewell,” I grunt as my bare cock moves against her ass still encased in ballet gear.
She does, her breaths coming quicker than any barre exercise could have done.
I start at the bend of her neck, moving my hand down her spine, and when I get to the crotch of her leotard I give a mighty jerk and the material tears and she gasps, my finger spearing her even as the material gives.
“Ah!” she gasps in a half grunt of surprise and pleasure, her hips bearing backward against my hand.
Lust rolls in a wave of gooseflesh down my body, a riot over my skin. “Look,” I command.
Her dazed eyes reach mine in the mirror and I plunge inside her all the way, as she wraps me like slick velvet, the tip of me kissing her womb.
“Ah!” Jewell barks in a throaty grunt, her knuckles bleeding to white against the barre.
I take her hard, her body bouncing as my prick lifts her, and we grind against each other in seamless unity. I wrap my hand around her waist and bump against the back of her, Jewell drops back against me, my superior leverage allowing gravity to work with us.
I can tell when she gets close—Jewell’s eyes widen and all that beautiful light skin flushes pink. It’s not something she can hide, and I love seeing it. I jerk her against me and her hands leave the barre, wrapping one forearm against her tits and one around her waist, our gazes lock in the depthless mirror, my tattoo against her nakedness like an obsidian brand.
I press my hips against her ass, my balls tight against her entrance, and give a deep swivel and simultaneous thrust, hitting that spot high and deep inside her, and Jewell stills for one heartbeat . . . two. Then she howls in my ear; I wince from the sound.
So piercing.
So fucking amazing.
And just like that I pour myself inside her, my essence, my love . . . my life.
I live for her now.
We cling together in shattered silence, the memory of her shrill cry of pleasured release hanging in the air between us, around us.
Jewell’s sex pulses around me and I sway, holding my ballerina, her shredded leotard decorating the floor I just laid, our bodies still locked together.
Seconds become minutes. No words. Just our skin and bodies together.
Jewell sighs in contentment, smiling up at me from my arms. I rock her in place and she says, “Way to christen the joint.” She smiles softly at me.
I nod, but words fail me, as they usually do.
Jewell’s used to it now. I look at our reflection in the mirror, her nakedness cradled against me, beat-up ballet slippers and nothing else.
Perfect.
Jewell looks perfect in my house. The hell with an interior decorator, all I need is her. Jewell uses my phone as I sip coffee I made in a French press. My only concession to sissified. Besides weeping like a girl over Jewell while she lay bleeding those five months ago.
I give myself a pass on that. I swallow as she paces back and forth and listen to her side of the conversation.
When she’s nervous she nibbles on her bottom lip.
Bedroom.
Just that one word. It sure springs to mind a lot around her.
Among other things. I smile as I sip my coffee out of a mug that reads, BALLERINAS BREAK THE BARRE.
“Yes, I understand,” Jewell says, her lip nowhere to be seen. It’s disappeared inside her mouth.
“Mom?” she squeaks, giving me a panicked look.
I nod, raising the pink mug. I guess I look as ridiculous as I assume and she gives the ghost of a smile. The terror of talking to her mom for the first time in five months notching down at the image of her badass FBI agent boyfriend holding her pink ballerina mug.
“Okay . . . I will.” She nods slowly, then adds, “it was . . . good to talk to you too.”
Jewell hits the End button and promptly bursts into tears.
Fuck.
I walk over to her, putting the mug down on the sundrenched countertop.
“Shhh, babe,” I say. Wrapping her against me, I stroke her hair.
“I think . . .” she begins, then uses my T-shirt like a tissue, drying her face of tears.
“Are you sad?” I ask, tipping her chin up. It seems like a stupid question, but there are different kinds of tears and I’ve learned to read hers.
“No,” she says in a tremulous voice. “I’m glad I spoke with her.”
“What, then?”
Jewell begins to look away.
“Hey,” I say softly, wiping her nervous tears with the pads of my thumbs.
Jewell meets my eyes.
“Who hid for two years?” I bend my face down to capture her eyes, forcing her to look at me.
“Me,” she says softly.
“Who survived living in the same house as that fucking psycho?”
“Me,” Jewell repeats in a whisper.
“Who’s going to live to dance another day?”This time, those eyes meet mine with resolution, her chin kicks up and she fights her natural shyness, her need to please.
And wins. “Me,” Jewell says with certainty.
“That’s my girl.” I swat her ass and she laughs through her tears, scooting off to the bedroom.
I watch her, my eyes going half-mast. “Hey,” I say softly but with an intensity that carries.
She turns back, her brow arched in question.
“Wanna fuck?”
Jewell grins. “Definitely.”
I pause, striding to her outside the bedroom door. I run a hand down her arm, and her face tilts up to mine. “Jewell?”
“Yes?” she whispers.
“I love you.” I smile the vulnerable smile of the words. Those. Three. Words.
She looks at me for a moment, then grabs my package, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Show me.”
My hand smacks the side of the doorjamb, my breath squeezing out of me in a tight whistle. “Okay.”
25
I sweep Jewell out of the car, our fancy dinner at Canlis a perfect memory. What is even better is her mother’s number in both our cells. I’ve made sure that Jewell will have closure there. Gillian MacLeod left the former senator, and now they can be free of the encumbrance and memories that
her stepfather would bring and just be mother and daughter again.
The drive consists of our shit-eating grins and long sighs. Our wandering hands link as I drive with one hand on the steering wheel.
I hug her to me when we exit the car, and she’s breathless. “God, that was fucking amazing!” she shouts, and I laugh, twirling her around.
“How do you feel, baby?” I ask, lips at her throat as we trip up the wide steep stairs of our Green Lake bungalow.
“Light,” Jewell breathes in a happy whisper. The dinner with her mother chases those shadows out of her eyes, giving her some family back.
“That’s how I like it!” I say, jamming my key in the slot and bumping the solid fir door open with the side of my ass. I scoop Jewell up into my arms.
“Cas!” she half yells but chokes on her laughter.
I know Carlie worked her magic when Jewell’s laughter dies in her throat and she looks around at my transformed house in wonder.
I take a deep breath and turn with Jewell in my arms so I can see the damage.
Damn, she’s done good.
Dozens of crystal bowls litter every surface of the low-slung and understated architecture of the old Craftsman house. The polished wood mantel holds flame-red roses, ten crystal bowls filled with water hold roses in every stage of opening. Their fragrance fills the air as vanilla candles softly burn, the wicks dancing with the draft that infiltrates.
I let Jewell slide down my body and watch her reaction closely. It was my idea, but I’m better at catching crooks than creating romance, so I enlisted Carlie and together we made it happen for Jewell.
Finally, I think her answer might be yes instead of no, so I jump off that mental cliff where I usually just teeter on the edge.
Jewell exhales in a shaky way, turning to me. “What . . . is this, Cas?”
“I thought you could use something special.”
Her lips quirk. “It is . . . amazing.” Her eyes hold the sheen of happiness. Any tears that fall won’t be caused by sadness.
“Your mom?” I ask, thinking about a future reconciliation as I loosen my tie and jam my hands in the front of my slacks.
Jewell’s hand rises to her throat, floating there for a moment, then she lets it fall at the hollow at the base of her neck, feeling for her pulse. She looks at me and says quietly, “There’s still a chance for us to have a relationship. She loves me.” Her voice trembles ever so slightly at the realization.