by Chant, Zoe
Aunt Julia said, “We’ll be fine. Why don’t you two run along?”
As soon as they got outside, Kesley’s heartbeat quickened as she said, “Hungry?”
“I’m starving. That’s another bennie of getting out from under that heavy dose—my appetite has woken up.” His voice warmed on the word ‘appetite.’ “Think of anyplace I can stay?”
“As a matter of fact.” She smiled at him, and every nerve thrilled at the unmistakable invitation she saw in his eyes. They started up the street again as the thickening fog swirled around them. There could be a hundred bikers on the hilltops, but all they’d see would be an ocean of gray.
When they drew even with the Crockery, Kesley glanced in the big windows, and saw her sister waving at them insistently and pointing upward at the hill as she grinned.
Jameson said, “Wonder what she wants?”
Kesley laughed. “She arranged a dinner for us.”
“Geez, is she a mind reader? I don’t know whether to be pleased or disturbed.”
“No, she’s a . . .” Cat. “ . . . person who means well. I’ve, um, had a few bad relationships lately.”
“What makes her think I’m not another one?” he asked, his smile fading as they turned up the steep path that led to the Enkels’ ridge. “I have to admit that one of the things bothering me is the possibility of finding out that I’m some kind of asshole.”
She shook her head firmly. “Whatever happened to you, I don’t believe you did anything evil. Your memory might be hidden, but your nature isn’t. I feel safe with you.”
“This much I know,” he said, stopping in the middle of the road and closing his arms around her. “I would do anything to keep you safe. Anything.”
“And I you,” she whispered, before they kissed.
Then she tugged his hand, and they walked on. The path was steep, a shortcut that people on the hill had used since the days before cars. Kesley always arrived at the top slightly winded unless she made herself walk it every day. She watched Jameson carefully, worrying about any hurts he was hiding, especially if he’d been flat on his back in the hospital a bare month ago.
He bent into the damp, eddying fog, but did not get any more winded than she, and once again she sensed his leashed strength. She found that sense of hidden power sexy—she found everything about him sexy.
“The cottage below mine is Kenz’s cottage,” she said as they topped the rise. “These were old mining cottages way back when. The family added plumbing and electricity a couple generations ago. So the wiring is, um, creative.” She blushed, not quite ready to mention that the little cottages were traditionally for newlyweds in the family—the couples moving to the larger, rambling house when kids started to appear, and the older generation retiring to the cottages.
“And this is mine.” She paused on the tiny porch and opened the door.
He was so tall he had to stoop his head slightly to clear the lintel. They walked into the living room. Nick had shown no interest in anything but in the bedroom, but Jameson paused to survey the murals she had painted on the walls.
“It’s the town,” he said slowly. “I recognize that hill. It’s where you took me that first sunset, never to be forgotten.” He flashed that smile at her, as once again she sparked with heat. “Only you have all these animals playing and running around, instead of people.”
“I know some people would think it’s kind of silly.”
“No, it’s beautiful, in a kind of innocent way.” He shook his head. “They all seem so happy.”
“I figured out when I went to college that I would never be any Michelangelo, but that was okay.” She shrugged, feeling more exposed than she had lying naked on the hillside with him. What he thought of her place was important to her, she realized. “I like my art to make people smile.”
“That is your nature,” he said softly, with another admiring look around. “My mother would love this,” he added suddenly. “Or, if she were alive.” He frowned and rubbed his temples in a way that was becoming familiar.
To distract him, she pointed at her tiny kitchen, from which enticing smells emanated. She glimpsed covered dishes inside the oven. “The dinner is on low, staying warm. Ready to eat?”
He stepped closer. “What I would like to taste right now . . .” He lifted his hands, and she stepped into them. “Is you.”
The kiss started off exploratory, teasing and touching, and when the nibbling began, as always with Jameson, the kisses shot all the way to high heat. Her fingers, made quick work of his buttons as his hands caressed slowly down her back to her hips, and then up again.
When they broke for breath, her eyes searched his face, once again finding the answer there, a truth that transcended memory. The doubt that had begun to curl through her—would he change his mind about her when he recovered what he’d lost?—burned like fog before the sun.
Everything went away except the moment, and the driving need: she wanted him, and his every breath, every heartbeat echoed back her need. And he needed her. She sensed it in the way his face lost its tension, in the way his breathing changed.
His hand drifted up over her shoulder to hook behind her neck so that he could possess her mouth again, and she leaned into him, reveling in his possession—and taking possession of him in return.
His other hand slipped under her loose, shrouding clothing and caressed up her flesh, pausing over her ribs as his thumbs grazed her tender nipples, and she hissed, every muscle tightening to her heated core.
Her hands shook as she finished the last button and his shirt hung open. She flung it wide and spread over the muscles of his chest, rubbing over the soft hair there.
His breath hitched, then hissed as she leaned up on her toes, and bit his shoulder as she peeled his shirt down his arms. Then she placed her hands on his chest, stroking his tautened nipples as she pushed.
He stepped back, and back again, until he ducked through the door into her small bedroom, which was painted like a forest grove, with the sun peeping through the leaves on one side, and the stars on the opposite side.
Kesley glanced to both sides as she guided him toward the bed, and smothered a laugh when she spotted the pile of condoms on her bedside table. Subtle, Kenz, she thought, her eyes misty with laughter.
Jameson glanced down. “Your usual bedside equipment?”
“That,” she said, “ is my sister’s delicate hint.”
“You haven’t told her we’ve already been there?”
“McKenzi believes in quantity as well as quality.”
Jameson laughed, a husky sound low in his chest. It made Kesley weak in the knees as he mumbled into the hollow of her throat, “How does she know I’m not a mass murderer?” He slid both hands beneath her shirt, and his hands cupped warmly over her breasts.
Heat kindled deep inside her. “You’ll have to ask her,” Kesley breathed, her voice uneven as his questing thumbs circled her nipples.
“I’m too busy,” he whispered, and bent his head. His warm lips brushed softly over the tops of her breasts as her shirt and bra dropped away. She fell onto her fluffy duvet, and he pressed up between her parted knees and smiled down at her.
She had always kept herself dressed until the lights were off, but with him, she felt free—daring—delighting in getting skin to skin as quickly as she could. With the ruddy afternoon light shafting in low through her west-facing windows, he swept his admiring gaze over her breasts and belly. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered, his sincerity resonating through her, causing the inner fire to leap even higher.
She stretched out, aching for his touch. He lavished slow caresses from her collarbones over her shoulders and down her ribs to her stomach, then up again to cup her breasts.
Her fingers fisted in her bedspread as he began to caress them, running his thumbs over her nipples, then lightly flicking them. “Mmmmm,” he hummed, then bent to close his lips over one. A brush of teeth—her back arched—and he sucked hard, his tongue laving.
The heat began to build as he switched to the other nipple. Little noises escaped her as his caressing hand smoothed down over her belly to the edge of her pants.
While he switched between her breasts, rousing her to aching urgency, she kicked free of her pants. His stroking fingers smoothed down to her trembling thighs as his thumbs worked gently into her folds. Frantic with yearning, she widened her knees. His hand cupped her moist, warm wetness before he slid a finger easily in, out, and in, his thumb working around her clit in gentle circles.
And she lit up like a rocket. He kept his finger there as she shuddered, and relaxed.
“Your turn,” she said, starting to sit up.
“Not yet.” He smiled and shook his head, though she could see the magnificent bulge straining at the zipper of his pants. “I want to take my time this round.”
Jameson knelt down, pushed her knees as wide as they would go, and pressed a deep kiss to her most tender and secret folds. The fires flamed up to such intensity she began to pant—and he plunged his tongue into her, then with exquisite, torturous slowness licked, sucked, and nibbled her folds, before breathing gently, softly on her clit. She went wild, grabbing the back of his head. He laughed and opened his lips to take possession of her most sensitive spot.
One hard suck and she cried out, the world going white. He kissed her softly as she throbbed in rings of sweet fire, drifting slowly down until she was left breathless and boneless.
Sex had never been this amazing. Faster than she believed possible she found the energy to sit up. “I want you in me,” she said. “But first it’s my turn to play.”
In a minute he lay naked on the bed, his length taking up most of the real estate. She knelt with her knees at either side of his hips, no longer self-conscious about her hips, belly, thighs—his hands made her feel as if she were made of honey and light.
First she did what she had wanted to do ever since she first saw them: she explored with her lips each of the pink ribboned scars on his chest, up over his shoulder, and on the side of his face. She loved the way his breathing harshened, and his eyelids fluttered. Then she began to run her nails lightly over the bones of his face and down and over his throat to his neck, scratching lightly in circles. With tenderness and care she outlined all the entrancing contours of muscle and bone.
“Oh, God,” he breathed huskily. “That’s like . . .”
She leaned down and bit his lower lip to silence him, then began to work over the muscles of his chest. “It’s called effleurage,” she murmured. “But I used my nails.”
She eyed his cock, which had hardened all for her. She sensed the heat rising in him; she stroked and scored his muscles, working her way down his taut stomach. His breathing hitched and caught, and when her hands closed on his cock at last, he groaned, his teeth gritted.
She traced her nails up its length to the head, then bent to kiss the tip, and lick the gleaming drop of pre-cum before closing her mouth around the head for the gentlest of bites. She began to suck as one hand cupped his balls. Suck—squeeze—and his hips bucked.
“Kesley . . . That is incredible, but . . .” His breath hissed out. “In you. I need to be skin to skin.”
He surged up and flipped her over, and with one stroke, he buried himself in her. She locked her legs around him and they danced together, a perfect fit, the healing rhythm banishing pain and uncertainty. They rode the wave to the pinnacle of noon-bright heat.
One lingering thrust from Jameson, a wordless growl of passion, and every nerve in her body flashing in a shower of falling stars.
“Don’t ever leave me,” he whispered. “Whoever I am.”
“That’s a promise,” she whispered back.
And she knew that two days or two months or two years didn’t matter. Whatever uncertainties lay ahead for him, they would face them together.
* * *
Much later, they sat across from each other at the small table where Kesley had been eating alone for so long, their hair still damp, smelling of her tea tree oil shampoo, she in her robe, and he wearing just a towel. He insisted he never felt cold, and she was not going to argue if it meant getting to admire his magnificent chest and abs some more. He had a number of scars tracing over his shoulder, his ribs, and down his back, but they had healed to white lines, as if it had been six months and not just weeks since his accident.
Shifter healing.
“If your sister cooked this, she’s pretty amazing,” Jameson observed, surveying the delicious-smelling seafood casserole that was a specialty of the Lopezes, the Hochstetters’ prize-winning baked cabbage, and the signature dessert made by the Crockery’s owner herself, though she was officially retired from cooking: bread pudding with warm custard topped with cinnamon sauce.
The food had been waiting in casserole dishes in Kesley’s oven, evidence of conspiracy. She wished she could tell Jameson what Aunt Julia had said about him being a shifter, but a promise was a promise. Even if there had been no nosy Marlo around, she had to let him make the discovery himself.
So they ate the delicious dinner, and she guided the conversation over easy topics: food, ones they loved and ones they hated, which led to food anecdotes of childhood—something he could share, though not always with ease. She never prompted him when he’d stop, gaze distracted, as he tried to recollect a face, or a name, or a place. It was odd, she thought, how memory could be tied backward and forward.
After the leisurely meal, Kesley ground up coffee from hers and McKenzi’s precious stash of real Kona, a gift from one of Kenz’s many ex-boyfriends (before he became an ex), and then they sat down in the small living room side by side—but before they’d finished their coffee, they looked at each other and stampeded back to the bedroom.
The first time, he took her from behind. That was fun, but even more fun followed when she rode him on top, taking control, at first slow then frantic with abandon, their wordless communication perfect.
And after that, he fell into a deep sleep, as the fog closed in around the house. His breath was slow and even, his face relaxed, smiling, even. He looked . . . young. Peaceful. Happy.
Moving very slowly, she lit a single candle, then pulled out her best paper and began to sketch him, lingering over every golden-lit contour and angle. There were still so many questions, but she forced them outward beyond the shadows. They could wait. Now he was at peace, and Kesley would watch over him in her own nest, guarding his rest.
Chapter Ten
He slept through the night, with no nightmares.
In fact, he slept so deeply that he woke to an unfamiliar room, the golden morning light revealing a painted forest on the four walls around him. Something stirred in him—that voice again—Home.
He turned his head, and there was Kesley, her beautiful hair soft and clean as it swung over her shoulders, her smile dear, and a little questioning, as she held out a steaming mug. “I made fresh coffee,” she said. “Um, I noticed you put honey in your coffee. Is that because you don’t like white sugar?”
“Sugar’s fine. But I prefer the taste of honey—got used to it . . .” He almost had it, a flicker of an image.
He sighed. He could feel it all there, somewhere just under the surface of his conscious thoughts. Sometimes he half-wished someone would take a crowbar to his skull and pry the elusive knowledge out. It might lessen the pangs when he reached too hard.
He shook his head and gave up.
“Never mind,” she said. “As it happens, Mom’s cousin is a beekeeper. She sells fancy honeys in Overton, so we all have fresh honey. I brought you a choice—clover and orange blossom. I also happen to like sage, though not everyone does.”
“I like it all,” he said.
“Would you like me to make breakfast? I have to admit I’m not much of a cook.” She looked rueful. “French toast and oatmeal is about my limit.”
“We can always go back to Ralph’s.” He grinned suddenly. “My first walk of shame!”
“I can make
it a drive of shame,” Kesley offered, grinning back.
“How about this. We drop by the hotel so I can grab some clean clothes, then I’ll confront Marlo. After that, breakfast. Then I was thinking I ought to visit the sheriff, to find out if he’s discovered anything from his prisoners. Maybe he’ll let me talk to them. Then I can take the . . . issue to them.”
Kesley’s lips thinned, her eyes huge. “You were going to say battle. Take the battle to them.”
“Only an expression,” he said. “They started this. I intend to finish it, before anyone gets hurt.”
“That includes you,” she said.
“And that’s why I want to go to the sheriff after I’ve had my talk with Marlo.”
“I’ll take you to the barn. Uh, the sheriff’s office and the jail is at a barn. Sheriff Odom took over from his dad, who always made prisoners work off their offenses—if they aren’t shoveling out from behind the cows, they might be out cleaning clogged sewer lines.”
“Better use of their time than cruising around hassling strangers,” Jameson said.
By then they had finished their coffee. Kesley said as she peered out the window, “Good. My sister left us the car.”
They climbed into the old Volkswagen rattletrap that the sisters seemed to share. Jameson sat back to enjoy Kesley’s deft hands on the gear shift and the wheel. He wished she wouldn’t hide her lush, beautiful body in those baggy long tops and flapping pants, but he refused to be the kind of jerk who complains about what his lover wears.
Lover.
A fine word, but not the right one. It was too flimsy for the feelings unfurling inside Jameson. Mate. That’s what that woman had said. Odd. People didn’t use that kind of language these days, and yet it felt so right.
He was thinking contentedly about how soon he could get Kesley naked again when they pulled up at the Primrose. Kesley’s smile vanished when they saw the huge lobby window smashed, jagged fangs of glass sticking out around the frame. Townspeople were converging from all directions.