Opening the door, he slipped out onto the balcony and wandered around to face the large two-story indoor garden. The two garages had fit seamlessly together. They had their own version of a lush garden of paradise in that giant glass rectangle housing trees, waterfalls and luscious plants of all kinds. Small stone pathways wandered through the garden where chairs or a couch invited one to sit and rest or read or play depending on the mood.
Small lockers were hidden, housing his ropes in different areas as well as other toys and weapons they might need in an emergency. Sevastyan believed in being prepared for anything. For the leopards there were climbing routes as well as places for them to curl up and lie together up high in the loft concealed among the plants.
In one corner of either end were bathrooms, thankfully already built in. Flambé had remodeled them to fit with the theme and they were artfully draped with plants on the outside. The doors were an archway with flowering vines crawling up. There was a small kitchen off either of the bathrooms where refrigerators housed their very cold water, something he always insisted on for both of them. He ran hot and she needed to stay hydrated.
There was something very special about the indoor garden. He couldn’t quite decide if it was because the two of them had made the plans together and worked side by side doing quite a lot of the planting once her crew had gotten all the big items in. She’d showed him how to plant the smaller shrubs and flowers and he’d gotten good at it.
They laughed a lot together while they worked. He took orders from her and she talked a lot about things that mattered to her. She’d been a little shy at first, but in the end, because he clearly was interested in anything Flambé, she talked more and more to him. He found that because she gave up little things about herself, he was more willing to answer questions about himself and give her things about him no one else really knew. That garden was the place they shared the most of themselves while they worked. It was still young, and there was still so much more work to do, but both looked forward to it.
Sevastyan scented Flambé before he felt her hand move up the back of his thigh to his left buttock. It was an intimacy she would never have shown a few short weeks earlier and it set his heart tripping. Her hair slid over his skin, following the path of her fingers and he closed his eyes, absorbing the feel of the silky strands as they moved over his left cheek. Then he felt her lips, soft and warm, kissing him, shaping his firm muscles right before her teeth nipped daringly.
He laughed softly and caught her arm, bringing her around to the front of him, locking her there, her back to his front so they were both looking out over their property. “It’s so beautiful, Flambé. The difference you’ve made not only to our land, but to me, to our home, defies all logic. I had no idea one woman could change my life the way you have.”
“I haven’t done much in the house, Sevastyan,” she admitted, rubbing her chin on his forearm. “I just am not the best interior designer. I’ve been considering bringing various plants into the house. We’ve got the room. The ceilings are extremely high and the lighting is perfect. It’s good for the air. You’ve already got a few, but I think we could use more.”
There was a little anxious note in her voice that surprised him. She still wasn’t sure of herself when it came to ascertaining ownership with him.
“Babe, I told you to do whatever makes you happy. This is your home too. I put a ring on your finger. That’s what I cared about and you let me. I get all the sex I want, when I want, how I want. Our outdoor property is amazing. My woman is gorgeous and she indulges me.”
“She can’t cook.”
“You cook.”
She burst out laughing. “Is that what you call it? Honey, your cooking is a million times better than mine.”
“I heat up what the chef leaves us.”
“I burned up what the chef left us the last three times.”
He kissed the top of her head, wrapping his arms more securely around her. “That may have had something to do with you being tied up in ropes.”
“But I forgot to tell you I had something in the oven. I was a little too enthusiastic. What if I’d burned down the house?”
“The smoke alarms did their job.” Amusement burst through him the way it did most of the time now when he was with her. Or maybe it was pure joy. He couldn’t remember wanting to laugh before; now, it seemed, he was happy more often than not, and he attributed that to the woman who had taught him how to have fun.
“I suppose they did.”
“And you haven’t made the same mistake again since I tied you so beautifully in the corner of the kitchen, facing the stove . . .”
“And the window,” she groused, “telling me I was to learn my lesson.”
“Red rope again,” he pointed out. “Beautiful diamond pattern, the harness framed your incredible breasts. I’m very fond of your breasts.”
“As I recall, you spent time playing when you were supposed to be working,” she pointed out, pretending to be pouting.
“That’s only because you’re such a temptation.” There was no remorse. “I want to tie you in the garden tonight with the full moon shining down on your red hair.” He swept his hand through it. “It might take a little time for what I’ve got in mind, but it will be beautiful. It will leave marks on your skin, but nowhere you can’t cover up and only for a couple of days. It’s the kind of tie that will make me wild and very out of control for you. I’m just going to warn you, baby. I’m going to play for a while and tease you until you catch up with me and then I’m fucking you hard. You up for that?”
Her hand went up to his wrist and then rubbed up his arm. “I’m always up for that, Sevastyan.”
He could practically hear her purr.
“After, we’ll have to let the leopards out. Shturm can’t go without Flamme any longer than I can go without you. If I deprive him, he gets edgy and moody.”
She burst out laughing. “Believe me, Sevastyan, I’m well aware.”
He turned her in his arms and found her mouth with his. Gently. Tenderly. Loving her. Giving her that because once they walked out to their garden of paradise, he knew it was going to be hot, wild and savage, the way they both could get when they showed each other their feral side.
He lifted his head and cupped the side of her face, looking down into her eyes. “You know I love you. No matter how we come together, Flambé, you know I love you, right? You’re my world.”
She leaned into him, tilting her head back, her gaze meeting his steadily. “I know you love me, Sevastyan. I love you more than you could possibly know. I love when we’re wild and crazy and I love when we’re gentle now. Before, that was what scared me, because I could feel the emotion. Now I feel the love no matter how we come together.”
He bent his head and took her mouth again. This time he wasn’t quite as gentle.
Keep reading for an excerpt from
RECKLESS ROAD
The next novel in the Torpedo Ink series
by Christine Feehan
Available February 2021 from Jove
FOG churned over the ocean, the wind blowing the roiling mass over the highway, turning the silvery night a dark, angry gray. Wisps curled around the truck as Gedeon “Player” Lazaroff maneuvered one of the severely tight curves on Highway 1 along the northern California coast. He was familiar with the highway, but most of the time he rode his Harley and had his brothers riding with him. In some ways he was thankful they weren’t with him, but he would have welcomed the comfort of their company.
The dark gray mist thickened so it seemed an impenetrable wall and he slowed down, although he was so close to home his inclination was to step on the gas to get there faster. He was nearly desperate to make it back to the Torpedo Ink clubhouse and the solace of the room he used there. He owned a house and normally would have gone there, but at this point, he didn’t have the time. The clubhou
se was much closer and the longer he was out in public, even in the seclusion of the truck, the more dangerous it was. He knew that and he had vowed never to take chances with anyone’s life again.
The cell played Master’s short tune, announcing a call, and Player hesitated, swearing under his breath. Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his face. He wiped at it with his palm before hitting the Bluetooth. Cell phone service was spotty at best on Highway 1 and he hoped it wouldn’t work. Naturally, he wasn’t that lucky.
“Yeah?” He was abrupt. Off-putting. Hoping Master would get the hint.
“You okay? Where are you?”
“About four miles from home.” Deliberately he hadn’t distinguished between the clubhouse and his residence.
There was a small silence. Four miles from home meant Player had been pushing hard. Far too hard. Risking trouble. Already, they’d broken the rules by separating. Torpedo Ink members stayed close. When running a mission, they paired up, eyes on one another at all times. They’d gotten into unforeseen trouble and Player needed to get home fast. Master wasn’t able to drive as fast. He carried an unexpected passenger with him and Player couldn’t risk being in close proximity with her, not in his present state of mind, although he’d only told Master he was feeling very sick and needed to get home.
Master had to drive the passenger’s vehicle home anyway, so it had all worked out for the best. They’d reported to Czar and let him know Player was coming in early without Master, and Master was bringing in “baggage.”
“Tell me,” Master insisted.
“Fog rolled in.”
“Pull over. I’ll send someone to you.”
“I’m close. I can make it. Just one of my damn headaches.” Player poured confidence into his voice, ignoring the way the road seemed to be coming alive with the fog wrapping it in loops and whorls like smoke from a pipe. “Less than four miles now.” He shook his head, trying to clear it. All that did was rattle his already hurting brain. He clenched his teeth against the pain.
“You sure? Go to the clubhouse, it’s closer.”
“Yeah. Good idea. I can make it.” He could. There was no one with him. He was good. Just make it into the yard. Park the truck. Get to his room and lie down. His head was pounding. It felt like his brain was coming apart. He had made it home a day early, so that was a good thing. “I can make it no problem,” he reiterated, trying to pour confidence into his voice.
Blue and red cut through the gray veil of fog in the rear-view mirror, and he cursed silently as he looked down at the speedometer. Shit. Speeding. He could have sworn he’d slowed down. Hadn’t he? He couldn’t remember now. He was sweating bullets.
“Gotta go, Master, you’re breaking up anyway.” He needed to concentrate. He dropped the connection before Master could protest.
They had run what was supposed to be an easy assignment, trailing a couple of “Ghosts” that Code, their computer genius had uncovered. Find out where the two were going, which motorcycle clubs they were targeting next. Easy, right? Torpedo Ink wanted to know who they were.
The “Ghosts” turned out to be businessmen who had been preying on weaker members of the various outlaw motorcycle clubs, specifically those members who gambled, getting them in deep and then making certain that they gave up information on the clubs running drugs, guns or trafficking in return for getting out of debt. The Ghosts wanted cuts into those particular businesses.
When the clubs reacted negatively, they had the presidents’ old lady kidnapped, raped and tortured until the club complied or she was returned dead and another woman was taken. The Ghosts had a particularly vicious group of hitmen doing their dirty work for them.
Player’s club, Torpedo Ink, had rescued two women belonging to separate MC clubs from the hitmen the Ghosts kept on retainer. In both cases, Torpedo Ink had been hired secretly so no one associated them with the rescues. The larger clubs didn’t want it known that they had gone outside their club looking for help. Torpedo Ink didn’t want it known that they had helped. They were a small club and they wanted to stay under the radar, from law enforcement, other clubs and definitely the Ghosts.
The Ghosts kept themselves out of the line of fire, hiring hitmen to do their dirty work and infiltrate the clubs for them. That’s why they called themselves Ghosts. They believed no one could ever trace them. They didn’t know about men like Code who were that good with computers and could track just about anyone.
Player took his foot off the gas and eased the truck to the side of the road, watching the sheriff pull in behind him. He was two lousy miles from the Caspar turnoff and the clubhouse. Two miles. In his present state it was dangerous to have any interaction with any other human being. That had been the reason he’d separated himself from Master. Being safe. Making certain everyone was safe. Now this, all because he wasn’t paying attention. He knew better.
He hit the back of his head against the seat twice in recrimination and fished his license out of his wallet. Transporter and Mechanic, fellow members of the Torpedo Ink club, always kept the vehicles in the best of shape, the paperwork up-to-date and in the glove compartments. He had no doubt everything was in order, but he was so tired he wasn’t certain if the truck was clean of any weapons. He just couldn’t remember if he’d given everything to Master or if he’d kept guns with him.
He was exhausted, seventy-two hours without sleep, and he’d used his psychic gift for far too long, something he knew better than to do. It not only drained him and took a huge toll physically and mentally on him, but if he used it for too long, it began to spill over into his reality. That was the main reason he had pushed so hard to make it back to his home. He needed to be where he was surrounded by familiar things and he could replenish his strength and allow his fractured brain time to recover.
He’d always kept that side effect from his fellow Torpedo Ink members. They thought he would get a migraine and Alice’s Adventures Wonderland characters would appear. It would be funny and they would all get a laugh. They had no idea how truly serious and fucked up that reality could get, or how it could really morph into something far, far more dangerous.
He buzzed down his window and shut off the truck as the deputy walked up to his vehicle. He recognized him right away. Jackson Deveau was a good cop, but one difficult, if not impossible, to misdirect. Just his luck. Player’s head was pounding so bad his stomach began to twist into knots. He glanced around the truck hoping like hell everything was in place and there were no weapons in sight. He had a carry permit, but it was best to not make any waves—especially with Jackson.
“Player,” Jackson greeted as he took the license, his dark eyes moving over Player’s face, seeing too much like he always did. “You all right?”
It was never good to try to deceive Jackson if you didn’t have to. The members of Torpedo Ink suspected he was a human lie detector. He just seemed to be too good at figuring everything out.
“Feel like shit. Was trying to get home and didn’t realize I was speeding until I saw your lights. Sorry man.” He resisted rubbing his pounding temples. “Do you need the registration and insurance? The truck is registered to Torpedo Ink and the insurance is up-to-date. Czar’s going to kick my ass for this.”
Jackson handed him back his license. “I have to see the papers, Player.”
Player reached over and opened the glove compartment, noting that Jackson’s gaze followed the movement, one hand out of sight, probably near his weapon. Jackson didn’t take chances, not even with the people he knew and actually liked. It was always difficult to tell with Jackson whether or not Torpedo Ink was included with those he liked. The cop’s expression gave very little away.
Player handed over the registration and insurance and gave in to rubbing his temples. He didn’t want to look too long at Jackson or the fog that was drifting in off the ocean. He’d been creating illusions longer than he should have been and no
w those edges were blurring with reality. More than once, when he was tired, his mind had played tricks on him and he couldn’t separate reality from the worlds he created. People had gotten hurt. Several had died. He didn’t take chances. He worked on that all the time, and he knew when he needed to shut it down, which was more than twenty-four hours ago.
“Thought you always ran with a partner.” Jackson said it casually as he carefully inspected the paperwork.
Player cursed silently. His heart was beating too fast. Behind the sheriff, a large caterpillar floated in the air, smoking a giant blue-green hookah. Big rings of smoke curled around the truck. Around Jackson. Player began to count in his head. Numbers. Repeating them over and over. The caterpillar began to puff in time to his counting, the smoke coming out in the shapes of his numbers at first and then those rings began to morph into letters of the alphabet.
“Master picked up a passenger in New Mexico. I got sick and couldn’t wait for them, so I hit it for home.”
Little beads of sweat trickled down his face. There was no stopping it. The smoke letters tilted first one way and then the other, rocking as if in tune to music. He realized he was tapping a beat on the steering wheel as he often did, in keeping with counting in his head.
“Really sorry about speeding, Jackson, must have started inchin’ up on the gas when I got closer to the turnoff without realizing it.”
The letters drifted by Jackson’s head. Spelling words. Death to the guards. Off with his head. Player closed his eyes, but the vision stayed in his mind, refusing to leave, the fog becoming smoke swirling around the truck and closing off the road so even when he opened his eyes, it was difficult to see anything but the smoking caterpillar, Jackson, the wall of gray and those taunting letters that grew in length and width, filling the sky above the sheriff as if condemning him.
Player forced air through his lungs as the smoke from the hookah began to swirl in time to his tapping fingers, the fog rings dropping like nooses around sheriff’s neck. Abruptly, he forced his hands away from the steering wheel. He used music to soothe his brain but it was all part of the fracturing now. He had to get out of there before he hurt Jackson.
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