Judgment Road

by Christine Feehan

  "Understood," he agreed.

  EIGHTEEN

  "I've been thinking about ways you can comfortably have me touching you when you want me to," Anya said softly. She got up and stretched, arms overhead, her body beautiful there in the moonlight spilling through the windows. "I've been giving it some thought for some time, long before this, when I first realized you didn't want to have sex facing each other and you didn't want my hands on you." She took a breath and kept her back to him, looking at him through the reflection in the window. "Or my mouth."

  "I always want your hands or mouth on me, Anya," Reaper admitted softly. "I think about it constantly. I'm always hard." His hand dropped to the front of his jeans and he rubbed over the bulge at the crotch. "Can't look at you or think about you without getting this way, baby. You're so fuckin' beautiful. Inside and out. I want your hands on me, but the idea of me hurting you is so strong, I don't see how that's going to happen."

  "When you were telling me about Tawny putting her hands on you, you kept saying you were upset because she wasn't me. You didn't say you wanted to hurt her because no one could touch your body. You said because she wasn't me. You said it more than once, Reaper."

  Anya needed to touch him right then far more than she'd ever needed to before. She wanted her hands on him, showing him she loved him. Caring for him after all the trauma. She wanted to reassure him--and herself--that they would find a way. That they were worth fighting for. Reaper was more into a physical, hard and fast cementing of their relationship. She was thinking slow. Easy. Take her time.

  "I did? It's the same thing." He rubbed at his eyes again.

  She knew he was hurting. His body aching, reacting to the trauma. She wanted to word what she had to say carefully. She didn't want him to think she was going to keep at him, but she had several ideas on how she could touch him to both of their satisfaction. If she blurted that out, he'd think she was still reprimanding him for not coming to her first. She'd said her piece on that. He'd suffered more needless trauma, put a woman's life in jeopardy and nearly lost her. That was consequence enough.

  "It's not the same thing, honey." She kicked off her shoes and walked across the room to the corner where she'd rolled up the blankets he'd slept in the night before. There was going to be no more of that. She felt as if she'd run a marathon, and she couldn't imagine how he was feeling. "I think there's a huge difference, and we'll get around to that in a little while. Right now, I want to get you relaxed so you can sleep. Do you want a shower?"

  He stared at her a long time before he nodded. She nearly sagged with relief, but she forced a smile. "Good. I'm going to get things ready here and then I'll take my shower."

  "What are you planning, Anya?"

  He sounded wary. She couldn't blame him, but she wasn't going to have him so wound up and worried about her ideas that he couldn't relax. "Not a thing, honey. Go shower. It's late, and we both need to just let our minds go blank for a while. I'm showering down here, so you can have the master bathroom."

  "Babe, the master kicks ass. I consider it yours."

  "I consider it ours and I want you to have it tonight. Take your time." She needed time to mentally prepare herself. Her idea had come slowly, before Ice, Storm and her man had come up with their seriously idiotic plan to "cure" Reaper. There was no cure. She hadn't known what she was dealing with, but even then, when she realized he had a problem with her putting her hands--or mouth--on his cock, she'd begun to think of ways to make it happen.

  Leslee, the woman she'd first met out at the Egg Taking Station, was a massage therapist. She was good at her work and proud of it. She'd talked about her work when they'd first met and then again when they were in her truck riding out to the Egg Taking Station. Lana mentioned that Blythe owned a gym, that she'd recently bought it, but that her work was mainly in massage therapy. That both women did therapy through massage got her thinking about whether or not something like that would help Reaper get used to her hands on his body.

  She set out to read about it. And ask questions over the phone of both Leslee and Blythe. Not questions so they could figure out what she was using it for, just saying she wanted to surprise Reaper with a really good massage. Leslee had offered to show her. So had Blythe. She hadn't had time to avail herself of the opportunity, but she'd studied techniques on YouTube and read about them in books.

  Anya relaxed into the hot water pouring over her. She hadn't realized she was so stiff. Every muscle seemed locked and tight, like giant knots. She couldn't imagine how Reaper felt after all he'd been through. She should have told him she was working out an idea. She was every bit as guilty as she accused Reaper of being with her lack of communication. She knew just giving him massages wouldn't solve all their problems, but she just wanted the building blocks, even small little stepping-stones to help.

  She hoped Czar and Blythe had some suggestions as well. She was well aware the members of Torpedo Ink would never go to a therapist, but they would trust whatever Blythe said, and she had access to all kinds of therapists. If she didn't know them, she knew people who did. Blythe was fighting for all of them. Anya knew Czar's wife had to feel like she was battling uphill and alone some of the time, and she was determined to join her.

  She toweled off the droplets of water and then tamed her hair, drying it, which she rarely did, and then braiding it before pulling on her favorite shirt--Reaper's flannel. She left it unbuttoned and didn't bother with panties. Her massage was supposed to be intimate. Sensual. She wanted that for him.

  Anya had been angry at Ice and Storm, but she realized they were victims of trauma just as Reaper was. They hadn't had the education or the experiences of most people so they solved their problems within the limited experience they did have. She would always have to remember that and make allowances for them. She had to be more like Blythe and try to gently guide them in the right directions.

  They were men. Intelligent men. Traumatized men. They were also very good at what they did, and what they did was kill enemies. They fought. Had sex. Fought more. Took jobs that risked their lives, but they remained a closed society. She could be a part of that and one they listened to, or she would have to leave.

  She wanted Reaper. She found she also wanted the rest of them. She lit candles. Lots of them. Groups of citrus-smelling candles. A few vanilla. Mostly soft essentials because when she'd asked, Leslee'd said most men didn't like florals but were good with citrus. She wanted Reaper as comfortable as possible.

  The room was ready for him when he came down the stairs. As usual, he was deliciously naked. Sometimes, she thought he was more comfortable out of clothes than in them. He always walked with confidence. Gliding. So fluid. She couldn't help but watch him as he came right into the room, looking around him, and then his gaze flicked to her.

  "Why are you wearing clothes?"

  Of course he would ask about the clothes and not about the candles or the way she'd set up the bed.

  She waved toward the blankets, taking a step back as he was coming at her aggressively. With purpose. "I'm going to give you a massage."

  He stopped in his tracks. Ran a hand through his hair. "Baby."

  "Yes." She pointed to the blankets, trying to look confident when inside she was shaking. "The point isn't sex. We're not having sex. This isn't about that. You know my body, Reaper, but you don't know my hands. I'm going to start giving you massages. If they don't work, we'll stop, but in the meantime, you might actually like them."

  "Baby."

  "You said that already." She tilted her head and deliberately challenged him. "You said you were willing to do anything, to try anything. Try this."

  "I could hurt you."

  "You're naked, honey. No weapons."

  He stepped closer. Right into her space, forcing her to tilt her head just that little bit, which intimidated her. "Anya, I am a weapon."

  "Then lie facedown, your hands under your head. If you start to get squirrely, you just have to say something."

&n
bsp; He stared down into her face for a long time. Long enough to give butterflies a chance to take off, wings brushing like mad against her stomach. One hand came up to cup the side of her face. His thumb slid over her lips. "You're something else, Anya. I don't know what I ever did that allowed you to walk into my life."

  He took a breath and abruptly did as she asked, lay facedown in the middle of the blankets, his head resting on his arms. His face was turned to the side so he could watch her.

  She straddled his back and lowered herself slowly, giving him time to get used to the idea of her weight on him. The oil was special, something Blythe had gotten from a woman named Hannah Drake Harrington. She was the wife of the local sheriff, but she made all kinds of special soaps, oils, and bath salts, along with natural healing lotions. This oil was not only good for the skin, but edible. Sometimes, according to Blythe, that was necessary in a good massage with one's man.

  "I haven't had time to learn a lot of techniques," she admitted, feeling a little nervous as she poured the oil into her hands. The bottle had been sitting in hot water to warm it. "But I think you'll like this. And it will get you so you know how my hands feel on your skin. If you know my touch, hopefully, as years go by, even in your sleep, you'll recognize the difference between my hands and someone else's."

  "Is that what you think?"

  She put her hands very gently on his neck and began to rub, fingers digging into the tight muscles she found there. "It's what I hope. It may never happen, but think of all the great massages you'll get night after night."

  His body had been tense, but as her hands and fingers worked the muscles of his neck, she felt him begin to relax.

  "Gotta admit, baby, that feels fuckin' great."

  Anya couldn't help but smile. It was a relief that he hadn't thrown her halfway across the room. Hearing what he'd told her about his life had been hard, and it had taken a lot of courage to continue with the plan she'd devised over the last two weeks.

  "You've got great hands, Anya," he murmured a few minutes later when she was working the muscles of his back.

  "I'm glad you like it, Reaper. Just close your eyes, honey, listen to the music and drift. I want you to always associate my hands with something good. Something positive."

  "Something beautiful," he added. "You're so fuckin' beautiful, Anya."

  His voice turned her heart over. She knew he wasn't talking about her looks. He liked the way she looked, but it was really about so much more. She'd never had the kind of compliments Reaper gave her.

  She worked her way slowly down his back, exploring the muscles in between his ribs, trying to do what the massage therapist in the video had done. She was getting nervous again as she approached his buttocks. She was sliding over him, sitting on the backs of his thighs, her heart pounding.

  "You feeling good, Reaper?"

  There was the tiniest of hesitations. Her heart sank. "We can stop, if you need me to," she whispered. "Seriously, I'm so proud of you and pleased that you let me get this far. I loved it, and I feel like I've mapped out your back. I loved having the chance to explore."

  She'd taken her time, worshiping every muscle, recording every scar in her mind. She'd kissed those scars. Licked over them, tracing them with her tongue as well as her fingers. She'd claimed them. Claimed his back. She was patient, she could wait to claim the rest of him.

  "I'm feeling very good, Anya. My dick is so fuckin' hard it hurts. You put your hands on my ass and start working it the way you did my back, my cock, for sure, is going to be cuttin' a hole in the floor."

  She couldn't help but smile. "I'm going to put my hands on you now, and I want you to feel me. Know it's me, Reaper. Know I'm just making you feel good." She massaged the small of his back, tracing the roots of the tree that was tattooed on his back. The piles of skulls rolling among the roots. So many. Some of the roots had grown through the skulls. "Tell me about this tattoo." She wanted him a little distracted. She kept kneading his muscles, her hands moving lower, beginning a deep tissue massage as best she could on his buttocks. He was tight, very tight, sculpted, as if an artist had designed him with loving care.

  "That trunk is Czar, holding us together. Seventeen branches, the seventeen survivors. Crows represent the ones that didn't make it. Our loved ones are there, the ones we couldn't save. So many we couldn't tatt that many birds on us. Skulls are the fuckers we killed to survive. Or to avenge the fallen. The others are the ones we had to take for our country or to save someone. Ink's going to have to tatt a few more on there for me."

  His voice was gruff as he explained. She looked at that tattoo with new eyes. It was the same as the patch he wore on his jacket.

  "Why Torpedo Ink?" She was really massaging him now, fingers digging deep, her hands all over his butt. He wasn't fighting her. He wasn't tense. He hadn't once tried to jerk away. So many scars. His buttocks, the back of his thighs. She couldn't resist kissing them.

  "We were kids when we called ourselves that. The name grew up with us, as did the tree. Ink tatted us, and he's damn good. Torpedo is used for hit man. We were all raised to be just that. You send us after someone and we lock on like a torpedo and stay locked on until the job is done. We thought we were clever to use INK instead of INC. You have to remember we were in our teens when we thought that shit up."

  He groaned as her hands moved to his lower thighs, just under his buttocks. "You're fuckin' killin' me, baby. Seriously. I'm going to come all over the blankets. Gotta turn over."

  She slid off him immediately. She loved the sexy, gravelly note in his voice, the one that told her he was about to take command of the situation, but she didn't want him taking over. Not yet. She had one more thing to try.

  With another groan Reaper turned over. His cock was thick and hard, raised along his stomach, and there were drops of pearly white all along the velvety head. She forced her gaze from that delicious treat and began working on his legs, fingers digging into tight muscles. She could feel his eyes on her. Both his hands went to his cock, fisting there.

  "You like this," she said softly, keeping her attention on what she was doing.

  "Yeah, baby, you could say I like this."

  "You like my hands on you."

  "I have to admit, I do."

  She moved up his leg to his thigh. "That's good, Reaper. I'm hoping if I can do this most nights before you go to sleep, you'll eventually get so used to me touching you, that even if you never let another adult put their hands on you, you'll crave mine." She glanced up at him from under her lashes, a small smile on her face because that idea really was her goal. "I see you're really enjoying this."

  "Come up here. I'm going to have you sit on me."

  Her heart stuttered. She wanted that, but she wanted something else more. "I have another idea, Reaper. I'd like you to let me try."

  "Tell me." His voice was low. Sexy. Full of sin.

  He wanted her and he was going to have her. She knew that because she wanted him just as much, if not more. How could she touch him, all those scars down his back, the burns and whip marks on his buttocks. Down the backs of his thighs. The burns on his inner thighs. He'd been beaten front and back. How could she touch all that, and not want every inch of him? He was hers. She didn't necessarily want him able to stand any other person's touch. Or their lips or their mouth.

  She scooted up his legs, straddling him, settling over his thighs. She poured more oil into her palms. "I'm going to put my hands on your shaft, make a tight fist, and you're going to put your hands around mine so you're controlling everything. But I get to touch you, and you'll feel my hands on you for the first time. If you hate it, you just take my hands away. If you like it, you control the action. If you want my mouth on you, you control that too. I'm going to turn all control over to you."

  He studied her face for a long time. Too long. Her heart began to pound. He was so beautiful lying there, his hands fisting his cock, his body laid out beneath her, so perfect, so scarred, his mind so damaged. She'd
thought him broken, but he wasn't. He hadn't let them do that to him. Damaged, yes, broken no.

  "All right, baby. If you have that kind of courage, the kind that will face a monster, I have to have it too. You fuckin' terrify me, woman."

  Anya smiled at him, trying to convey confidence. Her heart hammered at her, so loud she was afraid he could hear, but she didn't hesitate. She held out her hands. He curled his around hers.

  "Look at me, baby. Keep looking at me. I need that."

  She couldn't have looked away. His blue gaze was locked on her, just like the torpedo he described. His hands took hers and brought them to his cock. She curled her fingers around his shaft. Velvet over steel. He felt beautiful. Hot. Hard. His body shuddered under her, but his gaze didn't waver and his hands tightened around hers, forcing her fist to tighten around his shaft. He pumped. Slowly at first, the warm oil making it easy to slide up and down. She wanted to memorize every part of him. That part of him.

  "Anya." He breathed her name. "You're a fuckin' miracle."

  "I was thinking the same of you," she admitted.

  He threw his head back, exposing his throat, but his eyes stayed on hers. "Now, baby. Look at us." Very slowly, almost reluctantly, his gaze slid away from hers, dropping lower.

  She did the same. Her breath caught in her throat. Her hands surrounded his cock. Fisted him. His hands guided hers. Each pull, the slide of that smooth, hot velvet had her sex clenching. Her inner muscles spasming. Needing.

  "You're touching me and I want it, Anya. I want to feel your hands on me like this. I didn't know it would feel like this. So good."

  "Thank you for taking the chance with me," she whispered. "If I never get the chance again, I'll always remember this." She would. Straddling him, sitting on his thighs, face-to-face, her shirt open, breasts heaving with every panting breath, her hands tight around his cock, feeling that thick, hard length sliding through the oil in her palms. She loved that his hands surrounded hers, holding her fists tightly around him. That felt . . . intimate. More intimate than if she'd been giving him a hand job on her own.

  One of his hands came up to her hair, fisted at the back. Tightly. His fingers next to her skull. There was a small bite of pain she barely noticed because her eyes were on the beauty of that broad head sliding through her fists. It was gorgeous. Temptation.