Night In A Waste Land (Hell Theory Book 2)

by Lauren Gilley

  She cried for Frankie, and his inherent sweetness, his insistence on befriending her; cried for his lost arm, and his newfound, well-deserved happiness – bought with flesh and blood, and a stern man’s too-late self-awareness.

  She cried for the Rift, for the constant rain, and the unending battle. For the innocents displaced, and killed, and tortured.

  Cried for Lance, who loved her though he shouldn’t, who’d been kind to her when he hadn’t needed to be.

  And she cried for herself. For her shriveled, broken heart, and all the grace she’d lost along the way – if indeed she’d ever had any to start with.

  She cried until her eyes were dry, and gritty, and her sinuses were swollen, and she felt like a boil that had been lanced – the word play there brought a quick, cold smile to her lips, one he must have felt against his chest, because he said, “Better?”

  She sat back, slowly, reluctant to meet his gaze – but when she did, he only looked at her worriedly, softly – still, after everything, with great fondness.

  She didn’t deserve him.

  “I’m sorry.” She wiped at the tear tracks she’d left on his chest. “That was stupid.”

  “It was normal. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I grabbed you by the dick and told you to just put it in me when you were trying to be good to me,” she argued.

  He snorted. “Oh no. How will I survive?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I. I know you’re not done grieving him.” His smile managed to be wry and supportive at the same time. “You probably never will be, and that’s okay. I understand.”

  She lifted her brows.

  “I understand better than you want to give me credit for. But. It’s okay. This is what I was afraid of.” He cupped her cheek, and wiped the tears there with his thumb. “I didn’t want to push you if you weren’t in the right headspace for this.”

  “But that’s just it: I think I am, now.”

  He cocked his head to a questioning angle.

  “Keeping my walls up. Isolating myself – being, frankly, a bitch to you – hasn’t made anything better.”

  His thumb made another pass across her cheek, his throat working as he swallowed.

  “You’re a good man, Lance.”

  His eyes widened.

  “And I…I hope I didn’t ruin things between us. Tonight.”

  “No. Never.” He leaned in and kissed her. Softly, chastely. “Let’s get some sleep.”

  She started to offer to leave and go back to her own room, but his arm was still snug around her, and the thought of pulling away from him left a physical ache in her chest. She nodded instead, and let him stretch them both out and pull the blanket over them; shivered gladly, because the sweat was starting to dry. He reached up to the wall and switched off the lights, plunging them into a dark broken only by the soft glow of the security light up in the corner.

  She settled in on her side, facing him, and the arm across her waist felt sheltering, rather than restraining. She’d thought she’d lay awake, questioning, feeling guilty – but sleep came quick, blessed oblivion.

  ~*~

  It was a common occurrence to wake in the middle of the night – but she was usually alone when it happened. This time, she opened her eyes to the dark, to the faint glow of a night light slanting across a bit of unfamiliar wall: a calendar she didn’t recognize tacked up to the concrete. Woke to the heft of a large arm across her waist, and the heat of a body against her back.

  In the first moment of awareness, she thought, Beck. But the shape of him was all wrong, as was the scent of sheets, and sex, and skin. Comforting, yes, but not Beck.

  Lance, instead.

  She let out a slow breath and settled into the knowledge. Found that she didn’t hate it; it didn’t fill her with longing. The grief was still there, because it always would be, but it was compact and containable, bundled up in the back of her conscience. Now she was alone in the dark with someone else – someone good, and kind, and sexy, who cared for her. And she was sore in all the right places, deliciously languid, and everything was alright. For now.

  She hadn’t thought she’d made any noise, but Lance stirred behind her. Let out a deep, tired – but awake – breath against the back of her neck that left her shivering pleasantly. His arm tightened a fraction, hand pressing flat to her stomach. “You okay?”

  She laid her hand over his; felt the faint, steady bump of his pulse through the veins that laced the back of it. “Yeah,” she said, and meant it.

  They lay like that, fitted together like spoons, for a few long, quiet moments. It didn’t feel awkward, like she’d expected. Fucking had been an admission and a necessary crescendo of tensions all at once. There was no pretending now that they weren’t attracted, that there wasn’t some caring on both sides – though she suspected more on his than on hers. Still. It felt like an accord had been settled. Felt like it was okay when she started to trace the backs of his fingers with the tips of her own.

  “What you said before,” she broached, “about next time…”

  He thought a beat, and then snorted against the back of her head, his breath ruffling her hair. “I shoulda known.” His voice was different like this, freshly awake; rough and throaty in a way that made it hard to concentrate on what he was saying.

  She twisted around, still under his arm, so she lay on her back and could look up at him, his hand sliding to fit into the inward flare of her waist. The nightlight’s glow caught the edge of his nose, his cheekbones, the curve of his lower lip; shone faintly in his eyes. “Should have known what?”

  He teeth gleamed white when he grinned. “What is it they say about it always being the quiet ones? You’re already asking about the next round?”

  She punched him in the shoulder, which was like hitting a brick wall.

  He laughed. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” He shifted over her, hand tightening subtly at her waist, and his voice shifted into an even lower gear, smoky and full of promise. “You won’t hear me complain.”

  “You say that now,” she muttered, before he kissed her.

  It was unhurried this time. After coming together once, they already knew that they could, that it was good, and they could take their time, now – just as he’d promised he would, hours before.

  Heat kindled in her belly, but Rose followed his lead, gladly.

  He explored her mouth, alternating bold, deep strokes of his tongue with gentle teases of his lips against hers. He was playing with her, his fingers strumming lightly over her ribs like guitar strings, and he was damn good at it.

  Her contentedness quickly turned to impatience, as heat and tension built in the pit of her stomach. She pressed her thighs together, and strained upward into the next kiss; caught his lower lip between her teeth.

  He chuckled against her mouth and pulled back far enough to say, “Holy shit, I was kidding before, but it really is the quiet ones, huh?”

  “Asshole,” she accused, without heat.

  His grin was a wide, glittering slice in the shadows. He kissed her again, harder, nipping at her lip in return on the pull-back. “Here. Turn over.”

  The way he said it, the way her belly clenched in response, left her wanting to comply immediately. But she said, “Why?”

  “Just do it.” He patted her hip. “I know what I’m doing, trust me.”

  She rolled her eyes theatrically – but turned over onto her stomach. “You don’t strike me as the creative type.”

  His hands smoothed up her back, thumbs digging at the tension beneath her shoulder blades a moment. “Well, I’ll take that as a chance to prove you wrong about something.”

  “That’s not a challenge: don’t get too creative.”

  He chuckled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  He spent a few long minutes giving her a back massage. A good one, actually. Despite the size of his hands, his touch was precise, and he applied just the right amount of pressure. He quickly had all
her muscles unlocked, until she went limp, and thought she might melt right down through the mattress, or fall asleep again.

  Then his touch shifted lower. He kneaded at her lower back, where she carried tension after the end of an op; where she ached after too many hours on her feet.

  “Oh,” she breathed out, as his thumbs pressed hard into the twin dimples there.

  “Good?” he asked.

  “Yeah – yeah, that’s good.”

  “Good.” He sounded almost smug, and his thumbs pressed again, and then circled outward in expanding loops, the pressure firm.

  Her muscles relaxed – but she could feel her ass and thighs flexing; feel her sex growing tender and wet. Goosebumps broke out across her skin. If he would only go a little lower…

  He smoothed his palms down to cover her ass. Cupped it, squeezed it.

  Pleasure speared through her, and she opened her legs wider. Fuck it, she thought, let him get as creative as he wanted to.

  He didn’t go further, though. Kneaded and shaped her for long moments, alternating firm squeezes with feather-light touches, until she was squirming and grinding against the mattress, seeking friction for her throbbing clit.

  “You like this,” he observed.

  She was too turned on for a proper retort. Only panted, “Yes,” and ground down hard, wetter, needier.

  When he gripped her hips, and urged her up onto her knees, she went gladly, arching her back automatically, seeking more.

  “Christ,” he whispered. He petted her hips, her waist, and down her thighs, outside – and finally inside, teasing at her wet sex with only his fingertips when he reached it, before gliding his hands back down again.

  “Oh, you’re mean,” she protested, surprised by the quiet laugh that built in her throat. She liked sex – loved it, really – but it hadn’t ever left her laughing before. Not like this.

  “Sorry, baby, but I’m about to get even meaner.”

  Baby. That was okay. That was – good, even.

  She took a quick breath, an unbidden reaction, and he must have heard it, if the tightening of his hands on her waist was any indication. The mattress dipped as he shifted in closer, the sheets rustling. She felt him crowd in behind her, the brush of his thighs against her ass, and she clenched in anticipation.

  But he was being mean, he said. Meaner. Teasing, still. She had the sense of his weight covering her; felt the heat of his breath before he kissed her spine. Soft and chaste, but it had her toes curling.

  He worked his way up every vertebra, dropping a kiss on each, his breath hot and humid against her skin, his lips only flirting. By the time he buried his face in her nape, he was curled completely over her, his chest to her back, and she could feel his cock, thick and hard against the inside of her thigh.

  “Lance,” she breathed out, unsteadily. She couldn’t believe how wildly turned on she was from so little contact.

  “Hm,” he hummed, nosing at her hair. He braced one hand on the mattress beside her own, and palmed her breast with the other. “What was that?”

  Ass, she thought, but fondly, and pressed back against his hips, trying to entice him to move faster.

  He inhaled, chest swelling against her back, but he continued to pet her almost leisurely. Weighing and shaping both of her hanging breasts in turn, plucking at her nipples until she squirmed and ground her ass into his hips.

  “Lance,” she tried again.

  His movements were deliberate and controlled, but his voice was anything but when he spoke. “I know, I know,” he murmured, and he kissed his way down the side of her neck to her shoulder. His hand smoothed between her breasts, down her breastbone and belly. Down, down, until he reached her sex. “You wet for me?”

  “Yes.” She widened her stance, knees sliding on the sheet, so he could feel the evidence for himself.

  He cursed, softly, when he touched her. His fingers parted wet folds, and he wasn’t teasing anymore, it seemed, sliding right in with one finger and setting up a rhythm, thrusting it in and out.

  Rose chased it, rocking forward and back, dropping down onto her elbows for leverage.

  “Are you good to go?” he asked, voice wrecked.

  “Yes. Come on.”

  His hand withdrew, and he crowded in close behind her. Gripped her hip tight with one hand, and she knew the other he used to guide his cock, because she felt its blunt pressure at her entrance, and then he was pushing in, all in one go, one long, thorough thrust that left her gasping.

  He didn’t make her wait. His other hand found her hip, and he pulled back, and thrust forward again. Again. Slow, but deep, steady, grinding that last scant fraction each time he bottomed out; so deep she felt each motion in her gut, in the base of her throat. She dropped her forehead to the mattress and moved with him, chasing the slow, relentless mounting of pleasure as he rode her.

  It was delicious: hard, thorough thrusts that drove her steadily toward orgasm, the friction and heat and the slap of his hips against her ass perfection all on their own, with the promise of even better to follow. So much better than the mad, frantic tangle of earlier.

  “I’m close,” she managed, when she was.

  “Me, too,” he gritted out. Then he pitched forward, one hand braced beside her, and reached around to touch her clit while his hips continued to thrust, hard and short kicks now.

  The pleasure spiked – peaked – orgasm rolled through her like thunder, all electric flashes and deep pulses. She slumped down to the bed; was dimly aware of Lance pulling out, and of his harsh breaths, and of the hot spray on her back as he came all over her.

  He stretched out beside her with a groan, hand landing in the middle of the mess he’d left on her spine. “Damn. I’ll get a washcloth.”

  “In a second,” she said, turning her face toward him, seeking–

  He kissed her, just as she’d wanted, heated, and lazy, and with too much tongue. Rested their foreheads together, after.

  Sleep claimed her for the second time that night, and the mess was tomorrow’s problem.

  NINE

  The Present

  Rose heard the door squeal open behind her, and then the sound of footfalls – a heavy, booted tread. Everyone here wore boots, but she knew this particular gait. Knew it well.

  She sighed to herself.

  “Where’d he go?” Lance asked, drawing up beside her.

  “Into the city.” She nodded toward the lights – toward the stretch of gray, cloudy sky she’d been watching for at least ten minutes: the last place she’d seen Beck as he winged away from her, his silhouette like a condor, black against the charcoal and dust of the cloud cover.

  “He what?” Lance asked, sharply. “Shit, did he – did he fly?” He sounded disbelieving, like he hadn’t seen the wings for himself.

  “Yeah. I told him they were going to prep a helo for us, and he said there was no need.”

  Lance huffed a shocked, angry breath. “The nerve of…did he even have a weapon? A radio? He’s not wearing body armor.”

  She turned her head to regard her lover – one of her lovers, she supposed with an unpleasant twist in her gut. Lance stared out across the wasteland between the airport and the blurred lights of the city, brows drawn sharply together, jaw clenched. He had a smudge on his cheek, some bit of soot off a glove, or his own sleeve, maybe from the plane.

  He was so unhappy. So worried. And holding all of it in – or, most of it.

  She reached out to brush the smudge away with her thumb.

  His head snapped toward her. “What are you doing?”

  Her fingertips hovered just above his skin; she’d captured part of the smudge with her thumb, but a shadow of it remained. “You’ve got something.” She gestured to her own face with her free hand. “But if you don’t want me to touch you…?” She let the question hang, vaguely sick to have even asked it. She knew that this had been hard on Lance, she truly did, and she’d meant to pull him aside, speak to him privately, and make sure that he was alr
ight, but things had been moving at a breakneck pace ever since Bedlam gave them the all-clear to depart for Wales. She felt like she hadn’t taken a proper breath in days.

  His gaze lingered on her face a moment, poorly-disguised hurt shining in his dark eyes, before he turned away with a snort. “More like you don’t want to touch me.”

  “I never said anything like that.” She had so much patience with him now, when she never had before. Beck was the thing that kept her kind and courteous, she thought. Her conscience – an assertion that would have left Beck laughing, eyes and canines flashing.

  His mouth pulled sideways in a poor attempt at a smile, one edged starkly with bitterness. “What would you need to touch me for? Now that you’ve got him back.”

  “Lance–”

  “I’m surprised you’re still here, honestly. That you convinced him to come work with us. I thought you two would just go running off into the wilderness of Wales, never to be seen again.”

  “Lance,” she said again, as gently as she could. “If you really thought that, why did you help me bring him back?”

  His eyes cut toward her – unwillingly, she thought – and when he swallowed, it looked painful. “Because I want you to be happy.”

  She closed the small distance between her fingers and his face, cupped the hard line of his jaw. “Lance.”

  “And I didn’t think you ever would be as long as he was gone.”

  “I’m sorry.” It felt wholly inadequate, but she didn’t know what else to say. “I’m so sorry.”

  He made another go at a smile, a sad failure. “I can’t exactly blame you for the breakup when I helped you get there, can I?”

  “But I’m not breaking up with you.”

  His brows went up, expression mocking. “You’re not? What, you’re gonna date me, and tell the love of your life ‘thanks, but no thanks, I found somebody else’?”

  “I’m not–”

  A sharp fwap, like the closing of an umbrella, and a showering of cold water droplets was their only warning before Beck dropped down to stand in front of them, shaking rainwater off his wings and then folding them neatly so they lay down his back like a cape.