Archetype (9 page)

D
eclan takes one look at me and chuckles. “Don’t painters wear smocks or something?”

I do not laugh. There is nothing funny about the yellow paint on my white shirt. It is a reminder of how betrayed I am by the simpleton. I never should have left my supplies in the lounge.

I stand from the bed. “Can we leave? I am ready to go.”

A crease appears between his eyes and he steps farther into the room I have not left since Dr. Travista walked me out of the lounge with his pointless apologies. “Have you been crying?”

I fold my arms. “I got a little upset.”

“I’m going to go talk to Arthur for a few minutes. Can you sit tight until I get back?”

It is not like he is giving me a choice, so I sit and turn away.

Only seconds pass before Dr. Travista’s voice echoes in the hall. “Declan. I didn’t expect you for a couple hours.”

“What happened?” His tone is almost accusing. Protective.

The doctor stands in the doorway and frowns in my direction. “Ruby happened. We had an incident while Emma and I were in session. Her paintings were . . . redecorated.”

“She ruined them,” I spit out without hesitation. Anger reignites a fire in my chest and I bite my lip to thwart any further words.

Declan nods and releases a sigh. “I see.”

A wayward tear slips down my cheek. They do not understand and I cannot explain it to them. I will not even bother trying. “I want to go home,” I say. “Can I go home?”

“Yes, of course,” Dr. Travista says. “Whenever Declan is ready.”

“Any reason I need to stay?” Declan asks.

The doctor takes a few moments to respond. “No, I don’t think so. We can talk tomorrow.”

Declan nods and reaches out a hand for me. “Let’s go, love.”

I let him walk me to the transportation bay and do not hesitate to enter the tube this time. I want out of this place where nothing is mine. Nothing is sacred. No one can be trusted.

Declan watches me carefully before entering the port number into the projected keypad. “You’re upset.”

“That is an understatement.”

Spearmint wafts around us, deadening our vocal cords, and his response freezes in his throat.

Until we appear in the house. “Emma—”

I push out of the tube and head for the bedroom. I want to seal the door behind me, but I do not want to anger him. So I stand in front of the closet with my back to him, his gaze scorching me from the doorway.

“I cannot explain why I am so upset,” I say, barely turning my head. “I just am.”

“She destroyed your paintings. You should be upset. It’s only natural. What can I do?”

If only it were the paintings I was so upset about. Paintings I can re-create but will not for the sake of his distaste for my beaches. The beaches were precious to me, and though a few remain untouched, each was a link to the next. Now my link is cracked. Ruby’s foreign footprints mar the sand. She touched my world. My private world.

“I do not know what I need,” I say with a resigned sigh. “Other than a shirt, I suppose. I have ruined this one.” I finger the hem. “I am sorry about that. I will be more careful in the future.”

“I don’t care about the clothes.” He comes to stand behind me, and his hands move over my shoulders and upper arms in a soothing way. “Did you run today?”

“No. I was too upset.”

“Then you will run before dinner,” he says simply. “You need an outlet for your frustration.”

He is right. I should have done that first thing. “Where will I run?” I do not want to go back to the hospital tonight.

He opens a drawer and lays clothes on the bed for me. “Put these on.”

He then opens another drawer and pulls out more clothes. Turning his back to me, he proceeds to undo his tie and remove his suit. He is placing it on a hanger before I strip out of my shirt. He has kept his back to me, but I am still nervous that he is in the room. He does not seem to hold the same reservations, because he strips down to his boxer briefs and I have to bite down on my tongue. His body is amazing.

I turn my back to him, my stomach aflutter, but the image of his back and taut butt have been branded in my mind. He is all lean muscle, his back creased down the middle, and long dimples over the curves of his backside. With each movement of his arms, the lines of muscle over his shoulder blades appear. His shoulders themselves are round and grooved in muscle and I remember how good they felt the night we almost had sex.

I am dressed when Declan brings forth a light jacket made of the same light material as my outfit. He holds it while I push my arms through.

“Ready?” he asks. He is dressed for exercise, too.

I nod, trying to ignore the shoulders peeking out of his sleeveless shirt.

We are back in the teleporter tube and he keys in a port number that takes us to someplace I have never been. It is a basketball court. To our left is another room encased in glass. Exercise equipment fills the space beyond.

“This is my private gym,” he says, stepping out. He points up to a level above us. It looks like a narrow walkway that spans all four walls. “The track is there.” He points to my right. “Stairs will take you up.” He points to the glass-encased room. “I’ll be there.”

I am about to go to the stairs when he raises a finger for me to wait. “I almost forgot. I got you something. Arthur says you like music when you run.”

This is such a recent development that I really had not given it much thought. “Yes.”

He jogs over to a table and lifts a pair of wristbands and two other small devices from it. He pins one device over his ear on the way back, then pins the other to mine. It pinches slightly, but the earpiece slides into my ear and the fit will not jostle when I move. He then slides the thin band over my wrist. The controls are on the inside of my wrist, and a song title slides across the top of the screen, ready for me to press
PLAY
.

“At the top of the music menu is a
CALL
button,” he says. “If you want to call me for a leisurely chat,” he adds with a wry smirk. “Or if you just need to get my attention. I play my music pretty loud.”

I am in awe over the trouble he goes to for me. “You think of everything.”

He laughs. “I seriously doubt that.”

I push up on my toes and grab him by the neck to pull his head down. I kiss him softly, letting the moment linger, and when I pull away, the space between us is practically nonexistent.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

His smile quirks up on one end. “It’s just music.”

“It is more than music.”

He kisses me on the space just between my eyebrows. “Go run.” He leaves me, holding lightly to my fingers until the last possible second.

I take the stairs up and find the second floor is no more than a track. No doors and no windows. Overhead are steel girders and fluorescent lighting. The ventilation system pushes cool air along the track, which is too cold right now but will be perfect once I get going.

A
click
in my ear startles me and Declan’s voice comes through the earpiece. “Emma?”

I flip my wrist and tap
ANSWER
on the wristband. I peer over the railing and find Declan standing inside the doorway of his exercise room. “Yes?”

“I love you.” He sounds the most serious I have ever heard him. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

Now, that,
She says,
I believe.

 • • • 

We are covered in sweat and smiling when we return to the house. Declan was right about a run relieving me of my frustrations. I am still very upset with Ruby, but I understand now how I must not blame her for what happened. She does not understand her own name, let alone the property of others.

As for my paintings, I am upset over a lost connection to something that is not real. That beach and the man there do not exist. Like Her, they are a figment of my imagination. How can it be real?

Declan said himself that men do not brand themselves. I have only to look at my own hand to know I am not the woman on the beach. It is not my life. Not my past. Not my future. Only a dream. Just like the woman Adrienne who floats in a tank. Just like Foster and Toni and all the other dreams She shows me about a girl named Wade. It is all a manipulation with a purpose I have yet to decipher.

Declan is real. This home he has given to me is real. I will focus on that.

Declan shoves me playfully toward the bedroom. “You can shower first. You smell the worst.”

I gape at him. “I do not. And I really think that is physically impossible.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Showering?”

I giggle. “Smelling worse than you. You can go first. I will wait.”

He swallows hard, walking backward toward the room. “There is another solution, you know.”

“And that would be?”

“We could shower together.”

The idea of showering together turns my heart into a jackhammer.

No, you can’t,
She says.
He calls it a solution. I call it a mistake. That’s what he’s offering you. A really big mistake. You can’t uncross this t or undot this i.

This does not concern you,
I tell Her.
You did not mind the idea of sex when we were in the hospital.

That incident ended precisely when it needed to. This is different.

You are right. It is. I want to do this.

She has no response, so I simply nod and let Declan lead me into the bedroom.

D
eclan kicks off his shoes at the foot of the bed and so do I. His eyes barely meet mine, and I take some comfort in the fact that maybe he is nervous, too. He disappears into the bathroom, and a heartbeat later, the shower starts. The sound is like an electric shock to my heart. Declan appears in the doorway, shirtless. He leans a smooth shoulder into the arched frame and folds his arms. Forget the electric shock to my heart. The sight of him like this—covered in sweat and curved in more muscle than is
ever
necessary—jolts my entire core.

“Emma . . .” His voice trails off and he drops his gaze. “Take your time,” he says and turns back into the bathroom.

The shower doors thump against each other a moment later, and the sound sets my feet in motion.

The shower’s glass has a layer of steam coating it, turning Declan into an opaque version of himself. His back is to me, both hands running over his head under the shower spray. The clean, almost sweet scent of shampoo fills the room. Heavy smacks of water intermingle with softer sprays as he moves, his body slick with water.

I slide out of my clothes, taking deep breaths. He will make this okay. He will not hurt me.

I take both handles in my hands and slide the doors apart. They are silent, as if sliding on air instead of metal. The movement alerts him to my presence, but he does not turn around. His head turns only slightly and his shoulders lift with his next intake of breath.

Declan edges aside. “Come here.”

He guides me around him and places me under the spray. I tilt my head back and wait for the kiss that will start it all, but instead, he puts all his attention into washing my hair. While his fingers massage my scalp, I memorize the way water drips from the end of his nose and beads on his face. I watch his chest expand with each measured inhalation, and the drumming of the pulse in his neck.

His gaze lowers to meet mine and his smile is soft. His dark hair looks heavy and black from its recent wash. A thick strand falls forward and the tip grazes his cheekbone. I reach up and brush it aside, then let my fingers linger and trail his cheekbone and chin.

He turns his mouth into my palm and kisses it gently before moving my hand back to my side. I am confused until I realize he is reaching for a body sponge and coats it with a vanilla-scented wash. Now when he washes me, he does not follow his movements. I wonder if he is afraid to look at me. Regardless, I do not know if I am ready for him to.

The sponge slows over my breasts, and my breath quickens. My body is on fire and my mouth a desert. My insides are molten and aching with the most pleasurable pain.

I reach forward with shaking fingers, finding his abdomen with their tips. His muscles draw in taut under my touch and his breath catches. The hitching sound is almost inaudible over the spray hitting my back. Water trails over his skin and I move my fingers up against its current, over ridges and smooth plains of muscle. It is not until my hands reach his collarbone that he draws in a shaky breath.

I lay my fingers over the quickened pulse in his neck. “Are you nervous?” I ask.

“Of course I am,” he says, his tone husky in a way that leaves me breathless. “Being touched by you—being able to touch you—” He stops abruptly and slides a hand over my cheek. His thumb gently outlines my lower lip. Raw desire fills his eyes, which are turning a fiery shade of green. But not only desire—tenderness. Love. “I have no words to describe this,” he says finally.

My heart spins wildly in my chest, and the heat in my belly rises in dangerous tides, threatening to roll me under, and I grow dizzy, but a good dizzy.

I slide my hands behind his neck and up, clutching his damp hair in my fingers. I have only to rise on my tiptoes to meet his mouth halfway. He tastes of warm, clean water, and his skin is akin to the flame of my own.

Our skin meets and a delicious shudder takes my breath. I press into him and mold with my pliable bones and raw nerve endings. His palms flatten across my back, and we are so close, I truly believe I might slip right into his skin. And yet we are not nearly close enough.

“Make love to me,” I whisper over his mouth and can hardly believe I found the nerve.

The water shuts off and I am swiftly off my feet and carried through the bathroom. His mouth glances over my neck, his nose brushes my ear. Hot, humid breaths send waves of goose bumps over my wet skin. Yet the fire inside me rages on, and I expect steam to rise from my skin any second now.

There is no concern for the carpet or comforter as we drip water over everything. He lays me down with such care, as if I am delicate china, and hovers over me a moment later. My skin begs for him to touch me again.

His chest heaves and his eyes smolder through dark lashes as they look into mine. Dripping strands of his hair hang forward and I reach up to push them back. This time, when my fingers trail over his cheekbone and his lips press into my palm, he does not push my hand away. His eyes close and his mouth slides down to my wrist. His lips are smooth and his skin is a coarse contrast of beard shadow. My skin tingles and burns in the wake of his kiss.

When he opens his eyes a heartbeat later, the hunger in them is sharp but controlled. “I need to look at you,” he says and he is not asking.

This whole time his gaze has never traveled low enough to see me, really see me, giving me some small amount of privacy. Just the idea of his gaze rolling over me is fuel to my fire. My teeth press into my lower lip until all feeling is gone and I nod.

His gaze drops to my lips. “Roll over,” he whispers, and I do.

He does not touch me for so long, and if it were not for the acute awareness of him, I would almost forget he is there. It is as if my skin can sense him, which direction, how close or far. So when his hands slide up the sides of my hips to my waist, I am not surprised but am finally able to take a long-needed breath. His palms are hot on my skin, his mouth and tongue in the dip of my back smoldering. The trail he places over my spine calls up my flame, speaking its language.
Burn,
it says.
Need.
And, oh, how I need. Ache.
Melt.

His fingers move up my back, tracing agonizingly slowly over every curve and angle. His lips brush over my ear. “Turn over.”

My body is so alive at this point that I cannot imagine surviving his touch. I am a live wire. His gaze on my breasts alone is as good as a simple touch. I arch up slightly as if he has pulled some string, his eyes reeling me in.

His fingers hover, trembling, over my breastbone for several thumping heartbeats, before skimming over my skin. The trail between my breasts is hot on its way to where he widens and splays his palm over my stomach. The tips of his fingers press gently into my skin and his mouth falls desperately to my breast. My breath hitches at this new sensation. Where my skin was tender before, my nipples are a million times that. He suckles and grazes his teeth over them, drawing moans of pleasure from me.

I thread my fingers into his hair, holding him to me until I can no longer take it. I find the strength to pull him free and up. His mouth falls on mine, tasting of the tang of skin. His lips force mine apart with a new desperation in our kiss. Something deep and primal and nowhere enough to sate our needs.

His knees nudge my thighs apart. If I could breathe, I would whimper or sigh with relief. I no longer fear this; the need is too much for this trivial feeling. His gaze dances over my face, watching me carefully before sliding inside.

The shock of this sensation takes my breath. I knew nothing of heat until now.
Nothing.
With each gliding inch of him, shock wave after shock wave of heat envelops me. I cannot breathe, and only the weight of his gaze keeps me from floating into this sensation.

When he is as deep as he can possibly go, he holds very still, mouth parted, shoulders bunched and corded with muscle over me. Neither of us exchanges a single breath. Time is frozen, yet I am writhing in flames.

“Don’t move,” he whispers.

His palm eases over my hip and thigh. Fingers press behind my knee and pull my leg up and back. He rests my calf over his shoulder, opening me up further so he can sink deeper. And deeper is where he goes. I cry out and arch up. A shudder drives over him and he holds again, filling me, eyes closed.

“Declan,” I whimper, desperate for him to feed this insatiable hunger building in me.

“Shhh . . . Not yet.”

His kiss paints the underside of my chin. His tongue dips into the lines of my neck. And still he does not move out of me.

He tortures me with this pleasure, and when he slides away, there is no relief because then I am empty of him. I am in agony, burning. The need for him returns me to the mindless woman I was months ago who knew nothing of the world. I am no more than tissue, blood, and bone. And
need.
Oh God, the need. The hunger. The pain of needing him to fill me, the torture of pleasure when he finally does.

A smile shapes his lips and he watches me intently as if memorizing my face. Soaking in the details of each mask I wear, the creations he himself helps forge. I watch his as well, wondering if my expression is as open as his. If my desire is as clear.

I know one thing for certain; I will never again see Declan as honest as he is in this moment.

My fingers trace over this raw honesty, this desire,
his
need. I grasp his face and pull his mouth down over mine. His lips are oxygen to my fire, and suddenly I cannot take it anymore. I buck up against him and he is too surprised to stop me. He rolls to his back and I grind my hips down against him. His head tilts back into the pillow under him and a moan of pleasure passes his swollen lips, sounding very much like my name.

He is still swimming in this sensation when I pull up again. I tighten my muscles over the head of his erection and slide down slowly this time.

“Oh God,” he says, his eyes rolling up, fingers kneading into my hips.

I do this again and his arms tighten around me impatiently. I am suddenly on my back again. He rocks into me with a new purpose, a new drive, a new goal.

“Come,” he says breathily, his gaze boring into me. “Come for me.”

He does not need to tell me to because I am already there. The eruption is too much to take in silence, yet I cannot catch my breath to scream as I need to. Declan rides into the shuddering waves of my body until I am raw and tender and then holds me to him until his own climax peaks. He does not scream out, either, but is red and breathless. His jaw clenches tight, as do his eyes, and when he is finally capable of breath, he collapses over me.

It is a full minute before he pushes away and kisses me. The hunger and longing and need are all gone. What remains is far sweeter.

“How are you?” he asks.

I bite my lip and smile. Now that it is over, my nerves are back on high alert and I am all too aware of how he lies spent and pulsing gently inside me. “Perfect.”

He grins and the sea in his eyes is alight. “Are you blushing?”

I turn my face away and try to hide behind my hands. He removes them before they can rest.

“You’re beautiful when you blush,” he says and kisses the tip of my nose.

“Too bad I cannot blush on command. I would do it simply for the compliments.”

“I’ve been working hard to give you all this and all you needed were compliments?” He laughs. “Why didn’t you say so? Would have saved me a lot of trouble.”

I cup his face and kiss him. “All I need is you.” I stop and consider something else to add. “And dinner. I am starving.”