Forgotten Sea (12 page)

“ I want to have sex with you.”

Lara released her breath, oddly relieved now that they’d acknowledged the elephant in the room.

“It is important for you to be open about sex
,
”
  Miriam had told her in counseling.
“To be honest about how you
feel. 
Shame and fear breed in secrecy.”

But outside of her required therapy sessions, Lara never talked about what had been done to her thirteen years ago. Not to earnest Jacob, her one sexual partner at Rockhaven, and never, ever to Simon.

Openness was obviously not a problem for Iestyn.

Probably sex wasn’t either.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Thankful? Resentful? Intrigued. She angled her chin, testing her reaction, watching his. “That’s it? That’s your pickup line?”

He grinned at her, all charm, easy and unthreatening. “You think it needs work?”

Her pulse quickened. “I think you can do better.”

He strolled forward, all lean grace and golden eyes like a hunting cat. Her stomach fluttered. Not, she thought, with fear.

“Let’s see,” he murmured and bent his head. His breath was warm, his mouth firm and persuasive. His lips rubbed and withdrew, pressed and lingered, teasing, tempting, gentle. She closed her eyes, absorbing the flavor and the tenderness of his kiss, feeling her breath go and her knees turn to water.

More warmth. More pressure. Her heart soared, beating in her chest, and yet he did not touch her with anything but his mouth and one hand, cupping the back of her head. His thumb stroked her jaw, and she opened for him, taking his scent deep in her lungs, his tongue inside her mouth.

Too much. Too fast. She was drowning in sensation.

Suffocating.

But even as she stiffened, Iestyn eased away. He kissed her lightly on the tip of her nose, on the arch of her eyebrow.

“There’s an all-night Wal-Mart two blocks away,” he murmured against her hair.

She opened her eyes, struggling for a light tone. “Are you asking me on a date?”

His silent laughter brushed her cheek. “If this was a date, I’d buy you flowers, not a change of clothes. What size shoe do you wear?”

His consideration shook her. “You want to buy me clothes.”

“Actually, I’m good with you naked. But you might appreciate something clean after your shower.”

She was dying to shower, desperate to scrub away the smell of smoke. But . . . “You’re going now?”

 “Or I could stay and scrub your back.”

The invitation was there, the intent was there, gleaming in his golden eyes, but softened with humor, leashed by his will .

She shivered with nerves and desire, her gaze slipping from his. “No, thanks.”

He frowned, misunderstanding the reason for her trembling.

Or perhaps understanding too well. “You don’t mind being left alone?”

Memory slammed into her.
The cheap room. The sound
of
footsteps stumbling down the hall. Her heart pounding
as
she hid under the bed. “Angel, I’m back.”

She swallowed a whimper. Straightened her spine. “Sometimes I prefer it.”

“We’re out of the way here,” Iestyn said. “Second-floor corner unit. And the door double locks.”

She nodded wordlessly.

He frowned. “Unless locks don’t work against demons.”

She pulled herself together. “I can set simple wards. I’m not afraid of demons.”
Only ghosts.
“Anyway, it’s highly unlikely they followed us here.”

“They found us before.”

“Because we used magic. Power attracts them.”

“Like shit draws flies.”

She scowled. “Don’t you take anything seriously?”

“Yeah. Your safety.” He rubbed his stubbled jaw. “How do you know they won’t burn the place down while I’m gone?”

His protectiveness warmed her. “They don’t usually attack so openly. First, because they won’t risk attracting Heaven’s attention. And second, because they can’t assemble that much energy in so short a space of time. Most of the time they must borrow other matter—other bodies.”

“Like in the alley.”

She hugged her arms. “Yes.”

He searched her face. Apparently what he saw satisfied him, because he gave a short nod. Stooping, he unstrapped the dive knife from his ankle and offered it to her, hilt first.

She recoiled slightly. “That’s yours.”

“I’m loaning it to you. You need it more than I do.”

“But I just told you—”

“That you’re safe from demons, yeah, I know. Hell, a knife’s probably no good against demons anyway.”

“Actually, fire needs oxygen to survive,” she said seriously.

“If you cut the body’s airway, the demon must leave its host or die.”

“Good to know.” He offered the blade again. “Take it.”

“Why?”

“For the same reason you gave it to me back in the cellar.”

She stared at him, confused.

He closed his fingers over hers on the hilt. “To remind you you’re not alone.”

* * *

Lara grabbed the tiny bottle of shampoo, averting her eyes from the coin-operated condom dispenser on the wall above the toilet. She pushed open the mildewed shower curtain and winced.
Yuck.
Maybe she should wear her wet sneakers into the tub? But then they would never dry by morning. She wasn’t that confident of Iestyn’s ability to return with shoes.

He would return. She
was
sure of that. And when he did . . .

She shivered and cranked on the shower.

At least the water was hot. She stood under the scalding spray, letting it pound her scalp and sink to her bones, flaying herself with the cheap washcloth as if she could scrub away her memories.

 “Sex is not that big a deal with us,”
she’d told him. “Why are you making such an issue of this?”

A chill chased down her back despite the hot spray.

That’s what you get for lying.
Sex was an issue for her, too. Had been an issue. She wasn’t a victim anymore.

And maybe, with him, sex would be different. Easier. When she was with him, she felt different. Lying with him on the riverbank, she’d felt warm and eager and unafraid.

Something unfurled inside her as she remembered. Her nipples tightened. A flush rose in her skin to match the heat of the water. Shutting off the shower, she reached for a towel.

He was gone long enough for the flush to fade, for her nipples to pucker again with cold. She checked her rudimentary wards: a taw traced in the dirt of the window, another scratched in the paint above the door, two crossed lines like a hilted sword. But until Iestyn came back, she had nothing to do. She paced the narrow space before the dresser, wrapped in a skimpy, scratchy towel, her hair in wet strands down her back, trying not to think. When the knock came, she flew to the peephole.

Iestyn stood on the landing outside, his hands full of plastic bags. She tugged open the door and then hung back, suddenly conscious of her nakedness under the towel.

His eyes darkened at the sight of her, but all he said was, “There’s a comb in one of the bags. I’m going to clean up.”

There was a comb, she discovered, investigating as he disappeared into the bathroom. And a brush. Canvas sneakers—size eight—jeans, a couple of tops, a zippered hoodie, and a multipack of cotton panties. But no bra. No nightshirt. She dug into another bag and found more T-shirts, men’s size large.

She glanced at the closed bathroom door before dropping her towel.

Ripping open the plastic, she yanked on one of the large T-shirts, layering the hoodie over it for good measure. The mirrored wall told her she looked ridiculous, her long bare legs poking out from under the white shirt and bulky navy fleece. But at least she was warm. She pulled a face. And her nipples were covered.

The last bag held toiletries: toothbrushes, a razor, a tube of antiseptic cream. She frowned over the last, squinting to read the label.

The bathroom door opened. Iestyn emerged, lanky and golden in a cloud of steam like a seraph streaming from Heaven. The towel slung low around his hips was every bit as small as hers had been.

She jerked her gaze up. And widened her eyes in dismay.

“Impressive.”

He grinned. “Thank you.”

She bit her lower lip. “I meant your throat.” She stepped closer to get a better look.

Red stripes seared his neck just under the cord. The skin around the lampwork bead looked even worse, cracked white edges around a scarlet burn.

She reached to touch him, to heal him, and he caught her fingers. Her nerve endings sparked. Her blood hummed and quickened.

“No magic,” he said. “I don’t want any demons finding us tonight.”

“But you’re hurt,” she protested. His neck looked almost abraded, raw and angry.

He shrugged. “I bought some stuff to put on it.”

She remembered the tube of antibiotic ointment in her hand. “Let me.”

Using their linked hands, she drew him to the bed. He sat on the edge of the mattress, and she moved between his thighs, his knees on either side of her legs, his bare feet flanking hers.

She sucked in her breath, acutely conscious of his difference, his size, his maleness, his . . . toes. His toes were webbed.

Her hand shook.

“I feel better already,” he murmured close to her breasts.

Heat climbed her neck and into her face. “Hold still,” she ordered, although he hadn’t moved.

She smoothed ointment into the crease of his neck, feathered it around his stitches and the awful sore in the hollow of his throat. His skin was very warm. Damp hair the color of oiled oak, gold and brown and bronze, fell into his face. He smelled like shampoo and something else, something musky and masculine. She felt his coiled stillness, the rigidity of his muscles, before he turned his head and kissed the tender inside of her arm.

His jaw was rough, his lips velvet. Sensation tightened her breasts. He made a sound, a growl, low in his throat and looked up.

Her breath caught at the hungry, knowing look in his eyes.

She pressed her thighs together.

Holding her gaze, he stroked her breasts with his fingertips, learning her by feel like a blind man reading Braille.

Her heart pounded. When his exploring fingers found her taut peaks, he smiled and pinched gently.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, still watching her face.

She closed her eyes, unable to bear the heat in his eyes, the excitement of his touch, any longer. His stubble rasped against her T-shirt. She felt his warm breath on the inside curve of her breast, and then his mouth replaced his fingers as he suckled her through the cloth.

She arched, clutching at his shoulders, his hair, careful of his head wound. The damp strands slipped like wet silk through her fingers. Pleasure flamed in the tips of her breasts, kindled like fire in her belly at the tug of his mouth, hot, wet, insistent.

His arms came around her to bring her closer, one large hand sliding from the small of her back to the swell of her bottom, down the back of her thigh and up again under the T-shirt. She sucked in her breath as his flesh met her naked flesh, as his warm, calloused hand spanned her buttocks.

Her legs trembled.

He nuzzled the underside of her breast, biting softly.

Her eyes opened in alarm and delight. The fire inside her grew, licking between her legs.

Yet a small, rational part of her mind floated apart like an observer in a corner of the room. She watched in the mirror as he widened his legs, drawing her in between them.

His towel parted. She felt the brush of his body hair on her thighs, the nudge of his erection, hot satin over stone.

She gasped as he leaned back, lying against the bed, taking her down with him. Her legs sprawled. Her hands scrambled for support.
Motel bedspread
, her mind observed.
Not
very sanitary.
Maybe she should pull back the covers . . .

He adjusted her firmly against him, cupping, stroking, his erection lodged solidly against her belly. Her brain shut off.

He brought her head down for another kiss, his mouth lush and wide, rubbing, searching. She was open to him, wet and open, her knees on the towel, her thighs straddling his hot flanks, he was
there
, thick and inescapable.
He’s
very
large
, her mind pointed out worriedly, but her body didn’t care, her body wanted his, wanted all the things he was doing to her with his hands, with his mouth.

Until he rolled with her, pressing her back into the mattress. She stiffened automatically, her brain returning to her body with a
whoosh
.

She gritted her teeth, managing not to freak out at his weight heavy between her thighs.
This is Iestyn
, she reminded herself, focusing on his face. She wanted him, or she had until a moment ago.
Just relax.

But she couldn’t relax. She couldn’t breathe. She wasn’t in control of him or her own body, and that scared her more than anything.

“I can’t do this,” she said tightly.

He kissed her neck. “Sure we can.”

“No, I
can’t
.” A trickle of panic traced down her spine. She shoved at his shoulder. “Let me up.”

He rolled instantly to one side. She bolted upright, sitting on the side of the bed, panting and humiliated.

“Sorry.” She couldn’t look at him. “I guess I overreacted again.”

“It’s okay,” he said, although she knew it wasn’t. “Want to tell  me what’s going on?”

She snuck a look at him, lying propped on one elbow, his warm golden gaze fixed on her face. He was being nice. Somehow that made her feel even worse. “It’s not you,” she felt compelled to say. “It’s me.”

He laughed. “Kiss of death, honey. Right up there with, I hope we can still be friends.”

She flushed. Smiled. “You must think I’m being stupid.”

“No.” His tone was thoughtful. Despite his laid-back pose, she got the impression he wasn’t really relaxed at all. 

Maybe the fact that he was still fully erect was a clue. “I think you’ve been hurt. Who hurt you, Lara?”

She shook her head.
“It is important for you to be open
about sex,”
Miriam’s voice replayed in her mind, but the doctor wasn’t the one faced with explaining to another hot, nice, sexy guy how damaged she was.