West of Want (Hearts of the Anemoi) (9 page)

Ella sucked in a breath, closed her eyes, and pressed her head backward into the water to comply with his request.

His fingers traced her features and drew that odd static sensation over her face. “Okay,” he said a little louder.

Breaking the surface, she let out her breath, and found she could think more clearly than before, as if a cottony fog had disappeared from her brain. Was she imagining the difference or did this mean the cleansing was working? She blinked and clenched her eyes, the salt stinging as if she’d been swimming in the ocean. Soft terry pressed against her brow, her eyes, her mouth.

“Thank you,” she said. It was like he could read her needs. His caring attention added another layer to her growing arousal. It wasn’t just his physical perfection to which her body responded.

Chanting the prayer again, he repeated the same process as on her back side. The light that shone from his palms was softer than the one that had healed her this morning, or maybe that was the impact of the water or the mid-day sun coming through the slanted blinds. Over her neck, shoulders, down the length of her arms and hands and back up, across her chest. “I must touch you here,” he said in a low voice, hands hovering over her breasts.

“I understand,” she said.

And then he was touching her, cupping the swells of her breasts, palming her nipples. God, his hands were so big, so warm, and felt so right on her. The little moan she unleashed mortified her, but she’d been powerless to hold it in. If he made her feel this way when he wasn’t even trying to seduce her, she could only imagine…

His hands smoothed around the underside of her breasts, then back up to the middle. Supporting her weight in the water, his right hand pressed firmly against her heart. Lingered there. “We are doing it, Ella. Your heart already beats lighter, freer.”

He needn’t have told her. The tightness in her chest receded, making it easier to draw a deep breath, and her heart rate calmed. Again, he was healing her. “Thank you,” she said in a shaky voice.

He shook his head. “Don’t thank me. None of this would be necessary if I’d left you alone.”

Ella shot into a sitting position. Water splashed over his arms, onto the golden skin of his chest. “Don’t say that.”

Zeph’s expression turned surprised, but Ella couldn’t stand the idea of never having met him. Not that she knew him, or understood exactly what was going on. But the rightness of his presence here? She felt that. Bone deep. “It’s just…I’m
glad
I met you.”

Zeph stared but remained silent, like he didn’t know what to do with her declaration. The words were soft when they finally came. “Why? I’ve caused you nothing but trouble.”

Ella drew a wet picture against the tub’s edge with her finger. “I can’t tell you the last time I felt this alive. I may be confused and mystified and curious as all hell, but I’m also engaged and interested and eager. And those are things…I haven’t felt this way…” She got tangled in emotions, in memories. She swallowed around the knot in her throat. “Like I said, I’m just glad, is all.”

His wet knuckles caressed her cheekbone, her jaw. “In truth, so am I.”

Ella smiled, absorbing the warm impact of his admission.

Zeph retained his serious façade. “We should finish this,” he whispered.

“Right.” She reclined.

His hands smoothed over her belly, her hips, the top of her pubic hair. Ella fought the instinct to part her legs. Was he going to have to touch her there?
Jesus
. Probably. She couldn’t look at Zeph, didn’t want him to see the desire she felt. But he leapfrogged to her thighs, and, ridiculously, disappointment swamped her.

“I will have to touch you there, too,” he murmured.

Her gaze whipped to him, but he was looking away, watching his hands, chanting the prayer in low tones. He caressed her feet, the sensation almost as good as a foot massage. She bit back a threatening moan.

Fingers tapped against the insides of her ankles. “Open,” he commanded, his voice a rough scrape.

Ella swallowed hard and spread her legs.

His big hands caressed upwards, carrying that strange, wonderful tingle over her skin as he went. Ella’s heartbeat took off at a sprint, anticipating his touch. There. She could feel his approaching heat, the hint of the energy. In that moment, every nerve ending in her body seemed to congregate between her thighs. She held her breath.
Oh, just do it already! Do it!

With one big hand, he palmed her mound. Didn’t move. Didn’t rub. Didn’t stroke. Which was good, in a way, because she was certain the slightest movement would make her come.

She bit down on the inside of her cheek, fighting the rising swell of sensation, the congregating pressure, the instinctual need to rock her hips. One half of her brain begged him to stop touching her, the other side pleaded for more. The debate raged within, adding to the feeling she was going to split wide apart.

His hand left her.

She gasped, then moaned out loud. The sound didn’t embarrass her this time because she wanted him too much.

“Good gods,” he growled, then heaved her out of the tub. Water rained off her body, over him, over the floor. Carrying her, he sidestepped them into the shower and turned on the water. Cold to start, it heated to a just tolerable lukewarm. He lowered her feet. She stood, wobbly at first, but steadier after a moment. The good thing about the shower, it hid how loud she was panting. For him.

A rustling of fabric behind her caught her attention, and she didn’t turn to look, because she knew. He’d taken his jeans off. Her imagination went wild. He was magnificent from the waist up—cut stomach, taut chest, broad shoulders, arms so muscular the veins popped. No way the scenery on the bottom half was any less impressive. If she let her eyes confirm the details, she’d be done for. All over him. Any pretense that this was just about removing bad magic would go right down the drain.

Wet denim slapped against the floor. The door slid shut.

Instinctively, Ella felt Zeph’s presence behind her. Looming. Promising to touch.

Her mind resisted what her body wanted. Ella didn’t do this. She was analytical and levelheaded. While she enjoyed adventure, she wasn’t a risk taker and she wasn’t a by-the-seat-of-her-pants kind of woman. These were traits developed through sailing, traits that made her a good sailor. Recent debacle notwithstanding.

“Almost done now, Ella,” he whispered against her neck. His lips skimmed under her ear. The action was just a brush, not a full kiss, but it ignited the blood in her veins just the same. She tilted her head away, exposing her throat to him, inviting more. Fingers stroked her, from jaw to collarbone. “You are so lovely. I could touch you forever.”

She sagged back against him and gasped. He was completely naked. And fully aroused.
Oh, my God
.

He grunted and froze. “Ella, Ella,” he rasped. “We’ll never finish this if you do that.” He retreated enough to part their skin where they’d touched below the waist.

“Sorry,” she whispered. But she wasn’t. Not in the least. In fact, it took all her willpower not to grind back against him. Maybe it didn’t make sense. After all, she’d only known him a few hours, days if you wanted to be generous and count the times they’d talked in the hospital. But what she wanted, it didn’t feel like sex with a random stranger. It felt deep and meaningful and right. And, God, did she want it. Want him.

Zeph reached around her and grabbed the bottle of shampoo, poured a dollop in his palm. He washed her hair, a mix of relaxing scalp massages and gentle, circling scrubs. When he was done, she turned and tilted her head back to keep the suds from rinsing into her eyes.

“Oh, gods, so damn beautiful.”

Despite the cool water, the shower went hot and steamy, the glass fogged, and the air condensed like the gathering low pressure of a spring storm. Their eyes met, and Ella’s mouth dropped open at the raw hunger of his gaze.

He leaned in. Close. Tight. And reached over her shoulder for the bar of soap. Without stepping away, he lathered it between his hands, returned it to the rack, and washed her in soft, circular strokes that made her nearly beg for more. This time, he didn’t ask permission to touch her most private parts, but he also didn’t linger. She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

Either way, she felt the tension building between them, electric and relentless. Something was coming for them.

“Turn,” he rasped.

She gave him her back. He washed her gently, efficiently. Then turned her and made sure every last sud rinsed away. His soapy hands flew over his own body, and her hands fisted, itched to replace his. How ridiculous to be jealous of him touching himself.

He pressed in beside her and rinsed off. When he looked up, eyes full of relief and accomplishment and need, Ella couldn’t resist. She grabbed Zeph’s shoulders and launched herself at him.

Which was why it had been a great while since he’d last allowed himself to wind up naked and panting and wanting against another’s warm, willing flesh.

His heart kicked into a higher gear as a layer of anxiety blanketed the sharpest, neediest edges of his arousal. He loosened his grip, calmed his kisses. Withdrew.

Panting, Ella looked up at him, brown eyes on fire, lips wet and swollen.

Don’t stop!
In his head, the debate raged. Want versus fear. Need versus self-defense. Fantasy versus the likely reality this would blow up in his face.

But she made the decision for him. “Oh. Oh, God.” She pushed herself out of his arms. “I’m”—she wiped the water from her face—“I’m really sorry. I don’t know…” Ella shook her head and turned.

“Ella.”

“No, I get it.” She wrenched the water nozzle into the “off” position, yanked the shower door open, and rushed out.

He knocked his head back against the tile. “Ella, wait, it’s not—”

“Listen.” She reappeared in the opening of the shower door, blue terry cloth wrapped around her. “Let’s just pretend this didn’t happen.” Her eyes flickered to him and away again.

Zephyros dropped his head. When he heard the bathroom door open and close, he clenched his eyes shut and cursed.

Damn it. He could feel the gut-kick of rejection rolling off her. He knew that emotion too well not to. He hated hurting her, but deep inside, he feared getting hurt worse.

No hero material here, that’s for goddamned sure. Fuck.

Zeph stomped out of the shower and found his own towel, tucked it around his waist. Hands on his hips, he sagged, the ancient weight pressing down on him. This woman appealed to him, even before what had happened in the shower. Her words, her aura, her invitation to stay, her little acts of kindness that probably meant nothing but felt damn good anyway—all of it. And now he’d seen her naked, touched her, held her, tasted her. He
wanted
her.

But history had proven he was a piss-poor judge of what was in his own best interest, of what—and whom—he could actually trust.

He scrubbed his hands through his hair and spat a curse under his breath. He turned and faced himself in the mirror. Time to make things right with Ella. His heart was already making decisions his brain was going to have to deal with, like it or not.

Head hanging, he left the bathroom and rounded on her bedroom door. Knuckles met wood twice and he waited.

Nothing.

He knocked again. “Ella?”

“Go away, Zephyros,” came her muffled voice.

A rock took up residence in his gut, but he found himself rubbing the muscles over his heart. “Ella, please.”

“Not now, Zeph. Okay? Just…”

He waited, but she didn’t finish the thought. She didn’t have to. “Okay.”

The sadness came first, but quickly morphed, darkened, roiled into a dangerous storm of rage.

Zeph willed himself into the elements and vanished.

…

Some time later, Zeph materialized in the Realm of the Gods wearing human street clothes. Because they made him feel closer to Ella.

When he’d first left Ella’s, he’d needed space to vent his turmoil, but then, his energy flagging, he needed the rejuvenation being in his own world would provide. From his elemental form, he’d simply visualized his private chamber and focused on the compass rose mosaic with its calligraphic W tiled into the wall.

With a sigh, he lifted his head and found the beautiful design of the mosaic. It had always helped center him. Except…this wasn’t…

“Sometimes you get what you need, not what you want,” said a deep voice.

Zeph smiled. “Is that so, brother?” His gaze traced over the stylized N at the top of the compass rose before he turned and laid eyes on Boreas. The oldest of the four Anemoi, he was the Supreme God of the North Wind, and the one who understood Zephyros best. Only problem was, Zeph respected him so damned much, he felt ashamed for Boreas to see him this way, for him to know just how bad he always fucked things up. He hated the thought of disappointing him.

“Indeed.” Boreas shoved off of the wall he’d been leaning against and held out a hand.

Zeph grasped it, gladly, and braced for what he knew was coming.

Boreas yanked him into a brotherly embrace and clapped him on the back. The other man had a good eight inches on Zephyros—it was the only time he ever felt small—but he didn’t mind.

He returned the hug, stepped back, and threw Boreas a wry smile. “Is this where I get the ‘ya never call, ya never write’ speech?” Generally, he steered clear of hanging here as much as he could—there were just too many damn people to avoid. He’d either end up in a fight with Eurus, get his heart ripped out all over again by Hy, or end up in bed with Dion—none of which were particularly good for him.