Wings of Fire (47 page)

She drew air into her nostrils and she smelled coffee. “Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a cup of coffee right now. When I kept my house in Boston, I had my housekeeper bring me a cup first thing. It was decadent, I know, but it was so lovely.”

“We can certainly get you some coffee,” Parisa said.

Fiona looked past Alison through the long window onto the hall. The blinds made it a little difficult to see, but she couldn’t mistake the man who came into view: Warrior Jean-Pierre. Her fingers moved to the gold locket.

She shouldn’t do it.

She really shouldn’t do it, but for someone reason she had to know his thoughts. Did he ever think of her?

She lowered her shields, just a little. At first, all she could hear were the thoughts of the women closest to her. Havily wondering if she should purchase the new Ralph Lauren skirt she saw online and Parisa trying to figure out how to save all the D&R slaves. Alison needing Kerrick to take her home. Fiona pushed past all these thoughts, shutting them down.

Her telepathy moved into the hallway and as she let Jean-Pierre’s mind flow over her, his eyes lifted to meet hers.
She is so beautiful,
belle. Mon dieu,
I cannot breathe. Sex. All I can think is sex, wanting to be inside her now. How lovely she is, her lips parting. I want to kiss her.
Ça suffice!
No more.

He tore his gaze away and started walking up the hall.
Jean-Pierre,
she sent, panicked for some reason.
Don’t go. Please don’t go! You calm me. Stay with me.
She had no hope that he would hear her. No one ever heard her telepathic messages.

But he froze, his back stiff where she could see it through the blinds. Oh, God, had he heard her? She hadn’t meant for him to hear.

Did you really speak to me, Fiona, into my head? I am here, if you want me. I will stay, if you need me. Did you really speak to me?

Yes,
she whispered.

He turned around and started moving again, slowly, until he appeared in the doorway facing her. His eyes were wide, stunned. So he had heard her. She wasn’t imagining it.

“
Allo,
Kerrick,” he said, as the warrior turned in his direction. The word sounded like
Kareek.
He didn’t meet Fiona’s gaze. “The nurses have been talking. Congratulations to you both. Having wings, quite extraordinary.” Oh, the way his accent caressed that last word.

Both Kerrick and Alison shared the news with him in turns, but Fiona couldn’t exactly hear them. Instead, she felt strange ripples pass over her, like icy bits of water that left her shivering yet not cold, more like …
desire …
oh, dear.

After the happy parents finished explaining their latest news, Jean-Pierre moved up beside Kerrick. He met Fiona’s gaze. “I was wondering if I could get you something?” he asked.

She met his gaze and for just a moment saw no one else. But she nodded and said the only thing she could think of. “A really hot cup of coffee with sugar and cream, but just little of each. All right?”

He smiled and the heavens seemed to part. He had the most beautiful smile. His eyes seemed to dance with life. His hair was wavy and in parts curly, almost unkempt, but it gave him such a look. Most of his hair was light brown but there was an outer layer of sunny-blond streaks that made her think of summers at the beach.
Charming,
she thought. The man radiated charm in every way.

“
Mais oui.
But yes, of course. I will bring you coffee.” Then he smiled, inclined his head, lifted his arm, and vanished.

“Wow,” Fiona said, but she wasn’t certain if her reaction was to his sudden dematerialization or to
him.

She became acutely aware that all three women, and one powerful warrior, were watching her, their expressions wary, thoughtful, although Havily smiled.

“What?” Fiona asked.

“Nothing,” Havily said, but her smile flowed into a grin. “He’s very handsome.”

Fiona shrugged. “They all are, even the Militia Warriors.” Her fingers plucked at the thin blanket on her bed.

“Well,” Alison said. “We’re going to take off. Again, welcome home, Fiona. If you need me for anything…”

Fiona smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Alison. You’ve been so very kind.”

Alison gave a little wave before she turned away. When she reached Kerrick, he gathered her closer still and kissed her flush on the lips. Together they vanished, still kissing.

Fiona gasped—not because of the fold, but because Kerrick had been kissing her when they left. The tenderness brought tears to her eyes. Her husband had been tender like that, so kind, so protective. He hadn’t wanted her to go shopping that day, all by herself. They’d had many disagreements over her independent spirit, but she had felt it absurd not to do her shopping alone. The streets of Boston, in their part of town, had been perfectly safe. That is, until she’d come across what she now knew to be a pair of death vampires, two glorious creatures shrouded in mist that only she’d been able to see.

Her natural confidence, which she now considered her supreme stupidity, had caused her to approach them. Despite all the strange looks various passersby gave her—she must have appeared to be speaking to the air like a madwoman—she had carried on a conversation with the monsters. But how could she have known what they really were? A few moments later, before she knew what was happening, she met Rith for the first time.

She blinked and forced the memories away.

Havily’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Alison has suffered for weeks. I’m just so glad she has some answers now.”

She glanced from one woman to the next. “Do either of you have children?” she asked.

Parisa shook her head, but Havily couldn’t quite hide a sudden stricken look.

“I’ve caused you pain,” Fiona said quietly. “I didn’t mean to.”

Havily smiled and shook her head. “It was a long time ago. I guess all this trouble with Alison’s pregnancy has brought it back to me.” She turned to face Fiona. “I had three little girls when I was a young wife on Mortal Earth. They died of scarlet fever, my husband as well, but that was at the turn of the last century. Like I said, it was a long time ago.”

Fiona looked away and suddenly her heart hurt, maybe because Havily would understand. “I don’t know when my children died. I know nothing about them or their lives, how they grew up,
if
they grew up, whether they married, had children, grandchildren. They were ten and eight when I was taken from Boston. There is something hideous in not knowing, and of course after all these years neither of them would still be living.”

“We could find out for you,” Parisa said.

Fiona sighed. “I’ve thought about it, probably one minute out of two since I arrived at Madame Endelle’s palace. Now I’m afraid that I’ll have to live it all over again.”

Havily moved to the side of the bed opposite Parisa and put her hand on Fiona’s, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “Nothing has to be done today. Look, Jean-Pierre is back.”

Fiona turned toward the doorway.

And there he was, holding a steaming brown ceramic mug in his hand.

She felt dizzy suddenly, such a strange reaction. Well, he was terribly handsome, and he seemed to always be looking at her, focused on her, which added to her dizziness.

Where had he found such a nice mug in the hospital?

“I went home,” he said as though having read her thoughts.
He went home.
That translated into a quick dematerialization, but it also meant he’d made an effort. “It took no time at all. There is also a very nice coffeehouse in Sedona. They were very obliging. I hope the cream and sugar is to your taste.”

She drew in a deep breath. Havily’s hand slid away from Fiona’s and Jean-Pierre took her place beside the bed. Fiona’s gaze fell as it so often did to the shape of his lips, the two soft peaks, the full lower lip. Her breathing pattern changed, and she forced her heart to please slow down.

He handed her the mug, handle first, supporting it from the bottom. “Careful. It is quite hot.”

She nodded but then she caught the scent of the coffee in the mug—and then the smell of him. It was so very wonderful, very male, and was that just a hint of coffee coming from him?

She now held the mug in her right hand. He was about to pull away when she caught his hand and drew it to her nose. She took an unladylike sniff then buried her nose in his skin. “It’s you,” she cried. “You smell like coffee. Did you spill some on yourself?” She looked up at him. His lips parted and the scent of him began to roll in heavy waves so that she was surrounded by his scent. The smell of fresh-roasted coffee beans flooded the space.

She released his hand with a gasp.

“I must go,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

“I wish you wouldn’t.” She felt suddenly desperate to keep him near.

“Actually, Jean-Pierre,” Parisa said. “We were hoping that you would stay with Fiona for a little while. I need to speak with Antony, and Havily needs to get back to the admin offices.”

“Bien sûr,”
Jean-Pierre said. He sounded strange, like he was in shock.

Fiona didn’t know what prompted her but she lowered her shields and at the same moment shut out the mental exclamations emanating from both Parisa and Havily as they left the room. She focused on Jean-Pierre’s thoughts.

Elle sais. Maintenant, elle sais.
She knows. She knows. I can see it in her eyes. I ache for her. I must leave but I cannot make my feet move. I want my mouth on her, on her lips, her breasts, between her legs, sucking …

She drew back and realized her mug-holding wrist was growing lax. She righted the mug before she tipped the steaming contents on her lap. She drew the brown ceramic to her lips. She shored up the shields of her mind. Had she even said good-bye to Havily and Parisa? No. Had she really taken the warrior’s hand and pressed it to her face to
smell
him? Yes.

She shook her head then sipped her coffee. She didn’t understand what was happening. After a moment, she asked, “Jean-Pierre, what’s going on? I … I’ll confess I just read your thoughts.”

“You did? But how? I did not feel you in my head.”

She glanced at him over the rim. She sipped the coffee, careful not to burn her tongue. Oh, how to explain? She met his gaze and thought she would drown in the sight of him. He was so beautiful and his eyes were the color of the ocean and his smell an aphrodisiac.

Desire flowed over her now as though some floodgate had been released in her, something she had not felt for a man in decades. The blood tonic she had been forced to drink following each drain had always resulted in a powerful orgasm, but this was different.

From the time she could remember, even as a child, the eldest of eight siblings, she had been a woman of decision. When she saw what she wanted or what needed to be done, she took action. That she had been enslaved for over a hundred years was a circumstance she viewed as a terrible inconvenient breach in her life.

She understood that she would need some form of healing and therapy; that was a given. And as soon as the doctors released her from the hospital, she would get all that set up—not just for herself but for the other slaves as well.

But this was a new world and a new life. She desired this thoughtful warrior who had given her back a precious locket and asked,
Can I bring you something?

Yes, she would begin her new life now, and she would begin by taking something she wanted.

She set the mug on the table beside her. She knew what she had to do. “You should shut the blinds,” she said. “And close the door.” She watched his face. His sensual lips were now set in a grim, determined line, even the points flattened … a little.

“I should not,” he said, lowering his head, his gazing falling to her lips. Had he read her mind?

“Please,” she whispered.

She heard the blinds close from across the room. The warrior had not even moved. So much power in this dimension. When the door closed as well, she leaned back on the pillows. “Will you kiss me now, Warrior? Will you let me thank you for carrying me out of that terrible place?” Her breaths were high in her chest. She had not felt the touch of a man in decades, not in over a century, not in this way since the night of her eleventh anniversary.

“I should not kiss you,” he said. “But I think I cannot help myself.” His voice was hoarse and his gaze was fixed to her lips, but he moved very slowly, a kind of lingering fall as he lowered himself to her, planting his hands on the raised bed to either side of her pillow, his hips suspended just above the side of the bed.

She saw only his mouth but coffee swirled around her in decadent enticement, until she was dizzy and so warm and wet between her legs that she was ready for sex without even having touched him. How strange was this? How mysterious? How extraordinary?

As she closed her eyes, his lips met hers, and his breath was all coffee and sweetness with an undertaste of maleness that clenched her deep within and made her gasp. She hadn’t made love in so long yet here she was,
remembering the how of it,
as though it had been yesterday.

But there was something more, something she didn’t understand while he kissed her. She felt a pressure on her mind and knew it was Jean-Pierre’s touch. Yet it was more than simple telepathy, because no words formed; he was just there and very present. It was so strange, yet wholly erotic. So erotic that she felt very close with just his lips pressed in a gentle kiss. Her breasts ached and her lips felt swollen and needy. Internally, very deep, she felt movement within, her body trying to pull at something that wasn’t there yet, getting ready, so very ready.

Then she realized that she was a touch away from the pinnacle of pleasure. And all he’d done was press those sensual lips against her mouth.

The moment his tongue touched her lips she grabbed his arms above her, opened her eyes, met his and held on. She cried out, stunned because of what was happening to her. The orgasm was a quick ride over her tender flesh, and a pulsing inside that went on and on. She panted against his mouth.

He drew back, just a few inches. His eyes flared, “Are you—?”