His tongue flicked out and sampled the unique flavor of Firebird, and then he tasted an edge of fear, too.
Their previous relationship had been brief and intense. They had never shared the easiness of long-time lovers.
And now . . . she didn’t know him well, but she did know he had been angry with her. She worried he was still angry with her.
That took the edge off, calmed the desperation.
‘‘Douglas?’’
He met her troubled gaze. ‘‘I promise nothing, except that when I am done with you, you’re going to be very’’—he kissed her belly—‘‘very’’—he spread her legs and kissed her there—‘‘happy.’’
Chapter Twenty-three
Firebird finished her last relentless, fabulous or-gasm, and relaxed back against the bed.
She could hardly move. Every bone and muscle had been exercised, kissed, massaged, pleasured. Douglas had fed her satisfaction—satisfaction tailored especially to her and her fantasies. Now, exhausted, she rolled her head on the pillow and looked at Douglas.
He looked . . . pleased.
She felt . . . incredible.
And he looked . . . pleased.
When they’d made love before, it had been the clash of two fiercely alive beings who felt and saw and smelled and touched with all the glorious emotions of their souls. She’d burned for him, and she had known he burned for her.
Now, sex with her pleased him.
She narrowed her eyes until she was looking at him through nothing more than a slit, trying to X-RAY him, to see under his skin, into his thoughts.
No. Controlling sex with her pleased him.
His voice startled her out of her fury. In that calm, exceptionally civilized manner of his, he said, ‘‘I need to tell you why I didn’t stay with Mrs. Fuller.’’
‘‘Sure.’’ Those were the words every woman wanted to hear from her lover after great sex.
‘‘Most guys get to be around twelve, and they have this erection pop up, and they’re amazed and horrified and proud.’’ He still sounded calm and civilized, but he rubbed his forehead as if the mere act of talking hurt him. ‘‘And so was I, except . . . I knew it wasn’t the usual thing to turn into a cougar, too. Even at twelve I had a little bit of logic.’’
Firebird began to stop thinking about herself. Began to see why Douglas was discussing his puberty when she was still enjoying afterglow. ‘‘How did she find out?’’
‘‘In addition to everything else—the erection, the pubic hair, the wildcat thing—I developed this tattoo across my chest.’’
‘‘It’s one of those things that identifies you as a Varinski.’’ Firebird knew this stuff for sure.
‘‘So I gathered. But at the time, all I knew was that my body was betraying me in every way possible. My dick was whipping around like a needle on a compass. When I looked in the mirror, sometimes I looked like . . .’’ He shook his head. ‘‘Like a cougar. A golden cougar. And overnight, I had this tattoo branded across my chest. It was big, it was bold, it was colorful. I kept myself covered, but Mrs. Fuller had only two bathrooms, and the one we boys used wasn’t exactly the most private of places. The lock was broken; we were always playing tricks on each other with ice water. . . . The little shit who slept in the bunk bed above me saw the tattoo and told Mrs. Fuller.’’
‘‘She didn’t believe in tattoos.’’
‘‘She called me into her parlor and gave me hell.’’ He looked into the past, and everything about him told her he was in the grip of painful memories. ‘‘She didn’t know where I got the money for a tattoo like that, but she feared I was stealing again. She didn’t approve of me joining a gang, which she was afraid was the reason for the tattoo. And . . . she wanted to impress on me that no matter what, she still loved me and I could tell her anything.’’
‘‘So you told her?’’
‘‘I did. But she didn’t believe me.’’
‘‘So you showed her?’’
‘‘I did.’’ He fell into a silence that broke her heart. ‘‘She saw me change. She saw the cougar.’’
‘‘Oh, God.’’ The Wilders operated under the cover of secrecy, because Konstantine had taught them— taught every one of them—that no one would understand. No one would believe.
‘‘Like I told you, Mrs. Fuller was a Christian woman with a good heart. And she did love me. For a long time, I doubted that, but now I know she did, because she took her own cross from around her neck, the one she always wore, and put it around my neck.’’
‘‘That’s why you have this cross burned into your skin at the base of your throat.’’ Firebird had seen it. She’d wondered. Now she knew.
‘‘That’s why.’’ His chest rose and fell with his huge gasps. ‘‘The pain was excruciating, but not as excruciating as seeing the expression on Mrs. Fuller’s face as she realized that heaven rejected me so completely.’’
‘‘What did she do?’’ With her fingertip, Firebird traced the scar over and over.
‘‘She cried. She cried.’’
At that moment, Firebird hated the kind and Christian Mrs. Fuller. ‘‘What did you do?’’
‘‘I ran away. For the last time, I ran away.’’ He rubbed at his heart with the flat of his hand. ‘‘But Mrs. Fuller had convinced me I was too smart to let anyone else control my destiny. So I got myself to Colorado and finished high school there. Finished early.’’
‘‘And went into law enforcement.’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘And used your powers whenever you needed to keep yourself ahead of the game.’’
‘‘Yes.’’
Okay. Now she understood—a lot of things. Her father . . . Konstantine . . . he always told his sons to be careful, not to change unless it was necessary. He said that every time they indulged their joy in flying and running, they slid closer to evil. Closer to the creator of the pact. Closer to hell, to the devil.
Douglas had indulged his gift in the pursuit of power and truth.
He was very, very close to losing his soul. And deep inside, he knew it.
Firebird understood now. They had made love, and he was pleased. Of course he was pleased.
He had managed to give her pleasure without releasingthe wild part of him. In all his life, passion had proved to be a mistake. Always a mistake. When it came to her, he didn’t dare allow himself passion, because he didn’t want passion to sweep him away.
He didn’t want to hurt her.
Very well. That was fine. It was good that he’d learned such restraint. The men in her family were all awesome in their restraint. Never in her life had she worried that they would turn on her in a rage and crush her.
More important, she trusted them with her child’s life.
But they were awesome in their passions, too. Each man loved his woman with his heart, his soul, every fiber of his being—and all the passion of his body. That was the kind of love she wanted. That was the kind of love she would have.
She slipped out of bed, out of Douglas’s reach.
At once, his head turned to her.
She stretched, a slow, catlike stretch, one side at a time, with her hands over her head. Then, slowly, she skimmed her palms down the sides of her breasts, down her ribs, and over her hips. ‘‘Mmmm.’’ She sighed. ‘‘I’m going to take a shower.’’ She strolled toward the bathroom. She paused in the doorway and looked back at him from beneath her lashes. ‘‘Are you going to come?’’
Chapter Twenty-four
Douglas’s feet hit the floor hard.
Silently Firebird laughed. She strolled toward the vanity.
She stopped laughing when she saw her reflection. She had bruises around her neck; she looked as if she’d been strangled.
The kelp, she supposed. More bruises on her arms, the kind made by a man’s hand.
More supposition—Douglas had caused them in his frantic struggles to get her free.
And her hair . . . Growing up in a family of brune
ttes and raven-haired people, she had always been vain about her blond sunniness, and she loved this cut. Loved it. Thought it made her look sophisticated, cheeky, and bold, not like just Aleksandr’s mother, but like the sexual, desirable young woman she was.
It was a harmless fantasy, one that hadn’t changed the facts . . . and now one side of her coiffure had been slashed almost to her scalp.
Something had to be done. She opened drawers until she found scissors about three inches long, the kind used to trim a mustache.
He stood watching her from the doorway, arms folded across his chest, body long, lean, and muscled. His face was still stern, impassive, but she suspected that was a facade.
No. She knew it was a facade. Because no matter how much he might wish to have complete control, one body part told the truth, and the truth was—he was horny.
He had the horn to prove it.
With a slight smile, she leaned over the sink, toward the mirror. Taking a longer strand of hair in her fist, she chopped it off.
‘‘Don’t.’’ He still leaned against the door frame, arms crossed across his chest, but now his fists were clenched. ‘‘Wait until morning. We’ll go to a salon.’’
‘‘Or a barber.’’ She cut another strand. She didn’t want to even it up. That would leave her almost bald. But an all-over cut, deliberately jagged and asymmetrical . . . that would work, and keep her until she could get to a beautician. ‘‘I can fix it, and I’ve been wanting a new hairstyle.’’ She was lying.
But he looked so guilty. He flinched with every snick of the scissors, and best of all, for all his rapt attention to her coiffure, he couldn’t keep his gaze on her head. It kept flicking down . . . down to the place he could see when she bent forward.
Poor guy. It must be tough to be so distracted.
‘‘Douglas, could I get you to do the back?’’ She turned and held out the scissors. ‘‘Of my hair? I can’t see to do it myself.’’
‘‘We really should wait.’’ He looked at her breasts, at her belly, at the strip of blond hair between her legs, and wet his lips. ‘‘I don’t know anything about cutting hair.’’
‘‘Neither do I, but I know I’m not walking around looking like this.’’ She lounged against the counter, her eyes deliberately wide and appealing. ‘‘Come on, darling; you have to do me or I’ll do myself.’’
‘‘What?’’ Dark red stained his cheeks.
‘‘Do me,’’ she repeated. ‘‘Cut my hair.’’
‘‘Oh, all right.’’ He strode forward like a man in total control.
Too bad for him he had that barometer that indicated a storm brewing.
She handed him the scissors, then turned her back and leaned over, legs braced and slightly apart. She looked at him in the mirror.
He was staring, not at the back of her head, but at the crack of her butt.
When he finally tore his gaze away and met her eyes in the mirror, she said, ‘‘Just let the hair drop into the sink.’’
He looked at the scissors in his hand as if he couldn’t remember how to work them. She thought for a moment that she’d already broken him—good work, Firebird—then he visibly imposed discipline on himself and went to work.
He proved how closely he’d been paying attention. First he cut handfuls; then he took the ends between his fingers and cut again. Every time he ran his fingers across her scalp, she purred and shifted, ‘‘accidentally’’ grazing him with her hip, moving her bottom into the cradle of his thighs. ‘‘I love to get my hair cut. I love the sensation of scissors clipping away, and when someone strokes my head, I just melt. Don’t you?’’
‘‘No.’’ He kept his gaze strictly on his work.
‘‘Men. You’re so tough and strict, you don’t take the time to enjoy life’s little pleasures. When we shower, I’ll wash you, and we’ll see how you like that.’’
‘‘I’m not going to shower with you.’’
He’d done enough clipping.
The new cut made her look thinner, younger— tougher and in need of an eyebrow piercing—but it didn’t look like a mistake.
Carefully she pushed his hands away from her head. She turned and faced him. Placing her fingers on his chest, she looked up into his face. ‘‘Why else did you come in here?’’
‘‘To piss.’’
Deliberately crude. He was trying to chase her away.
Too bad she’d had brothers.
She allowed her gaze to feather down his body to his straining erection. ‘‘All right. But you’re going to pee on the ceiling.’’
She slid sideways along the counter, then sauntered past him and toward the shower enclosure, which was warm with natural gold stone and a decorative ring of bold blue glass tiles. She swung the glass door open, turned on the faucet, and, while she waited for the water to warm, she glanced back at him.
He still had his back to her, but he watched her in the mirror, scissors clutched in his hand, his gaze hot and hungry.
‘‘Come on, honey,’’ she coaxed. ‘‘You can sit on the seat and I’ll wash you . . . all . . . over.’’
She saw the flash of supernatural red in his eyes.
He swiveled on his heel and sprang toward her, then stopped and stared at the scissors, forgotten in his hand.
She giggled and slipped into the enclosure.
It was definitely built for two, with a multitude of water jets, an imposing handheld shower massager, a shelf filled with soaps, shampoos, and foaming gels, and a smooth stone seat built onto one end.
A glance toward Douglas proved he still stood immobile in the middle of the floor, held there by the mere force of his will and a pair of tightly clutched scissors.
She sorted through the bottles. ‘‘You’ve got my favorite scents.’’
As if he couldn’t stop himself, he looked up at her, staring through the glass enclosure.
She filled her palm with shampoo, lifted her arms, and scrubbed her poor, shorn head. She ran out of hair too soon. So she rubbed the pale bubbles down her body, inciting him, reminding him of her breasts, her belly, her thighs, and how much she enjoyed her own sensuality. ‘‘I love the smell of mint. How did you know?’’
‘‘Smelled like sunshine,’’ he mumbled. ‘‘Like you.’’
‘‘What did you say?’’ She turned her back to hide her smile, and so he could see her soapy hands slipping over her bottom.
‘‘I said I guess I’ll shower with you. There’s plenty of room.’’ He paced back to the counter, so totally in control of himself, then paced back to the shower.
Hastily she rinsed herself, grabbed the shampoo, and stepped back to let him enter.
It was a big shower.
He was a big man.
But she crowded him into the corner, and when the backs of his knees hit the seat, he sat.
She filled her palm with shampoo, then shoved the bottle into his hand. ‘‘Hold this.’’
‘‘I can wash my own hair.’’
‘‘Indulge me.’’ She rubbed her fingers on his head, working up a lather, massaging his scalp. She moved slowly, allowing each small circle to ease along the skin just above his forehead, then moving back toward the crown of his head.
But he wasn’t relaxing. He was staring, hypnotized . . . at her breasts.
They bobbed in his face as she swayed with the rhythm of her massage.
Who would have guessed he’d be so attracted by the breasts he’d so recently kissed and caressed?
Well . . . she would.
It appeared she’d guessed right.
‘‘Doesn’t that feel good?’’ She rubbed him behind the ears, then scraped her fingernails up the back of his neck.
He stretched as if she’d pulled a thread through the top of his head. ‘‘It’s good.’’ He paused, struggling for words. ‘‘I like it.’’
Well. He was never going to be an articulate lover—in fact, right now, he sounded sort of like Tarzan—but she supposed if she wanted eloquence, she could al
ways go watch those stupid butter commercials.
Moving swiftly, not allowing him time to recover, she grabbed a mesh scrubby and the rosemary shower gel, and went to work on his shoulders and chest. The scrubby was new, never used, with enough texture to scrape his nerve endings as she slid it around and around his nipples.
When she did that, his hands lifted toward her— then dropped to grip the edge of the seat.
‘‘You’ve got a really great body. I love your abs.’’ She stroked his six-pack with first the scrubby, then with her bare hand. ‘‘I love this ruff of hair in the middle of your chest, and how it extends down. . . .’’ She followed her finger with her gaze as it wandered toward his groin and his straining erection. Catching herself, she jerked away.
She had no intention of touching him there. Not until she’d driven him right to the edge of sanity.
But her body had other ideas.
‘‘Stand up,’’ she said, pulling him. When he did, she pushed him around to face the wall. ‘‘Put your arms up and lean forward. And spread ’em, mister.’’
‘‘Are you going to frisk me?’’ he asked, and his voice sounded an octave deeper than normal.
‘‘Every inch of you.’’ His back, his fine, tight ass, between his cheeks, the backs of his well-structured thighs and calves . . . she even picked up his feet and scrubbed the soles.
He didn’t wiggle. He stood as firmly as one of the rock stacks enduring the assault of the ocean waves.
But the ocean always won—eventually.
With her hands on his hips, she turned him again and washed his arms, paying special attention to his palms, then his chest and belly, the fronts of his thighs and calves . . . and now she was on her knees before him, with only one thing that needed to be washed.
She soaped up the scrubby; then carefully, oh, so carefully, she slid the scrubby between his legs, then up the length of his penis to the silken head. ‘‘How does that feel?’’
‘‘It’s . . . rough.’’ He could barely grunt.
‘‘I don’t want to be rough.’’ Dropping the scrubby, she used her hands, sliding them around his testicles, exploring, remembering, savoring the sensation of two tight, desperate, ready balls inside his sac.