Bolt Saga, Volume 1 Page 28

  With her is the only way I can ever be now.

  The way I want to be.

  Which is why, as I pull out and her knees start to buckle, I don’t even think before pulling her up into a princess hold, securing her even closer by tilting my head so my cheek touches her hair. When she responds by tucking her face against my sternum, I don’t hold back on my deep rumble of pleasure. Realizing my legs aren’t going to last long for support, I walk briskly into the living room, lowering us both onto the thick pile rug in front of the glass-enclosed fireplace. Turning on the flames feels strange for July, but it’s also just past three a.m., and the warmth will ensure neither of us has to cover up.

  And damn do I enjoy this woman when she isn’t covered up.

  I settle in next to her, leaning my head on a braced elbow, following the firelight after it reflects through the window and dances along her body. Golden patterns on creamy curves. Amber beams glistening on lingering beads of sweat. Flickers that turn the cranberries of her nipples into bronze candies and the V of her thighs into a fascinating valley of mystery. She’s an entirely new creature to discover. And to touch. And to stroke.

  And to drink in with my eyes like a man newly arrived at the damn oasis.

  Especially as I flow my fingers all the way up to her face. And once there, explore her with even greater care. She’s more than a creature here. She’s a diamond with a thousand facets, from the tiny indents that frame her mouth, to the graceful sweeps of her tawny brows, to the high, sculpted planes of her cheeks…and more. So much more.

  There’s always more with her.

  And that’s my conclusion even before meeting her gaze again.

  Which, to my bafflement, is narrowed and shadowed.

  Before I can think of how to address that, my mind whirling with what went wrong between our departure from the elevator and our arrival on this rug, she opens her mouth first—and blurts, “Hey.”

  I blink. Then again. “Uhhhh…hey?”

  “Are you all right?”

  Bewilderment gets upgraded to astonishment. “Are you?”

  She inhales with quiet purpose. As she lets out the breath, she sweeps her stare toward the fire. The tightness at the corners of her eyes gives away the contemplation she’s throwing into my question—which I’d be really stressing about but for the slight wisp of a smile that now teases her lips. “It’s been…quite a night.”

  “And you just scored diplomat of the year.” I don’t layer it with too much sarcasm, largely because I mean it. Placing a hand across her stomach, I rub in at her flesh to emphasize. “Velvet…if I’d known the media was going to vulture in on things like that…”

  “I know.” She forms one of her hands atop mine. “I know, Reece. You wouldn’t have added to my ‘stress’ by getting creative with the sex toys.” She spurts out a little giggle. “But dear freaking mother of oh my God, what sex toys.”

  For the life of me, I can’t connect the dots to why she’s still laughing. “You mean the edge job I forced on you and left you to deal with for three goddamned hours while I—”

  Her slap—and it’s a slap, even if she’s dishing it in affection instead of fury—stops me cold. “Hold up there, Squidward. Nobody forced anything on anyone, okay? In case you weren’t paying attention—and I’m pretty damn sure you were—I was soaking wet by the time you got all three of those things into me.”

  I feel my forehead crunch. “Valid point.”

  “You’re damn right, valid point. And hang on to your pineapple under the sea, because here comes another one. I have a brain and vocal cords, and I’m not afraid to use them. The second you start in on something I’m not okay with, you’ll know about it.”

  No more creases at my temples. Instead, I take that tension and apply it to the edges of my lips. “I believe you.” And incredibly, I mean it—an expression I don’t think I’ve sincerely given to a woman before. Loneliness makes people promise things they don’t mean—and their equally lonely lovers simply believe those lies, perpetuating the cycle.

  “Of course you believe me.” Her saucy smirk, coupled with the dance of her fingertips up my arm, becomes something softer as soon as she spreads her hold around my bicep. “You’ll always get nothing but the truth from me, Reece. This—whatever it is between us, bonding us—it’s too damn special to mess up with anything less.”

  Now, the fire isn’t the only heat source in the room. As warmth suffuses my chest, I bend down to take her lips in a loving, lingering kiss. “This is called love, and once more, you are completely right.”

  She delves her other hand into my hair, keeping me hovering as the shadows in her gaze give way to Caribbean hues. “Oh, I like that ‘love’ part.”

  I tilt my head, regarding her with newly wicked intent. “Even when it involves Bolt-style Ben Wa balls?”

  “Mmmmm.” She squeezes my arm and writhes her gorgeous limbs, making the deep pile of the rug caress her in enticing new ways. “Especially when it involves that.” Then tugs on my hair, yanking me down for a wet, thorough kiss that peels me apart from the inside out. “I didn’t forget you all night. It was freaking awesome.”

  I chuff out a laugh. “You really are the woman God made for me.”

  “And you’re the hero who’s fulfilled all my dreams.” She looks ready to kiss me again, but a new laugh chops across her lips instead. “And the knight who swept in and slayed the dragon for me tonight too. About a hundred of them.”

  I groan and roll my eyes. “Why didn’t you call me about all that?”

  She winces. “I thought you were out on patrol.”

  “You don’t think I would’ve left the LAPD on its own for one night?”

  “Which you did anyway?” she asserts.

  “Hard to slay the bad guys when Clint Eastwood between the legs wants to be at home.”

  She busts out in a full laugh as I dip my head toward my Outlaw Josie Wales in his half-erect glory. Christ. Less than fifteen minutes after being balls-deep inside her, the cowboy wants to jangle spurs again?

  “Well, I’m glad Clint decided to take it easy, no matter what the reason,” she states.

  New frown. “But you like me in my leathers.”

  She trails her hand across my deltoid and pecs. “You spent some time working out, didn’t you?”

  “And you’re avoiding my question, aren’t you?”

  The shadows spread back across her gaze. They’re more dense than before, the shade of thunderclouds against her Caribbean skies. “I love you in your leathers,” she mutters with a sigh. “But I don’t love the idea of you running around in alleys, storm drains, and flop houses, facing down people who now know exactly who you are and where you work.”

  I huff. “You mean people who can barely emerge from their sludge in the middle of the night, much less dare to show their face in an arena as glaring and public as our lobby?” With my knuckles, I caress the side of her face. “Those scumsuckers don’t concern me, Velvet. I’m more worried about when the Consortium will start feeling bold again, but it’s way too early for that shit.”

  But I have plans for when that timing does come into play—and have kept my new friend, Sawyer Foley, on retainer for that exact occasion. Briefly I consider telling her that but clamp the information down since she hasn’t let go of a single furrow in her brow since I mentioned scumsuckers. Another revelation for another day, not a confession to be made in the middle of the night, after what she’s been through in the last few hours.

  After a pause in which she adds an anxious twist of lips to her tight expression, she utters, “I just don’t see why you can’t help the PD out with other duties.”

  It’s my turn for the corrugated brow. “I’m not exactly the phone-answering, form-completing type, Emma.”

  She bats at my chest. “I meant like from a PR angle. Public appearances and cultural events. Talking to civic groups, school kids. Just say no to drugs…” Her eyes sparkle. “And dark alleys. And storm drains.”
<
br />   “You forgot flop houses.”

  “Those too.”

  She’s so cute about the quip, I lay a fast kiss on her lips again. That does the trick. Her body softens beneath me, her anxiety seeming to melt away as I heat up my assault. She opens her mouth wider when I push in with more purpose, and Josie Wales decides to go for the showdown with a stiff rifle barrel at the ready. He’s encouraged even more by the movie now playing in my mind—a reel consumed by the thought of rolling over, sliding my thighs between hers, and using my knees to spread her before surging forward and again fucking all the way into her…

  Except the next second, all I’m humping is the empty rug. And looking up, glare blazing, at her delectable backside. And shaking my head, senses spinning, as she strolls across the room with the house phone in her hand.

  “Fershan. Hey. It’s me.” She glances at me from over her shoulder, flashing a smile with which I’m more than familiar. The sorry-baby-but-I’m-going-back-to-work-now smile. I love all her smiles, but this one is absolutely at the rock bottom of that list. “Sorry I went MIA,” she continues to her coworker. “Yeah, I know you know where I am, but break time is over, so I’m on my way back dow—”

  Her face changes. Fast. A collection of shadows overcomes her features, and I start to wonder if the going-back-to-work smile will be truly usurped in my standings. I wouldn’t call the look “dark.” More like…dismal. And hurt. And sad.

  “Oh,” she mutters. “You do? Well, what about the weekly reports and the P and R printouts?” She turns completely away from me, slumping her shoulders and kicking at the floor with the tip of a toe. “You’re sure? I don’t mind. And with Neeta out too, what if you guys are hit with a rush?” Two more jabs of her toe at the floor. “Yeah, I know you’re capable, Fersh. And I do thank you for being concerned, but—” A heavy sigh leaves her. “Right. Okay. I get it. I’ll…uh…talk to you tomorrow then, I guess. Take it easy.” In a hurry, like a kid eager to get on the playground roundabout while it’s already going, she calls, “Buzz my cell if you need anything!”

  Yeah, it’s official. As she ends the call with a soft tap at the phone and sets the receiver down with even wearier resignation, her whole stance droops with blatant dejection.

  Fuck.

  I’m damn near drowning in the craving to jump up and go to her, but a stronger instinct bellows at me to stand down. This isn’t like marching into the lobby and slaying the media horde for her. Unlike then, my shining armor is no good here. This is about shit that can’t be solved just by lopping off a monster’s head for her. All right, technically speaking, I could go and do that—but only at the risk of her retrieving those vibrating balls and ramming them somewhere inside me in return.

  Because this is a woman who has already defeated so many of her own dragons.

  Because this is my woman, who has claimed her very life’s identity by figuring shit out on her own.

  Because even right now, in her defeat, she’d be doubly beaten if I took the action that every fiber in my being burns for. As thoroughly as I hate this truth, I know it as fact. I’d earn nothing but her horror by getting dressed, hauling ass downstairs, and telling “Fersh” and the gang—who think they’re being kind—to take their asses home so she can do all their jobs at once, with one hand tied around her back, looking goddess perfect as she does.

  But that’s what I crave right now.

  Not what she needs.

  So as thoroughly as it eviscerates me, I don’t budge. I barely breathe. In the space of several terminable minutes, I only move one part of my body—my free hand, twisting into a glowing fist—as I keep watching her. Waiting for her. Allowing her to process. And struggle. And hurt. And deal.

  This sucks.

  But I’m not leaving.

  At last, she sucks in a halting breath and turns around but not toward me. She speaks at nearly a whisper into a silence only possible in the hours between deep night and early morning, with the firelight turning her nude form into a vision of gilded beauty—and palpable sadness.

  I push to my feet but don’t move beyond that. Doing so would shatter the air around her, and I’m pretty positive that’s what’s holding her up right now.

  “Emmalina?” Again, battling the craving to go to her. “Everything okay?”

  She wobbles her head, courageously attempting a nod while blinking back obvious moisture in her eyes. “Fershan says everything’s calmed down since the press left. That there’s really nothing I’m needed for now.”

  As she tries to shake it off, hauling in a long breath, I ball my other hand, blue light throbbing at a furious cadence between my knuckles. “You know that’s not true.” The words are calm only because I lock my back teeth to get them out. “They’re just trying to help.”

  “Which is all I want to do!” But as fast as her frustration erupts, she kills it off. When she shakes her head and flicks up a hand, dismissing me with a flimsy attempt at anger, I already see she’s made up her mind about how this is going to conclude.

  Meaning there are much deeper conclusions beyond it.

  Convictions betrayed by the shaky rasp of her voice as she wraps both arms around herself and shuffles toward the bedroom. “Guess they have it all handled, then. And there’s even a few more hours for you to go make the world right too. Nobody has to worry about me anymore. Yaaaay, team.”

  Fuck.

  I step forward. I can’t take this anymore. I need to move. To help her. Fuck…somehow… “Emma—”

  “I’m tired, Reece. Good night.”

  She shuts the bedroom door with a click that hits the air like a pistol shot, and I again battle the yearning to grab my clothes—my scariest leathers this time—and march down to those offices to tell her “team,” in no uncertain terms, exactly what kind of hell they’ve just sent her to.

  But goddamnit, who would that help?

  Not her. Not the one-of-a-kind woman—gifted to me by some mind-boggling turn of karma—who really only wants to do one thing in this world.

  Serve it.

  Make a difference in it.

  “A difference.” I utter the words, in my naked solitude, as if it’s the first time I’ve ever heard them. Though that’s not the case, I’m positive it’s the first time I’ve ever understood them.

  How they can galvanize a person.

  How they’re now moving me.

  How I’m in action again, moving through the suite with purpose and passion that damn near frighten me. In the ignorance of my youth and then the selfishness of my early manhood, I scoffed at people with this kind of fervor. Dismissed them as zealots who never knew how stupid they looked, thinking their solitary actions could possibly transform the world.

  As I sprint back toward the elevator landing to retrieve my pants, I envision those stupid versions of myself shedding like useless snakeskin.

  As I stab my legs back into my slacks, I start a to-do list in my head.

  As I make my way to my office, I swear not to be daunted by that list.

  It’s doable. Insane for a timeline of just a few hours, but doable.

  But more importantly, it’s vital. And exceptional.

  And difference making.

  All right, so I can’t always save her.

  But this time, maybe I can do something better.

  Chapter Six

  Emma

  “Gah!”

  My groan reverberates through my head, instantly shooting my thoughts backward. What did I do last night? And did it involve enough drinking to make me forget how I got home?

  “Whoa.”

  I mean that one even more. Because I’m not at home. Though technically, the Brocade’s penthouse should qualify as home by now. But as I straighten up in the huge king bed, prying my eyes open by increments in the room drenched in blinding California sun, the gloom of my mindset from last night is corroborated by the stark walls and high-end modern art around me.

  Saying nothing about me.

  Actually,
saying nothing about Reece either.

  My eyes fully open, I gaze at it all in more depth—wondering why none of it has made me clutch a bowling ball of melancholy in my stomach before. While I’m not a Rams cheerleader, I’ve always taken pride at focusing on the bright angle of any situation in life, including this one. Perhaps especially this one, considering Reece’s insistence on keeping me close is founded in the fact that I was charged on my own front sidewalk by his nutbitch of an ex-girlfriend.

  Besides, coming here with him has never really felt like leaving home.

  Until now.

  And yeah…especially now.

  A glance at the other side of the bed tells me that Reece was never here. Did he sleep in the other bedroom? Or, more realistically, took a cue from my spiteful playbook and went out to pay the bitterness forward by knocking some bad guy skulls together? And can I even give him shit for it?

  My belly gives up that answer. The bowling ball starts churning, using my intestines for torque. I wince but accept the pain, hoping it makes up for my morose dredge of an exit after what had to be the most earth-shattering sex of our relationship—and definitely of my entire life. Yeah, even after Fershan gave me a hall pass on completing the shift, which would have—and should have—been my green light to jump on my superhero stud again. Reece had obviously, and gloriously, been up for the encore…

  The bowling ball, with my guts now added, shoves at the bottom of my boobs. The pressure incites a groan I let out at full force into the pillows as I collapse back into their silky depths.

  “It’s official,” I tack on in a miserable mutter. “Emma Crist, you suck.”

  As I lay there, wondering whether my self-pity wallow has gotten deep enough for a quest to the kitchen for a pint of something that’ll coat the bowling ball in lots of chocolate and cream, the bedroom door is suddenly swung open with a flourish worthy of a Broadway musical. Or a slasher movie.